A Valentine's Choice: A Montana Sky Series Holiday Novella (The Montana Sky Series)

by Debra Holland

  A VALENTINE’S CHOICE

  A Montana Sky Holiday Novella

  by Debra Holland

  Copyright © 2015 by Debra Holland

  ISBN: 978-1-939813-23-7

  Digital Edition

  All other rights reserved by the author. The reproduction or other use of any part of this publication without the prior written consent of the rights holder is an infringement of the copyright law.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sweetwater Springs, Montana

  January 1895

  Bridget O’Donnell peered out the train window at the town of Sweetwater Springs, blanketed in white. She barely glanced at the wooden buildings, instead focusing her attention on the street. In spite of last night’s storm, which had delayed their arrival until this morning, vehicle tracks and hoof- and foot-prints had churned the dirty snow to slush. Here and there a mud patch showed in the road.

  Her sister Alana looked over Bridget’s shoulder at their destination and sighed. “The streets aren’t paved with gold.”

  “Well, we knew that,” Bridget said in a brisk tone to hide her disappointment. “We haven’t seen gold anywhere on our travels, and we’ve crossed half of America.”

  Alana sat back, her blue eyes sad. “Yes, but we still had hope.”

  On the long journey from their small village in Ireland, crossing the Atlantic to New York, their belief they’d have wonderful new lives had sustained them. But the reality of America had proven quite a shock to the twenty-two-year-old twins. The Irish were as much second-class citizens in the United States as they were back home. And in many places, the people seemed just as destitute as those they’d left behind. But they’d still hoped Sweetwater Springs would be different.

  Now taking a closer look at their destination, the last of the dream of a better life that Bridget had held onto all the way to Montana trickled away like gold dust seeping through her fingers. But she didn’t allow her sister to see her low spirits. “We’ll just have to make the best of it.”

  Alana rose and stretched. She moved into the aisle.

  Bridget frowned. Over the course of the voyage and overland train trip, Alana had lost weight. Her cheeks were hollowed, and her eyes shadowed. Her twin had left her appetite and, Bridget suspected, her wounded heart back in Ireland.

  Bridget hoped once they reunited with family, Alana’s spirits would lift and her appetite return. Grateful to move off that hard train bench, she stood and gathered their luggage.

  The satchels they carried contained their scanty possessions. In addition to their clothing, Bridget’s satchel held the family Bible and Alana’s a volume of Shakespeare’s plays as well as the dried medicinal herbs she’d gathered before leaving home. Each young woman also carried a heavy burlap bag filled with potatoes—the treasure of their family.

  The enclosures of the common land in Ireland two generations before had restricted the poor to small rocky plots, with potatoes as their main crop. During and after an Gorta Mór, the O’Donnell family had dwindled, as relatives emigrated, and they’d lost touch with them. Only their Uncle Rory had sent a letter home once a year—first from Virginia, where he’d married and started a family, and then from Montana.

  Once they alighted onto the platform, the cloudy gray sky made her mood bleaker. The wind blew, sharp and bitter, heavy with smoke from the train. Bridget was glad for the mittens and the knitted cap she wore, for she hated having her ears and fingers chilled. But even so, the bitter cold penetrated the wool. One cheery element nearby was the spritely yellow trim around the windows of the brown train station. She tilted her head in the direction of the building in a silent signal to her sister to head inside.

  They moved around the corner of the building just as a man in a long fur coat jogged up the stairs to the platform. He saw them, halted, and touched fingers to the brim of his hat. “Mornin’.” His voice was rich with a western drawl. He had kind brown eyes, a snub nose, and a wide mouth.

  Instead of glancing back and forth between the two sisters as strangers did upon first seeing them—checking to make sure they were indeed two identical women—his gaze lingered on Bridget’s face in respectful appreciation. His mouth crooked up, showing dimples and giving him an endearing boyish look.

  Heat suffused her face, and tingles swirled in her stomach.

  The man opened the door and gestured for them to enter the station ahead of him.

  Alana hurried inside.

  Bridget dawdled just a moment to give him a smile of gratitude.

  He touched the small of her back, ushering her into the building—an intimate gesture from a stranger, even if she couldn’t feel his hand through her coat.

  They blew inside on a gust of wind, and the man quickly shut the door behind them. The main room, with two rows of long wooden benches, was cold and empty. The round stove wasn’t burning. But at least they were out of the wind. A ticket counter was set into an interior wall on the left side of the room. The panels over the opening were closed, as was the door next to the counter.

  The man lifted his chin toward the inner door. “The stationmaster will be in there, sitting next to his stove. The cold bothers his joints. Jack!” he called.

  “Here!” From the other room came the sound of a muffled voice. “Head on back.”

  He extended a hand toward Bridget’s baggage and one toward Alana’s. “Allow me to help you carry those.”

  Bridget hesitated, unsure if she should accept the man’s help, though he looked honest enough.

  “I’m James Whitson. But you can call me James.” He waved toward the counter. “Jack will vouch for me.”

  Neither his words nor the humor lurking in his eyes reassured her. But an intuitive sense that she could trust him made Bridget hand over her precious bag of potatoes. Even if he had a mind to rob them, those potatoes had no value to anyone but them.

  With a quirk of his eyebrow, James hefted the bag. “Rocks?”

  Bridget laughed. “Potatoes.”

  “Potatoes?” he echoed in a tone of disbelief. “We do have potatoes in Sweetwater Springs, you know.”

  “Not these potatoes, you don’t. These are the jewels of our family,” she said with pride. “My grandparents’ crops never succumbed to the blight of the Great Famine.”

  “Ah.”

  “Nor have they since, and thus enabled us to survive.” Survive, but not thrive. “These were all we could carry with us. The sales from the rest of the crop helped pay our way here.” That and selling everything else we owned.

  Bridget couldn’t help a pang of grief, remembering the loss of their family’s possessions: the cow, a rocking chair and cradle her great-grandfather had made—the wood burnished to a patina by many years of use, a pair of silver candlesticks—a gift from the squire’s wife when Ma had helped her deliver her babe safely, the pewter tankards and plates….

  At least we have these. Bridget touched her grandmother’s gold locket she wore under her dress. Alana had their mother’s wedding ring on a chain under her shirtwaist. The sacrifice will be worth it. She repeated what she’d been telling her twin for weeks. Her sister hadn’t wanted to leave everything they’d known. Neither had Bridget. But she was eager to make a new start.

  “I plan to claim land and raise a crop to sustain us, as well as to sell or barter,” she told the stranger, sensing his interest.

  He raised his eyebrows in obvious admiration. “Well, I’ll be the first in line to buy some. I’m mighty fond of baked potatoes. Easy eating when on the trail. Just st
ick them in a campfire to bake, or slice them with some onions to fry up.”

  “I’ll be sure to save some of the best ones for you, Mr. Whitson. For your kindness.”

  He smiled and held out a hand to Alana.

  Her sister handed her bag of potatoes to James and then slanted Bridget a questioning glance. She knew what that look meant. Babbling their business to strangers, especially a man, wasn’t like Bridget. And the two had been careful to guard their meager possessions on the journey.

  Bridget couldn’t explain to Alana what impulse had gotten into her. Was it really just a reaction to a lingering glance? James Whitson seeing me as an individual, not as part of a pair? A feeling about him?

  Carrying both bags, James headed toward the interior door. His boot heels clicked on the wooden floor, spurs jangling.

  She wondered if his shoulders were as wide as they seemed, or if the fur coat cast an illusion.

  After sharing sideways glances, the twins trailed after him.

  James set down one bag to open the door and ushered them inside.

  This room was obviously the post office for Sweetwater Springs. One wall held floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with wooden boxes labeled with family names. In the middle of the space stood a small stove, emitting welcomed warmth.

  Next to the stove, a man with bushy gray hair huddled in a low chair underneath some blankets. When he saw the twins, his eyes widened. He grasped the arms of his chair and struggled to stand. Once on his feet, he motioned them over. “Come in. Come in. Hurry up and git yerself warm.” He was small, but his hunched-over posture made him seem tiny—a leprechaun in human form.

  Bridget bit back a grin.

  They obeyed, setting down their satchels and moving to the stove, spreading their hands over the heat.

  James didn’t follow. He shut the door and remained in the corner.

  Perhaps he’s giving us some privacy. Thoughtful of him.

  “Didn’t have passengers waiting to catch the train,” the old man said in an apologetic tone. “So I didn’t fire up the stove in the outer room.”

  “This is perfect.” Bridget smiled at him. “Thank ye.”

  “I’m Jack Waite, postmaster and stationmaster all rolled up into one.” He surveyed them with bright eyes. “Don’t recall anyone telling me to expect two identical-looking ladies.”

  “We aren’t expected.” Bridget touched her chest. “I’m Bridget O’Donnell, and this is my sister Alana.”

  “Ah.” The postmaster touched the side of his nose. “I thought I heard Ireland in your voice.”

  “We’re here to find our uncle and his family. Do ye know Rory O’Donnell?”

  “I do, indeed. Sends a letter to Ireland every year…to Siobhan O’Donnell.” He pronounced the name Soban rather than Shivawn.

  “Our mother,” Alana offered in a quiet voice. “She passed away last year.”

  Mr. Waite’s cheerful expression clouded. “I’m sorry to hear that. And even more to have to tell you…your aunt is very ill. Erik Muth has his dairy farm out in the direction of your kin. This morning, he drove into town to sell his milk at the mercantile and brought the news. He left word with Dr. Cameron to drive out to the O’Donnell homestead, then came here for his mail.” He shook his head. “Most poor folks don’t summon the doctor unless the illness is serious.”

  Oh, no! Equally concerned with the sad thought of their aunt being so ill and not wanting to impose on the family at such a time, Bridget glanced at Alana, seeing similar distress mirrored in her sister’s eyes.

  James strode across the floor of the small room and pulled off his black hat. “Pardon me, ladies. I couldn’t help overhearing, but I think I can offer a solution.”

  Mr. Waite’s expression cleared. “Why, James Whitson. I believe I know what you’re about to say. That’s a right good idea.”

  Puzzled, Bridget glanced back and forth between the two men.

  Mr. Waite tipped his chin toward the cowboy. “James, here, works at the Thompson ranch along with Harry O’Hanlon, who married your cousin Sally on New Year’s Eve. A whirlwind courtship, that was. Heard tell, Harry came back from courting Sally on Christmas Day mighty determined to wed. With Wyatt Thompson’s blessing, Harry and the rest of Thompson’s hands built a cabin in just one week right there at the ranch.”

  “I know you’ll be welcome there.” James cut into the flow of Jack’s words. He gave Bridget and then Alana a reassuring glance. “The Thompsons are kind people, welcoming people.”

  “But my cousin and her husband are newlyweds,” Bridget protested, knowing the sisters would be in the way at the very time in a marriage when a couple most wanted privacy. Here I’d thought once we reached Sweetwater Springs, all our problems would be solved.

  The stationmaster reached over and patted Bridget’s hand. “Don’t you fret none. You won’t be staying there long. You two are as pretty as a picture. I have no doubt you’ll be snapped up in no time.” He shot James a speculative glance, an obvious matchmaking gleam in his eyes. “Why, you’ll have a fine selection of cowboys at Thompson’s place alone. What, ten?” He raised his brows at James for confirmation.

  James grimaced, apparently uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. He shifted his weight from one leg to another. “Eleven. Moss never sends or receives mail, and he rode into town instead of taking the train, so you wouldn’t know him.”

  Jack cackled. “Eleven’s a right good number.” He waggled his ears. “And I’m sure every available man in Sweetwater Springs will come a courtin’ when he hears of twin beauties stayin’ at the Thompsons. I’ll bet we have Valentine weddings.” He patted the arm of his chair and winked at Bridget, clearly pleased with his prognostications. “Valentine’s Day is only three weeks away, ladies.”

  We couldn’t possibly find husbands that quickly! But Bridget kept her own counsel. She liked the little man and did not want to contradict him.

  James pulled out a letter and handed the envelope to Jack in a way that sliced off the postmaster’s conversation. “Any mail to pick up?”

  Mr. Waite shook his head. “Nothing today. But I haven’t gotten up yet to fetch the mailbag from the train.”

  James set his hat back on his head. “I’ll get it for you. Then I’ll be off to the livery to rent the sleigh for the ladies. The recent storm has blocked the roads, so it’s either ride on horseback or take the sleigh.” He moved toward the door.

  Bridget wanted to protest, to tell him that she could ride and save the cost of a conveyance. But Alana was scared of horses. The sleigh would be better. She reached for the thin pouch of money nestled in the pocket of her coat, knowing how few of their funds remained inside. “Let me pay ye.”

  James held up a hand in a stopping motion, flashed Bridget a grin, and continued walking out the door.

  She stared after him. The idea of being beholden to a stranger, particularly this stranger, didn’t sit well with her.

  Yet, somehow, he doesn’t feel like a stranger.

  * * *

  Feeling light-headed, James couldn’t believe his luck. He pulled his thick raccoon-skin coat tighter against the wind. This morning his boss could have chosen one of the other hands to ride with the Thompson children to school. Usually, they traveled alone, but after last night’s snowstorm, Wyatt wanted an escort for them.

  James hurried across the platform and down the steps, as quickly as he could and still keep his footing on the icy wood. He moved through the familiar motions of mounting Dusty and riding the short block to the livery. But his thoughts remained with the woman he’d left behind.

  Miss Bridget O’Donnell had skin as pale as milk, eyes the color of the sky at dusk, and kissable pink lips. A dimple on one side when she smiled made his heart race when it appeared. He liked the whisky-red curls that had escaped her hat to frame her face, and the way her words with their lilting accent shivered over his skin the first time he heard her speak. I’m sounding like a poet, James thought, half in amusement, half in
dismay.

  At the livery, he rented the small two-seater sleigh that Dusty could pull. Even with toting their bags of spuds and satchels, those young women wouldn’t weigh much, but he worried about them on the long, cold drive out to the ranch. Their coats looked thin and shabby.

  He only hoped Dusty would cooperate for a smooth drive. The gelding had pulled the Thompson’s wagon a time or two, but only when hitched with his buddy, Two Bits. Pulling a sleigh alone would be different than driving in tandem.

  At the livery, working in the dim light of two lanterns, Pepe Sanchez, the stableman, helped him hitch Dusty to the sleigh. Although not a talkative man, the good-natured groom usually had a shy smile for everyone. But ever since he’d learned James would be driving two young women to the ranch, he’d sported a broad grin. The man was as bad as Jack with his matchmaking ideas. Probably the fault of Pepe’s recent betrothal to Lucia Perez.

  “I have bricks warming on the stove and will send along a bear fur to cover them,” Pepe said with a soft Spanish accent.

  “I appreciate that,” James said, relieved for the women to have the extra protection.

  “Can’t have your pretty ladies getting sick.”

  “I never said they were pretty,” James muttered.

  Pepe sent him a sly grin, his eyes alight with laughter. “You didn’t have to. You have the look of a man interested in a señorita.”

  “’Spose you’ve been seeing that look in the mirror.” James growled. But thinking of Bridget made him anxious to get back to her.

  “That, I do,” the stableman said, appearing undaunted by the reference to his feelings for Lucia. Pepe’s expression sobered. “Don’t make my mistake of waiting. Wasted time, and I almost lost her to another man.” His broad grin reappeared. “Now we’re soon to be wed. My Lucia refuses to wait.”

  Christmastime had brought a spate of engagements and marriages to Sweetwater Springs. The ranch hands had laughed and joked about the wave of matches, teasing Harry O’Hanlon unmercifully for being caught up in a holiday romance. But the cowboy had shrugged off their banter, like a slicker shed water, going about his work and the building of his cabin—a man lit with an inner glow.