Montana Sky: Baling Wire Promises (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Entertainers of The West Book 4)

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  Finally, the horrible truth sank in. Fantine dropped to the ground, arms wrapped around her middle, and rocked back and forth. Stunned, she could only whisper, “Can’t be happening, can’t be.” They were all gone. The four caring and devoted sisters who’d run the orphanage, and thirteen sweet, lovable children who would never grow to adulthood. “No, no, no.” Tightness gripped her chest and she could barely breathe. Fantine leaned forward and pounded her fists on the ground. Sorrow threatened to flatten her, and she keened, loud and long. When her throat was raw, she staggered to her feet and grabbed the box. The other children, I must see to them. I promised.

  Spurred on by purpose, Fantine dashed to the back of the building and glanced toward the stable. The youngest children were safe and watched wide-eyed from the wagon bed. She ran across the porch and into the kitchen, grabbing any food she could reach and filling the front of her night rail. She carried the load outside and dumped it on her mattress. Then she went into her room, the heat from the smoldering ceiling almost making her retreat. Instead, she tied a scarf around her nose and mouth then hunched over, grabbed her belongings and tossed them out the window. The next time she went outside, she looked again to make sure the children were safe.

  Ander and Erin stood at the edge of the corral, staring at the rising flames.

  “Children, pull these mattresses away from the house.” Her mind raced almost as fast as her feet took her back into the kitchen. Travel across the territory meant food and water. From the icebox, she grabbed cheese rounds, fruit, the bowl of eggs, and the remainder of a ham. Each armful felt heavier as the air grew hotter and harder to breathe. She stumbled back inside and felt an elbow jab her hip.

  “My ships.” Julian ran past her.

  “No, don’t go in there.” Woozy from the smoke, she grabbed the counter for balance. Dropping to hands and knees, she crawled forward, eyes stinging. Ahead, embers fell from the greedy flames rolling along the ceiling.

  A high-pitched scream echoed in her ears, and she scrambled across the kitchen floor, her chest growing tighter with each move. Flickers of light flashed through the smoke. “Julian, come this way.”

  The boy rolled on his back, his arms clutching his legs tight. “Ow, ow. My feet.”

  Heat beat against her body from everywhere. Fantine reached his side and scooped him onto her back. “Hold on tight. Duck your head near your chest. We have to get out.” Lungs screaming for clean air, she fought her way toward the doorway and the dots of lights against the darkness. Fantine didn’t stop crawling until she felt the rough prairie grass under her palms. Then she struggled to a stand, a whimpering Julian still clinging to her back. “Ander, Erin, head to the wagon.”

  Sunrise revealed a huddled group in the bed of the wagon. The pumper truck and several volunteers arrived a few minutes later to douse the last of the flames. Numb, Fantine sat with her back to the driver’s seat with sleeping children draped over her legs or leaning against her sides. Before her, golden rays shone through the structure’s broken skeleton—a macabre reminder of last night’s disaster. But she feared the sights she’d see this morning would be much worse.

  Chapter Two

  August 1887

  Coeur d’Alene, Idaho Territory

  All sounds in the gaming room muted as Pete Andrews added the first of two dealt cards to his poker hand. Another match. He slid the fifth card along the smooth wooden table, imbuing it with his hopes for another in the same suit. Slipping the queen next to the jack rippled a chill down his spine. As gently as he could, he let out a whispered breath through barely-split lips. Not since he’d won part ownership of a local silver mine had he viewed such a sure-to-win combination of pretty red hearts. When he knew his gaze wouldn’t broadcast his good fortune, he took a breath to calm his racing pulse then glanced to the pot of coins and bills only inches away. Must contain at least thirty dollars.

  The lanterns overhead swayed, the only sign the steamboat Pacific Queen chugged along the shoreline of Lake Coeur d’Alene. Heavy wood paneling, velvet drapery, multiple gaming tables, and a big crowd probably helped keep the vessel low in the water.

  Pete smelled the cloying perfume of the barmaid before she rounded the back of his chair. Hoping not to draw undue attention, he tipped his cards toward his silk waistcoat. The previous night’s lucky streak had dried up about twenty minutes after Marline planted herself at his side. Although he couldn’t prove a thing, he suspected the owner of this sailing casino was involved in some shady dealings.

  She patted a hand on his shoulder, stretching her fingertips to smooth over his chest. “How you doing, sugar?”

  “As well as can be expected, pretty lady.” He angled his head and flashed the knowing smile that had made more than the occasional woman giggle and blush.

  “Can I bring anyone another drink?” Leaning forward, Marline splayed her fingers on the table and glanced around the circle of seven men. “Beer, whiskey, rye?”

  A couple of men raised a hand to signal an order. “Beer.”

  Pete held his flattened hand over the top of his half-filled beer mug. “I’m good with this.”

  The barmaid bumped a hip against his upper arm as she turned. “I’ll just bet you’re good with lots of things.”

  Another time, Pete might have played along with the innuendo but not when this much money was at stake. Or when the player sitting at his ten o’clock was Davy Roscoe. A man wanted for bank robbery in Colfax who Pete had been tracking for more than a week. Roscoe had gone underground for almost two whole days in Spokane. Years of fur trapping taught Pete patience. He’d kept a low profile, wandering the streets and poking his head into every saloon until he’d spotted Roscoe again.

  But Pete was tired of chasing bounties, of long days in the saddle, and of cold nights on the trail. Sleeping with one eye open to watch for those bent on retribution for an incarcerated relative had become tiresome. He was ready to move on to the next occupation that caught his fancy. The hunt ended here, tonight. Because this casino forced the gamblers to check their weapons at the entrance, Pete needed to keep his wits focused on his sworn duty. Which meant paying attention to every player’s look and each bet around the table.

  Sam Draper, the dark-haired dealer, slapped down the deck and picked up his cards. The left side of his upper lip curled before he glanced to the man on his right. “You in or out?”

  Huh. Draper’s tell. His cards held something good. Pete doubted what the mercantile owner had drawn could beat his hand.

  “Don’t rush me.” Murray Townsend tugged on his walrus moustache, looked at the pile of coins, and then reached toward his small stack. “Raise five dollars.”

  Sam tossed in a gold coin. “I call that.”

  “I’m out.” Doc Hutchins dropped his cards on the table and hooked his thumbs in his suspenders.

  Pete suspected the doc played cards for the social engagement only. All he did was ante up, draw two or three cards, and then folded before the bets got too high. “Call and raise three.” Best not give a hint how high he hoped to drive the betting.

  Marline returned with the drinks. “Hope you didn’t get too thirsty while I was gone.” Her gaze scanned the action at the table before she set down the glasses filled with amber liquid.

  Clever move. She looked like she was merely serving drinks, but she’d glanced at the cards in each of her customers’ hands.

  The next two players, Paddy McNally and John Bolton, handed her a coin before turning back to the game. Paddy’s cards remained on the table topped by his free hand as he sipped his whiskey.

  Scratching his wiry beard, Bolton gave one last glance at his cards before counting out the coins needed to stay in the round.

  Ten minutes later, only three players remained and the pot had doubled. Pete figured Draper held the hand to beat, so sometimes he raised a buck or two to test the man’s determination, and other times he just called. He did his best to maintain a calm expression as the coins clinked onto the pile. Ros
coe never raised, but he stayed alive by matching other players’ bets. The table had no limits, and Pete wondered when the next man would fold. His stack of coins had dwindled to only eight or ten dollars, but he had an emergency stash—two twenty-dollar gold pieces tucked into each hollow heel of his boots.

  As the game continued, men wandered over to watch and now formed a standing ring around the table.

  Normally while playing, Pete didn’t like anyone at his back. This time, though, extra manpower might help once the hand was decided, and he stood to put Roscoe under arrest. A reward of seven hundred and fifty dollars wasn’t the biggest one he’d claimed. However, the sum would serve as a nice nest egg and might allow him to see a bit more of America.

  Draper pushed his last two gold coins toward the middle of the table. “Raise five dollars.”

  Pete knew he could knock out the dealer by raising, but he just called and tossed in his money. He’d let Roscoe determine if the game would come down to a face-off between the two of them.

  “I’ll match that. Since one of us is tapped out, I say we show our cards.” Grinning, Roscoe leaned his forearms on the table and laid down his cards. “A straight flush of clubs with six high.”

  “Balderdash.” Sam slammed down his cards. “The best hand I had in weeks. A full house with aces over tens.”

  All gazes turned to Pete. Spreading his cards in front of him with his left hand, he reached into his vest pocket under the table and fingered the smooth metal. “Looks like my queen-high straight flush takes the pot.” He tensed, bracing for the outcry.

  Exhortations and chuckles came from around the table.

  Pete stood, palming his star badge, and stared at the unshaven Roscoe. “Davy Roscoe, you are hereby placed under arrest for bank robbery.” He raised his hand, flashing his star, as he stepped to his left.

  Wood screeched on wood as the wide-eyed man shoved his chair backward.

  The men around him pushed back and started to rise.

  Elbowing his way around the chairs, Pete closed in. “Halt. You’ll not escape this room.” With a sideways stretch behind McNally, Pete grabbed Roscoe’s upper arm. Only then did he glance at the dealer. “Good game, Sam. You’ll tally up my winnings? Doc, you double-check the counting, right?” He reached around his side for the handcuffs.

  The gray-haired man whose eyebrows crawled up his forehead just nodded.

  An hour later, when the steamboat pulled into the dock, Pete marched Roscoe down the gangplank, their boots resounding in the quiet summer night. With his revolver pointed in the manacled Roscoe’s back, Pete directed him through the packed-dirt street to the town’s jail. This late, not many pedestrians strolled on the boardwalks. Still, Pete kept his gaze scanning the shadows under the awnings and watched for glints of metal at each alley.

  After entering the sheriff’s office, he glanced around to see the standard set-up—wooden desk and a few chairs, potbellied stove, small filing cabinet, sheaf of wanted posters hanging from a nail in the wall.

  Lounging in a chair with his boots on the desk sat a thin-faced man, reading a dime novel. The star pinned to his shirt pocket proclaimed his job.

  “I’ve brought a guest for one of your cells, deputy. Pete Andrews, bounty hunter.”

  “Deputy Needles, at your service.” The man shot to his feet and reached for the ring of keys hanging on a nearby wall. “Who’s this?”

  “Bank robber wanted in Washington Territory. You get him situated, and I’ll show you the reward poster.” Pete followed as far as the doorway to the cells to inspect their condition. The bars looked sturdy enough, as did the metal angle irons strapping them to the plank floor. A resounding clank accompanied the closing of the iron door. The tension in his muscles released a bit.

  The deputy twisted the key in the lock, setting off a metallic rattling, and returned to the office. “Coffee’s still hot. Want a cup?”

  “Sure, much obliged.” Pete sank into a wooden chair in front of the desk and scrubbed a hand over his face, hearing the rasp of his whiskers. Maybe tomorrow he’d visit the bathhouse and get a proper shave. Then he reached into an inside jacket pocket, drew out the tattered poster, and placed the paper on the desk.

  After scooting a steaming ceramic mug across the desk, Deputy Needles rummaged in the desk drawer for a stack of forms. “I know Sheriff Nolan has those receipts for the marshal’s office in here somewhere.”

  Content to sip at the strong brew, Pete waited, aware he’d caught the deputy off-guard in what looked to be an otherwise quiet night in this mining town. As he’d done many times before, Pete filled out the necessary paperwork and wrote instructions on where to send the bank draft. For the first time in several months, he had a permanent address. His part ownership in the Heart Mountain Silver Mine provided one. “You’ll make sure a telegram is sent to the closest U.S. Marshal’s office so collection can be arranged?” He paused and glanced across the desk.

  The deputy nodded and sipped on his coffee. “Sheriff does that himself. But he’ll get right on it in the morning.” After signing and dating on the bottom line, he pushed a half sheet of paper across the desk. “Your receipt for delivering the prisoner.”

  Pete glanced at the details to make sure no information was missing then extended his hand. “Appreciate your help, deputy.” Until he collected his horse, Blaze, from the dockside corral and stowed his poker winnings in the secret pockets sewn into the underside of the saddle, Pete barely drew a full breath. Besides the actual capture, the transfer of the prisoner was often the most harrowing detail of claiming the bounty.

  Once in the saddle, he guided Blaze across town to the tidy boarding house at the edge of the forest. After securing his horse a ration of oats and rubbing him down, he closed the stall door and strode toward the house. He wished for a long soak in a warm tub but knew his arrival was too late to expect the luxury. Mrs. Malloy was strict about when she offered certain services. He had one boot on the bottom step of the back stairs when he heard a crunch behind him. As quick as he was at drawing his gun, he didn’t clear the pistol from the holster before pain exploded in the back of his head.

  “Gimme yer money.”

  Swaying with dizziness, Pete dropped to one knee and fought his roiling stomach. He shot a glance around the immediate area to check if the robber was alone. Seeing no one else, he decided to give blustering a try. “What money?”

  “I saw ya win big at the Pacific Queen. Now hand over the cash.”

  A hard object poked Pete’s back, shoving him forward. Only his tight grip on the railing prevented him from pitching onto his face. “You must be mistaken. I’ve got only six or seven dollars in my pockets.” Gratitude for his younger brother Nicolai’s expertise with leather craft flashed though his aching head. That, and an old trapper’s secret for hollowed-out boot heels. With great effort, he stood upright, blinking to bring his blurry vision into focus, and started to turn. “The money’s—”

  “Stand still.” The thief again pushed with his gun.

  The gun barrel stabbed into the small of his back, and Pete winced. To appear as non-threatening as a man of his size could, he held his hands away from his body, fingers splayed. “If you let me reach into my pants pocket, I’ll give you what I have.”

  “What’d you do with the winnings? Stash ʼem at the sheriff’s office?”

  A knot balled in his gut. This guy followed him? For how long? Had he observed Pete with Blaze at the corral? “Sorry, you got the wrong guy.”

  Another blow crashed onto his skull with a loud thunk.

  Shooting lights stabbed his eyes, and he collapsed to his hands and knees, retching. After the first boot tip rammed his stomach, he curled as small as he could, grunting with each kick—until blessed blackness descended.

  ****

  Outside the bedroom window, a songbird trilled then was answered by another from a distance. Bright sunlight threw a golden shaft across the wooden floor.

  As he rolled over, Pete groaned a
nd pushed upright, hoping the dizziness was finally gone. Dangling his feet toward the floor, he sat, gripping the edge of the mattress. Today, his stomach hadn’t jumped into his throat. But the simple movement shot icy-hot stabs of pain through his side, stealing his breath.

  The attack. He remembered coming to stiff and cold on the ground behind the boarding house. Stars glittered above, but he could see from only his left eye, the other being swollen shut. Somehow, he’d pulled himself up the steps and into the boarding house kitchen before passing out again.

  The next morning, Mrs. Malloy got an unexpected surprise when she lit the lanterns to put on the coffee.

  Taller by a foot, he probably outweighed her by seventy or eighty pounds, but the wiry woman struggled to help him drag himself up the stairs and to his room. A glance at the bedside table confirmed he hadn’t imagined someone cleaning his wounds. Rags and a metal basin remained as proof.

  His body demanded attention to basic necessities so he was forced to use the thundermug under the bunk before slowly pulling on his trousers and a clean shirt. His stomach felt like it pushed against his backbone, and he hoped Mrs. Malloy still had remnants of breakfast in the kitchen. Of course, when he’d checked his pockets, both his cash and his pocket watch were missing. When he was steady on his feet, he’d check the hidden money in his saddle.

  One look in the mirror told him he wouldn’t be chasing his next bounty anytime soon. As he leaned close and peered at his still-swollen eye, he figured the scales had been tipped. The time had come to pursue a new profession. Holding a hand against his aching side, he crept down the stairs, jaw clamped tight. Even his teeth ached. He rounded the corner into the kitchen, aiming for the closest chair. Sweat had popped out on his forehead, and his legs shook.

  Mrs. Malloy turned from the sink and gasped, slapping a hand to her chest. “Land sakes, Mister Andrews. You startled me.”