Brows wrinkled, he searched her face for several seconds before turning to do as she asked.
After stripping off her coat, scarf, and gloves, she held out her hands to the small cast-iron stove that served double-duty as the wagon’s heater and to cook meals in inclement weather. Seeing her bare left hand, she dug in the coat pocket then slipped on her wedding band. As she’d done so many times before, she dipped water from a jug on the counter and poured it into the brass tea kettle. What she needed was hot tea to warm her insides. Having a task to focus on kept her from starting the inevitable discussion before she succumbed to much-desired sleep.
“I’ll prepare the tea.” Torin stood from the crates and stepped toward the kitchen.
Nola opened a tall cupboard and pulled out two folding chairs. Then she pressed a spring-loaded horizontal bar and stepped back as the table unlatched and slid out several inches. Giving a tug, she pulled it to the end, lowered the stabilizing leg, and slipped a metal ring over the hinge. Before allowed herself to rest, she stowed the props in a cupboard and her dance slippers in another. Only then did she turn her thoughts toward the night’s events. She carried the tankard to the small table, set it in the middle, and then sat.
“Tomorrow you’ll have to show me the wagon’s other hidden secrets.” A moment later, Torin placed a steaming cup of tea in front of her and then sat across the table. His narrowed gaze ran over her outfit, but he remained quiet.
Time for her confession. Nola lifted a hand and covered the top of the tankard. “Inside are the earnings from the show I performed with the dogs.”
“Tonight?” An eyebrow quirked. “Without saying a word, you left the wagon, dressed like that, walked into Sweetwater Springs in the darkness, and put on a show?”
Irritation at his choice of words straightened her spine. “We performed our act.”
“Where?”
Now this was the hard part. She drew in a calming breath. “Hardy’s Saloon.”
“That’s what I was afraid of. A saloon?” He jumped to his feet. Now that the table was up, little room remained for pacing, but Torin kept moving, practically spinning like a child’s top.
Nola sipped at her tea, savoring the hint of fruit. He must have used the orange pekoe tea the three women had confiscated from the troupe manager’s wagon when he deserted them all. Noticing Torin had gone silent, she looked up. “Do you want to help me count the earnings?”
He rested a hand on top of the table. “Did you hear anything I said?”
“I promise not to leave again without telling you.” After covering his hand with hers, she glanced up and watched the furrowed lines release from his forehead. “Torin, I didn’t do this to make you upset or to cause worry. We needed money for the repairs. Performing is how I earn my living, so I just went.” A shoulder lifted in a shrug and dropped.
Why was he so irritated? He’d seen her act with the vaudeville group on the very first night they met.
“To a saloon unescorted? At night?” Scowling, he plopped into the chair, causing the fastenings to squeak. “Wearing that?” His good hand waved in her direction.
“Yes and yes. Plus you saw me on stage in this costume.” She took one more sip before setting down the cup. “I’ve been performing in the evening for the better part of a decade, Torin Quaid. Sometimes the troupe did put on matinees, but I’m in the entertainment industry, and we performers mainly work at night.” Her body tightened, and she forced herself to relax. That last statement didn’t come out quite like she planned, but she needed to be clear. Probably her routine sounded wrong to a person who performed his job in the daylight.
“Somehow, the costume looked less revealing before I was your husband.”
She couldn’t repress a smile at his compliment, back-handed as it was. “I appreciate that.”
The frown returned to his expression. “Besides, I told you how we were getting the necessary money.”
“And I respectfully disagreed. I refuse to sell my wedding present.” She heaved out a sigh. “Please don’t start that argument again. I’m too tired.” She turned a beseeching gaze his way before moving her hand back to the top of the cool tankard. “Curious what we earned?”
“A little.” He slumped in the chair, crossing his right arm under the sling.
Clattering coins danced across the table until the tankard was turned upside down. Most were pennies as she expected, but a fair number of silver circles accented the copper pile. Each time she added to the stack of dimes, she gave an internal shudder, remembering the leer on the dark-haired man’s face. “Two dollars and seventeen cents. That’s almost the entire sum Reinhart requested before he’ll start the repairs tomorrow.” She looked up and grinned. “Between the two of us, we can pitch in twenty-eight cents, right?”
“Yeah, I guess.” Leaning to the side, he jammed a hand into his front denim pocket then slammed it flat on the counter. Several coins dotted the wooden tabletop.
Nola mentally counted nineteen cents then she separated out two nickels and four pennies and added them to the appropriate stacks. Standing, she reached for the cupboard holding her reticule and pulled out the final coins and took back a penny. “There, that’s the total sum.”
Torin glared at the row of coin stacks. “For the down payment. What about the rest? That’s if the original estimate holds after he starts working. My pa has complained many times over how a repair costs more by the time the final bill is presented. Due to ‘unknown contingencies’.”
What happened to that smiling cowboy she first met? Nola pressed her lips together and debated if now was the time to broach the subject of her new job offer. That they were talking again had lifted her spirits. “We will find a way, Torin. Isn’t the most important fact that we now have the first half?” She sipped at her tea, knowing she stalled for time.
“What you say is true, but my pride stings because my contribution is so small.” He rested the sling on the table and watched her. “Don’t leave like that again, all right, Nola?”
Although she’d already stated she wouldn’t, she could see from his intense gaze that he needed the reassurance. “I won’t, I promise.” Then guilt washed over her thoughts. “I’m telling you now that I’ve been hired to perform again tomorrow night.”
“No. I won’t allow it.” He shot to his feet then winced and cradled his arm.
The word ‘allow’ slammed into her chest and stole her breath. Who was he to tell her what she could or couldn’t do? She clenched her teeth and counted to ten before speaking. “Even if I’m guaranteed two dollars to make an appearance and do an hour’s work?”
His eyes rounded, and his mouth gaped. Torin leaned his shoulders against the mattress and crossed one boot over the other.
Wipe the shock from your face. “Not for that type of job. And I resent your too-obvious jump to a wrong conclusion. I’ve been hired to sing.” She fought to keep from jutting out her chin in defiance. How did couples learn to get along? Less than two days of marriage and every conversation led to an argument.
Still, Torin remained silent, staring at the coins with a set jaw.
So she didn’t have to look at his disapproval, Nola separated the penny stacks from the silver ones. “The dog act brought in that.” She dropped a few nickels onto the pennies and waved her hand. “But when I sang a short chorus, only a little ditty, to signify the finale, I captured the audience. Everyone stopped talking and laughing, and they listened.” She tapped a finger next to the silver coins. “One final song earned us this.”
“Two whole dollars for one hour of singing?”
A crack in his façade. She nodded and smiled, eager to get him behind this venture. “That’s what the bar owner’s paying me. I’ll get tips, too.”
“I have one condition.”
Her smile faded. “What is it?”
“I’m your escort.”
Thinking back to her nervousness as she walked over the half-lit prairie alone…that was an experience she didn
’t want to repeat. “All right.”
“And…”
“Another condition?”
“You do not wear that get-up.” His gaze raked over her jersey. “You will wear a proper dress.”
The term “proper” had so many interpretations. When the vaudeville troupe disbanded, the members had divided the props, painted scenery canvases, wagons, and costumes. Cinnia claimed all the costumes and backdrops she could get her hands on in order to acquire the fabric needed to open her dressmaker’s shop. Holding out hope she’d get her opportunity for a Wild West audition, Nola kept a fancy dress of royal blue silk edged at the sweetheart neckline, the cuffs, and the hem with black ruffles that would do for her performance. “Agreed.” She stood then slid the coins back into the tankard with a loud clatter. “Let me brew you some willow bark tea before we turn in.”
Torin moved behind her and rested a hand on her shoulder. “One more thing.”
She glanced back over her shoulder, prepared to tease him about his list of demands. But the heated look in his eyes stopped her.
Sliding his arm over the crest of her shoulders, he eased her close until only an inch or two separated their bodies, and then lowered his head to give her a gentle kiss.
Her lips tingled, and blood pounded in her ears. Weakness invaded her knees. She lifted a hand to his shoulder to catch her balance. Delightful sensations swirled deep inside her chest.
When he pulled away, he touched his forehead to hers. “Last night was hard and lonely and much too quiet. Let’s aim for open discussion about issues that matter. We share what we’re thinking. And we won’t go to bed mad again. Agreed?”
Gazing into his so-blue eyes, she could only nod. After another kiss that wiped away all her tiredness, Nola wondered if maybe she wouldn’t be better off by picking a fight every night.
CHAPTER FIVE
The next morning, Nola could barely drag herself from the cozy dream world of gas footlights, heavy curtains with silken tassel ropes, and roses tossed on stage following her performance. Each song moved the audience to louder and more sustained applause. Sunlight stabbed her eyes, and she groaned and turned to the side, almost upsetting the swinging hammock. Gripping a hand on the counter, she levered herself over the canvas edge and stretched her feet to the floor.
A plate and mug in the sink were evidence Torin had fixed himself something to eat at an earlier hour. Squinting, she gazed at the miniature watch face whose band hung from the curtain rod. Half past seven. She heaved out a sigh. Nine o’clock was her favorite rising time. Tendrils of loose hair tickled her cheek, and she shoved them back. Might as well make the most of an empty wagon and take care of her personal needs.
An hour later when she heard Torin whistling outside, she’d finished her laundry and had hung several items of her intimate apparel from the roof of the driver’s box. Although the clothes hung outside, that side of the wagon faced the open prairie and not the town or the road. For today, she’d washed and was dressed in a simple green flowered calico dress with flannel petticoat.
A yeasty smell permeated the interior of the wagon. The pull-out table was covered in flour as she kneaded a batch of bread. Knowing Torin wanted to push hard toward his destination once the wagon was fixed, she figured this might be her last baking opportunity. The task had been one of her favorites at the orphanage, and now she threw the ingredients together solely from memory. Her thoughts drifted as she folded over the bulky mass, sprinkled a four-finger pinch of flour over the top, and then pushed away the mass. She gave the blob a quarter turn and repeated her folding and pushing actions. Then she repeated the sequence until the dough was smooth and pliable.
Next, she carried it to the counter where an oiled bowl waited, placed it inside, and then flipped it so the shiny side showed. A clean towel spread over the rim, and she set the bowl in the middle of the stove top, hoping the embers from having heated water earlier would hasten the rising process.
The vegetable drawer tipped downward to reveal four potatoes and six carrots. Nola pulled open the cold storage cupboard that had holes allowing in the outside air and selected the last paper-wrapped bundle. Looked like stew was on the supper menu. Halfway finished with peeling and chopping the vegetables, she felt the wagon tip.
Torin opened the door. “Morning.” He inhaled a deep breath. “Smells good in here.”
Fresh air whooshed inside, dancing a chill over her neck. Smiling, she looked his way. “Bread and beef stew are in the works.”
“How long with they take? I’ll need your help around eleven to relocate the mustangs to behind the livery corral where we had them two days ago.” He stepped inside and closed the door. “Then we need to hitch up the team and drive the wagon to Reinhart’s by noon.”
Of course, the wagon had to be at his shop so he could work on it. She’d forgotten that detail in her cooking timetables. “Might appear odd to most people, but the troupe has cooked and baked in some strange locations. The street in a town isn’t much different from the open prairie.”
Torin snatched a carrot circle and popped it in his mouth. “I don’t see a problem. But I don’t know the smith’s requirements or restrictions.”
Nola cut several more slices. Did she share about the dwindling food supply, or did she assume he already knew? “I’m using the last chunk of fresh beef. Tomorrow, we’ll be eating from cans.”
“Only for a day or two until we reach the first creek big enough for fishing.” He stepped around her, lifted the edge of the towel, and sniffed at the bowl. “Ah, smells like home.”
Somehow, working together, they accomplished all the tasks and pulled the wagon into position in front of Reinhart’s blacksmith shop with five minutes to spare.
The blacksmith took special care to set chocks against both sides of the wheels to keep the wagon stable. He assured Nola she was safe inside while he worked. As soon as the scent of baking bread wafted through the air, he negotiated two bits off their repair bill in exchange for a loaf.
Nola was content to tend the stove, giving the stew an occasional stir, and to while away the afternoon on the settee with her knitting. She’d decided her husband needed a new scarf, because every time he came in from the outdoors, the lobes of his ears were bright red from the cold. Using a mixture of royal blue and bright yellow, she knitted in strips that narrowed in width as she approached what looked to be the middle of the finished length.
At one point, she glanced out the window and caught Torin’s attention. He gave her a wide smile that hitched the breath in her throat. In her mind, she could hear Cinnia’s teasing voice about the domestic picture Nola now presented. But Nola didn’t care. She couldn’t remember ever spending a more contented afternoon.
****
Silvery moonlight lit the prairie as Torin guided Banan at a walk toward Sweetwater Springs. He hadn’t trusted Aengus to provide a steady ride with Nola sitting behind the saddle. Reinhart had made the minor repairs that afternoon, allowing the couple to drive the wagon to their campsite for the evening. Extracting a promise from Nola for more bread loaves, the blacksmith agreed to work into the night to fashion the bracket.
Since hearing his wife’s plan the previous night, Torin had examined this singing engagement from all angles. Sure she’d spent years performing on stages across the states and territories before she’d ever met him without anything bad happening. Unfortunately, every argument came back to the need for money to fix the wagon. This singing job couldn’t be beat for what she’d earn. He flexed the fingers on his left hand and winced at the sharp twinge running through his wrist. Every short-term job he knew of required him to be in top physical shape, and that wouldn’t happen for another week or two.
Ahead, lights from windows in businesses and houses pierced the half-dark night. Something about this arrangement of performing in a saloon bothered him. Especially when he’d caught sight of Nola’s fancy hairstyle accented with shiny combs and a black ribbon tied at the base of her throat. The sight h
ad hit him like being sucker punched, and he’d had to remind himself to take a breath. Probably the exact response she’ll create for every man in the saloon. The next hour loomed as a most disagreeable one. “Maybe we should work out a signal.”
“Why would we need that?”
“In case, you need me to step in and handle a bothersome audience member.”
“That’s sweet, Torin.” She squeezed her arms around his middle and pressed her cheek to his back. “But I have lots of experience in dealing with rowdy members from the audience.”
Not an agreeable thought. His fingers tightened on the reins, and he steered Banan left as the horse reached the hard-packed road between Sweetwater Springs and Morgan’s Crossing.
“I do have a request to make.”
He heard the pensive note in her voice and immediately wanted to soothe her concern. “What’s that?”
“You have to promise me you’ll sit quietly at an out-of-the way table.”
“All right.” Although he’d rather be positioned where he could reach her within an easy stride or two.
“And you don’t react or argue when you hear me using “York” as my last name.”
Not liking the direction of this conversation, he straightened then glanced over his shoulder. Her statement meant she wanted to repudiate his name, therefore his implied protection. “Why?”
“Trust me, I know the entertainment business.” She flashed a smile. “My tips will be better if the patrons think I’m single.”
He faced forward again. What she said was logical but only added yet another reason why he dreaded the impending performance.
The livery stable took shape from the shadows on his right. He glanced at the corral extension and saw his mustangs stood in a bunch, heads up and turned toward their approach. At the crossroads, he again steered Banan to the left and headed along the main street toward the saloon. Identifying the place was easy, because horses clustered at the saloon’s hitching rail and those of both adjoining businesses.
Montana Sky_An Unlikely Marriage Page 6
