“Oh, my. Look at all—”
“I see them.” Torin guided the horse across the street to Cobbs’ Mercantile and pulled up at the empty rail. In the saddle seat, he leaned to the right as Nola grasped the horn and the cantle to ease down to the ground. Then he dismounted and tied off the reins on the wooden rail.
Nola had unbuckled a saddlebag and now stood facing the saloon, clutching the pewter tankard. Her top teeth bit into her lower lip.
Torin stepped close and spotted a tremor in her hands. Was this normal? Did she get nervous before every performance? The Nola he’d come to know always appeared confident and sure of herself. “Are you ready? Time’s creeping up on nine.”
She whirled and stared, wide eyed. “What if last night was a fluke? What if my voice won’t hold out for the entire hour?”
“You’ll be great.” Forcing a smile filled with swagger for the both of them, he crooked his arm and waited for her to slide in her hand. “You’ve got your list of songs, right?”
“In my reticule.”
After a quick check for approaching riders, he started walking. “I heard you practicing after supper.”
“Those were just warm-up exercises.”
“No matter.” He pressed her hand close to his side, hoping to infuse her with encouragement. “They sounded mighty fine.” They were a team, he and Nola, and their enterprise of getting the mustangs back to Meadowlark depended on tonight being a success. “You can do this, Nola, I know you can.”
Five feet away from the saloon entrance, Nola stopped and dropped her hand to her side. She glanced around and then stretched on tip-toes to brush a kiss against his cheek. “Thank you for the reassuring words. Remember, fade into the background, and let me handle whatever happens until the show is over, and I’m ready to leave.”
Then right before his eyes, she gained an inch in height as she straightened her posture, lifted her chin, and sailed into the saloon. Torin caught the door on the back swing and eased to the right of the doorway, searching the tables on the perimeter for an empty chair. He squinted against the cloud of cigar smoke that hovered over the tables. Every single chair was occupied. Must be fifty men in the place. Irritation itched along his skin. Remaining in the background might prove harder than he thought. He moved to where he had an unobstructed view of the piano and settled back against the wall. After loosened the buttons on his knee-length coat, he crossed his right arm under his sling.
A quick glance around revealed a couple poker tables in the back corner. A faro wheel occupied the center spot along the side wall. For as crowded as the saloon was, the atmosphere sounded calm—a hum of even-toned voices with only an occasional outburst of laughter. The skinny piano player plinked out a lively tune.
Torin spotted Nola tucking something into her reticule before she handed it and her coat to the big man with the long, droopy moustache behind the counter. Smart girl. Get the payment up front.
A blonde woman dressed in a red gown approached, holding a mug of foamy beer. “Hiya, sugar. This beer’s free on Hardy’s orders.” She flashed a smile that revealed a missing bottom tooth. “But you can be a gent and buy me one.”
He accepted the mug and smiled his appreciation. “Sorry, but I’m here for the singer.”
“You and every other male in this room.” She spun, her skirt swishing as she stomped away.
The pianist stopped playing, and conversations hushed.
Holding up both hands, the bartender stepped up next to the piano. “Gentlemen, those of you who were here last night had the honor of being entertained by the lovely voice of Miss Nola York.”
Flowery words didn’t mean anything. Torin bristled and took a big swig of the tangy beer.
“Well, she’s here to entertain us again. So we’re all in for a musical treat. Welcome Miss York with a big round of applause.”
After another drink, Torin switched the mug to his left hand so he could slap the other on his thigh. Had to maintain the ruse of disinterested bystander. Although his free beer was proof Nola had informed the bartender she had an escort in the audience.
Gracing her audience with a wide smile, Nola settled next to the piano and passed the player the slip of paper she’d worked on that afternoon.
This was his first view of her outfit, and he took a deep breath, puffing his chest with pride. His wife was a beautiful woman. Ribbons, bows, and lace pulled and pinched the fabric so the blue dress fit her in all the right places, but it wasn’t suggestive like her costume from the previous night. As he’d expected, her left hand ring finger was bare of the golden band.
The music started, and Nola launched into a rousing version of “Camptown Races.”
The audience responded by joining in on the choruses, and they also knew the ones for the second song of “Polly Wolly Doodle.”
Her line-up of songs varied from fast-paced to slower tunes. Brief pauses to either fan herself or take a few sips of water occurred after every second or third song.
Such pauses allowed men to walk forward and drop tips into the tankard. A few lingered, waiting to be noticed, hoping for a private conversation.
Torin couldn’t help himself. He scrutinized those approaches, looking for any sign Nola needed help. The first beer had been replenished after a dark-haired man won a big hand at the poker table and bought several pitchers to share. In addition to keeping the crowd listening as she sang, Nola appeared to be at ease making conversation with the men. A time or two, he saw her execute a deft step to the side to fend off a “handsy” man. Whatever she said always left them smiling as they headed back to their seats. Seeing this allowed him to relax his guard a bit. She was right, she had the skills to handle an audience.
For the first half hour, he’d kept track of how many men stepped forward to offer their tips. By his calculations, even if every man only tipped a penny, money for the remainder of the blacksmith bill resided in the bottom of the tankard. He timed his visit to the outhouse to coincide with the end of her hour’s performance. But when he walked in through the back door, he spotted the bartender in serious conversation with Nola who stood with a hand braced on the piano top. Walking along the wall toward his spot, he saw a tall man approach the piano. Torin stopped and faced the bar.
“Hardy, I hope you’re negotiating to extend Miss York’s performance.”
Extend? Torin stiffened and shot his gaze to Nola’s face. Her eyes were wide, and she looked to where he’d previously stood. Damnation.
The cowboy turned to face the audience and spread his arms. “Isn’t that what we’re all hoping for, gents?”
Thunderous applause broke out.
Torin used the noise as cover to stride back to where he’d been earlier. This wasn’t the plan. So far, the night had gone smoothly, but he’d been watching the crowd. Every man in the audience had been steadily imbibing, including himself. Resisting when pitchers were passed from hand-to-hand in the crowd had been impossible. Tonight, he’d exceeded his usual limit of one or two beers. In fact, he’d lost count, probably after the fourth.
Hardy stepped forward and raised his hands for silence. “A deal’s a deal, gentlemen. Miss York has provided us with a wonderful performance tonight.”
That’s my girl. Torin nodded.
The man let out a laugh. “Deals are usually open for amendments.”
“Yeah, we want more.”
“Encore.”
The audience definitely wanted a longer performance. Not that he could blame them, because he’d been enjoying her voice, too. Torin kept his gaze on Nola, realizing he didn’t know her well enough to predict her response.
“Stop riling up everyone, McCurdy.”
“Not riling, Hardy, if I’ve got a business proposition.” The cowboy McCurdy held up a gold coin pinched between pointer and thumb. “What do you say to as many shots of whiskey this twenty-dollar gold piece will buy if the lady continues singing?”
The crowd roared their approval and tossed out jests encouragi
ng Hardy to accept.
Turning to face Nola, the bartender gestured toward the bar and then toward the crowd.
She shook her head and placed clasped hands at her waist.
Hardy glanced around at the increasing noise as the men demanded more songs, some even shouting out titles of their favorites. He held out a hand in supplication.
Nola connected with Torin’s gaze, gave an almost imperceptible shrug, and then looked back to the bartender and nodded.
But Torin was watching, and he spotted her capitulation. He sagged back against the wall, irritation pounding in his temples that she’d made the decision on her own. Then he snorted. Miss York had the right to do so.
As soon as the piano player started, the voices quieted, and everyone paid attention to the performer.
Torin didn’t think twice about accepting when a busty redhead passed through the crowd, offering shot glasses of whiskey.
“Evening, cowboy, new in town?” The woman stopped in front of him and tilted her head at a coquettish angle, giving him a practiced smile. “My name’s Ruby, what’s yours?”
He quaffed the dark amber liquid and set the glass back on the wooden tray. The whiskey burned a warm trail from the back of his throat to his insides, and he coughed. “Just passing through. Name’s Quaid.” In his hell-raising days, he might have given the saloon girl a second look and spent some time chatting, but not now. As mad as he might be at Nola in this moment, tonight he’d realized she was the only one for him. He lifted his finger to tap the brim of his hat. “Thank you, ma’am.”
The slow tune Nola had been singing sped into one with a staccato beat. The lyrics were just as clipped, rhymed at the end, and described all the things a man was. Although mesmerized by the quick movement of Nola’s lips as she sang, all he really understood was a single repeated phrase of “modern Major General.” Another mug of beer appeared in his blurred vision, and he grabbed it. One song rolled into another, and he swayed a bit with the music. During one tune about strolling through a park, Nola added a few shuffling dance steps.
A bald man staggered forward, grabbed her, and hopped around in a tight two-step.
Immediately, the piano player jumped up and escorted the drunk back into the crowd.
Torin had already bolted two strides away from the wall when the next piano notes filled the air. His chest burned with what he could only figure was a jealous streak as wide as the Missouri. Well, that’s new. Reclaiming his spot against the wall, he dipped his chin and closed his eyes, letting the music and lyrics float over him like a soothing breeze. Jeanie with light brown hair was lamenting her old Kentucky home before she called for her beautiful dreams.
Applause roused him from his stupor, and he scrubbed a hand over his face. No more alcohol for him. He straightened against the wall and glanced around, hoping to spot an empty chair. Then he realized if he was a bit tipsy the other men probably were, too, so he had to be even more on guard. He scrubbed a hand over his face. To think he’d scoffed at Nic when, just last week, his new friend had likened Cinnia’s poetical recitations to a goddess from Russian mythology.
“Gentleman…” Nola interrupted the waning applause. “You have been a great audience, and the next song will be my last.”
McCurdy stood from where he’d claimed a chair at the front table and moved opposite her, bracing his feet wide apart. “I’m hoping you’ll agree to my request of tune like you did last night.”
What did he say? Body rigid, Torin stepped away from the wall. Nola sang a man’s particular request? The idea had his blood running hot.
“I believe I’ve sung your preferred tune already tonight, sir.” Frowning, she glanced toward the bartender then gave the cowboy a ghost of a smile.
“And your voice was wonderful, Miss York.” The cowboy held up another coin. “My request tonight is “Gentle Annie.” Do you know it?”
Nola pressed her lips together. “Although I appreciate the offer of an extra tip, I have made another selection for my finale. This one is dedicated to a special m, uh, friend.” She nodded at the piano player who started playing.
The first series of notes were immediately familiar. Hearing the first line of “I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen” in Nola’s clear voice made Torin’s chest burn. This was his father’s favorite Irish folk ballad, and one that was played and sung around the family’s piano many times over the years. He tapped a foot in time to the music and, under his breath, joined in singing the last sad chorus about returning a man’s beloved to her homeland.
The applause was loud and sustained following the fading of the final note.
Torin moved to stand next to the door but was forced to wait for at least ten minutes as Nola accepted congratulations or exchanged a few words with all who approached.
Finally, she stood before him but only long enough to make eye contact, and then she passed through the doors to the street.
Counting to ten, Torin watched the crowd to make sure no one intended to follow. Then he joined her, and they walked toward where Banan waited. The cold air slapped him in the face, but no matter how hard he tried to walk straight, his steps kept angling to the left.
Nola pulled hard on his right arm. “How much did you drink?”
Was that concern he heard in her tone? He leaned down and tried to brush a kiss on her forehead, but her dang bonnet was in the way. “Not so much I couldn’t enjoy your singing. Nola, you have a beautiful voice, just like I said earlier. Remember?”
She giggled. “I remember.”
Another lovely sound from her lips. Those plump pink lips. He stopped walking and turned, letting his gaze rove over her sweet face.
“What is it?”
“Darlin’, I need a kiss.”
Nola glanced back to the saloon and then around the area. “Someone might see.”
“What will they do? Make us get married?” He slapped a hand on his forehead and knocked off his hat. “Oh yeah, we already are.” Ignoring that, he stepped close and cupped his hand around her neck, digging his glove under her scarf.
Wide-eyed, she tilted up her face.
Torin bend his head and captured her lips. Those lips that had tantalized him for the past hour, uh, two hours. He sipped and pressed, molding his lips from one angle then shifting to taste her from the other. His pulse raced, making him even more lightheaded, and he broke away, then stooped to retrieve his hat. When he focused on Nola, two images blurred into one beautiful woman. “Maybe you better ride in front on the trip back.” He stumbled to the rail and untied the reins then held them out. “Here, hold these.”
“Be careful of your wrist.”
More concern? Ahhh. Probably because he’d been mounting a horse for the majority of his life, he managed to hoist himself into the saddle even with the awkward position of using his right hand on the horn. With a grunt, he levered first one leg then the other over the cantle and settled his rear on the saddle’s skirt.
Nola’s climb was equally awkward, because she had to pass her right leg over Banan’s neck.
Torin caught sight of ruffles and laces on the hem of her petticoats before she got her skirts arranged. At least on this occasion, he was better prepared than when he’d spotted similar intimate garments flying in the breeze from the wagon’s roof. By the time she turned the horse onto the main road, he’d caught the gait’s rhythm and adjusted his leg grip from this position. Unable to resist, he slipped his good arm around her waist and leaned against her back. A flowery scent clung to her skin. “Sure was some pretty singing you did.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed the show.”
“Didn’t enjoy the second part.” His petulant tone sounded like his little sister Richelle’s when she didn’t get her way. A wisp of curly hair loosened from a clip, and he watched as it bobbed in his sight. If his hand wasn’t bundled into a sling, he’d twist it around his finger.
“You won’t mind when you learn how much Hardy offered me. He had already started his persuading when t
hat arrogant cowboy offered to buy everyone drinks.”
Her recounting of the story flowed over him, as he nestled his cheek against her shoulder. Nola knew the way and would get him home. Nola…home.
CHAPTER SIX
A yip from one of the dogs woke Nola. She swallowed against a dry throat and remembered the singing she’d done the previous night. The performance…her earnings. Using a hand to massage her throat did nothing for the burning inside. If she couldn’t find the right bark in her medicine bottles, no worries. Now, the Quaids could afford to shop in the mercantile for a box of patent demulcent. And just about any supplies they needed for their trip. Grinning, she hugged herself, anxious to tell Torin how much money the tankard held.
Last night, he’d been too inebriated to do much more than help her unsaddle the horse before stumbling into the wagon and climbing onto the mattress fully clothed. She’d barely managed to pull off his boots and wrestle him out of his coat. Every chance he got, he’d stolen a kiss or pressed one to her hands.
The raw feeling in her throat forced her from the hammock in search of soothing water. Her socks and the thin carpet didn’t block much of the cold from under the wagon. As soon as she finished half a glass, she took a breath and looked at the watch. Oh no, nine thirty. “Torin.” A deep raspy sound came from her mouth. She cleared her throat but repeating his name resulted in the same rough croak. She moved to the mattress and shook his leg. “Wake up, it’s late.”
“Who? What?” He bolted upright, smacking his head on the ceiling. “Ow.” He alternated between rubbing his temple or his wrist. “What’s going on?”
“Overslept. Get wagon to blacksmith’s.” She turned to the water jug and filled the kettle. They’d need more soon. She tossed the last few sticks of kindling into the stove and stirred the embers.
Montana Sky_An Unlikely Marriage Page 7
