He flopped back on the mattress and moaned. “What time is it?”
“Half past nine.” From the cupboard with the medicine bottles labeled in Cinnia’s neat printing, Nola pulled out the almost-empty one of willow bark. This morning, they both needed a dose.
Instead of his energetic moves and happy morning mood, Torin slithered down from the mattress and staggered past the hammock to fall sideways onto the settee. Leaning over to pull on his boots, he groaned with each half-hearted tug.
The sounds so near their crates made the dogs bark, which sent Torin out the door muttering.
In the time Torin took to harness the team, Nola walked the dogs and prepared tea and toast. She had to pound against the wagon wall with a wooden spoon to get Torin’s attention.
“Why’d you do that?” He frowned and rubbed fingers over his forehead as he dropped into a chair.
Nola pointed to her throat and grimaced. She pantomimed opening and closing her mouth and then shook her head.
“Lost your voice?” He slathered a dollop of blackberry jam on his toast before folding it in half and taking a big bite.
She eyed the dregs of the jam clinging to the sides of in the jar and sighed. Blackberry was her favorite. Sipping the tea helped her throat, but she didn’t want to strain it by talking if she didn’t have to. Honey would help soothe it. She stretched to her right and reached into the drawer for a piece of paper to write a shopping list.
“What’re those?” Torin stood and lifted out the top paper which was a Wild West program. He studied the images then looked at the pictures on the reverse side. “I saw one of these shows years ago when we visited one of Mama’s cousins in Omaha or North Platte.”
Nola held her breath. Was this the time to reveal her biggest desire? How could she when she could barely utter an understandable word? Maybe if he saw her whole collection, he’d get the idea. She pulled out the others and placed them on the table.
“Wow, you have a lot.” He sat again and shuffled through them. “You’ve been to all these shows?” He glanced up until she nodded. “You paid this many times to see the same acts? The same fixed races and phony shootouts? The trumped-up rescue—”
She stiffened. Don’t say it. Don’t malign my hoped-for achievement.
He tossed down the programs. “—Of the settlers in the burning cabin?”
Unable to defend the production that she believed embodied the true American frontier, she just glared over the rim of her tea cup. What did a horse trainer know about the entertainment business anyway?
“Three minutes, and we roll.” He stuffed the last of his toast into his mouth and slugged back the medicinal tea.
As soon as she was alone, she smoothed the edges of her programs and slid them into the drawer. Had she really expected Torin to understand? Cinnia had known of Nola’s wishes since they were children, and she never could figure out the allure Buffalo Bill held for Nola. The dishes went into the sink, unwashed, and she hurried to push the table back into the wall, folded the chairs, and tucked them into the proper cupboard.
Since the ride was so short, she let the dogs pick their favorite riding spots then sat on the settee and wound her scarf around her still-throbbing neck. Before she forgot, she jotted down the items she wanted to look for in Cobbs’ Mercantile. When the wagon was settled at the blacksmith’s, she’d find a good place to hide the bulk of last night’s earnings. Just to be safe.
A knock on the window prompted her to look over her shoulder.
“Ready?” Just Torin’s eyes and forehead rose over the lower sash of the window.
She nodded and watched him walk toward the team. Again, they were reduced to near silence.
An hour later, Nola strolled the aisles of the general store. Since repeating her pantomime indicating she couldn’t talk, she’d been left alone to make her selections. Although when she overhead the pointed whispers by the plump storeowner about “an entertainer with that riff-raff vaudeville troupe,” she’d been tempted to drop her basket of items and just walk out the door. But she and Torin needed so many things, and this was the only store in town. Besides, over the years, the troupe had experienced similar prejudices. Nola took the vaudevillians’ rationale to heart—that their money paid for desired items just as well as the money from a doctor or a minister or a rancher.
In the last aisle, Nola found shelves of ready-made clothing. She studied the stacks of men’s denim trousers. Wearing those would make riding her horse easier. Not having to worry about a skirt flying up or adjusting her petticoats so she didn’t sit on a bunched wad of fabric would be a blessing. From what Torin said, they probably wouldn’t run into many people on the open prairie. So why not? She held up a few pair to her front and chose two of the smallest size, and then she grabbed a couple of flannel shirts and a knitted cap. All were selected for practicality, not fashion.
At the counter, she underlined the items she still needed and added a big question mark.
Mrs. Cobb snatched up the paper and squinted her narrow-set eyes. “Willow bark, slippery elm, beef. Yes, we have all those. What quantities?”
Nola bent over the counter and wrote numbers next to the supplies, and she added one more item. Bones for the dogs.
Using the end of a pencil, the storeowner moved aside the top items in the basket. “You’ve got quite a hefty sum with these supplies here. Sure you want the beef?”
Letting a smile she saved only for the rudest people pinch her lips upward, Nola shook her reticule and let the coins rattle together.
“I’ll be right back.” The woman scurried to fill the order.
Halfway back to the wagon, Nola regretted the extensive size of her shopping order. The edges of the wooden crate bit into her fingers. Mrs. Cobb had suggested leaving the crate until her husband was available to deliver it. An obstinate streak that ran right along Nola’s rigid spine demanded she carry it herself. Besides, she had to get back and finish the bread baking before Reinhart completed the repairs.
A horse and buggy pulled to a stop opposite her. “May I assist you, ma’am?”
She turned at the foreign tone to the man’s words. Nola saw a red-haired middle-aged man dressed in a black jacket. She wished she could tell him her destination was within sight. “Blacksmith.” Pain stabbed her throat, and she winced.
“Sounds like a touch of laryngitis. I’m Doc Cameron, and I probably have something in my bag that will help.” The man set the brake and climbed out. “That box looks heavy.” He took it from her hands and carried it to the back of the buggy. “You can help by lifting the cover here.”
Shaking out her strained arms, she hurried to do his bidding and spied a leather doctor’s bag on the covered shelf. Physical proof the man was who he claimed to be relieved her concern about riding with a stranger.
“I’ll help you in, and we’ll be on our way. Even if the trip is short.”
Accepting the offer of his gloved hand, she stepped into the small conveyance with a leather roof.
“Don’t worry about answering. I’m happy for the company.” He sat, gathered the reins, and released the brake. “My guess is you’re the singer everyone’s talking about.”
The buggy jerked to a start.
Nola glanced sideways while pointing to herself with raised eyebrows.
“Yes, you.”
Then she smiled and nodded.
He chuckled. “I was out at the Carter ranch tending a cowhand who got stomped on by a horse. A couple of the hands were in the audience at the saloon, and they were still grinning about the great time they had.”
Hearing the compliments was flattering, and Nola was glad that her gamble had paid off. The audience’s enjoyment was almost as rewarding as the earnings.
The horse pulled abreast of the shop.
Nola pointed at her wagon then at herself.
“Whoa.” The doctor stopped the buggy. “I saw this parked out on the prairie on Sunday morning before church services and wondered who owned it.�
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Torin walked around from the back, glancing between the strange man and the buggy as he approached her side. “Nola? Are you all right?”
Nodding, she held out a hand to get help climbing out. The seat was rather low, and no steps were evident. She pointed to the back of the buggy.
“Howdy, young man.” The older man stepped forward with his hand extended. “I’m Doc Cameron, and I saw this young woman struggling with a heavy crate.”
“How do, sir. I’m Torin Quaid, and I see you’ve met my wi-, er, Nola.” Torin turned and raised an eyebrow. “Crate? How much did you buy?”
Nola gave a shrug and tugged his arm so he’d come to where the older man waited with the leather covering lifted.
“I was telling Miss Nola how much her performance was appreciated.” He reached for his bag and started searching. “But I’ve learned she’s strained her vocal cords. I’ve got just the thing.”
Torin hefted the crate and turned.
Nola jumped in front of him and held up her hand. She rummaged through the items and pulled up a small box then held it out to the doctor.
At the same time, the doctor pulled out a similar box and then chuckled. “Well, looks like you know just what will soothe that inflamed throat.” He set down his bag again. “Mind if I have a peek inside your wagon?”
With a smile and a nod, Nola swept a hand toward the door.
Shaking his head, Torin led the procession, holding his leg across the open doorway. “Gigi, Queenie, sit.” A moment later, he disappeared inside.
Knowing the space would be crowded, Nola waved the congenial man up the stairs, glad for the chance to repay his kindness with this short glimpse of her home. Their home. She wasn’t quite used to claiming everything as shared. Ten minutes later, she’d waved goodbye to the doctor, put away the foodstuffs from the store, and popped the bread pans into the oven. Her shopping had lasted longer than anticipated, and the loaves had a high crown. Once they were baked, they’d taste just fine. In her absence, the kindling box and the water jug had been filled. That was the part of this arrangement she truly appreciated—help with the chores.
Her new trousers and shirts were folded and stored. She stood at the counter, stirring her throat remedy in a jar of hot water when the door opened again.
“Reinhart says one hour before he’s done. How’s the bread coming?”
Already, he’d forgotten her request to ask only questions she could answer with a head nod or shake. Repressing a sigh, she moved to the drawer for paper and pencil.
“Don’t bother. I’ll rephrase. Will the bread be done by then?”
A nod was her answer.
“Where’s the money to pay him?”
She pointed to her reticule tucked in the corner of the settee. Might as well try out her new riding clothes. With a tug, she reopened the drawer then turned at his sharp inhalation.
“Holey moley, Nola.” Torin stared slack-jawed at a pile of silver coins in his hand. “How much did you earn last night?”
The awestruck tone sent a shiver down her spine. This time, because a non-verbal answer wouldn’t do, she did walk to the drawer for the paper. Scribbling, she wrote, $12.10!! Hardy first offered me $2.00 for the 2nd hour, then he doubled it. The rest is tips. She watched his eyes widen as he finished the note.
“I’m impressed. I had no idea entertainers earned this much.” He counted out what he needed and slipped the remainder into her cloth bag. “I’m kinda sorry your career is over.”
The slam of the door echoed the clenching of her heart. Was what Torin said true?
****
Moving through the herd in the rope corral, Torin eased a hackamore over the pinto mustang’s head. Although the sun was already past midpoint in the sky, he didn’t want to linger another night in Sweetwater Springs. Following each of the five clear nights they’d spent on the prairie since leaving Morgan’s Crossing, he’d noticed the temperatures had dipped lower. The frost was heavier in the mornings, the water he used to wash his face showed ice crystals at the edge of the bucket. The distance they traveled today with the remaining sunlight might only be twelve miles—or maybe more than twenty if he pushed the herd to a consistent trot—but those miles put the group that much closer to Four Clovers. Conversations he’d had with Taylor at the livery and with Reinhart confirmed these men recognized similar signs of a coming hard winter in the heavy coats of the horses and mules they saw pass through their businesses.
At some point, he’d need to share this information with Nola. Fight now, he wanted her to feel excited about setting out. He settled a hackamore on the second mustang and attached it to the lead rope, stroking a hand along the mare’s shoulders and murmuring soft words.
A slender lad walked through the opening down the middle of the livery stable, climbed over the top rung of the corral, and jumped down.
The horses startled and edged along the rope perimeter.
Didn’t this fellow know better than to come straight on to a herd of mustangs? Torin held out a staying hand toward the helper and pitched his voice slow. “Got someone coming to help.”
The person kept walking, moving a pointed finger between their bodies.
Who the dickens had Taylor hired? Then he looked closer and huffed out a breath when he recognized Nola. The outfit she wore of a bulky lined jacket and denims made her look like a half-grown cowhand. Like his younger brother Kaven before he grew a couple inches this past summer. Torin was glad they were headed away from civilization. Otherwise, he’d spend all his time forcing goggle-eyed men to keep their distance. “Walk at the perimeter.”
She altered her course and stopped about ten feet away.
“The short ropes with a loop are in the saddlebag propped yonder. Bring me a couple at a time, walking slowly.” Working together, they had the mustangs attached to the lead rope. Nola wound the last of the corral ropes into a circle and tied it to Banan’s saddle. She bent over to gather the sticks, hiking up her jacket and pulling the seat of the denims tight across her rounded bottom.
Torin dropped his chin and blew out a breath. Having to be around his wife dressed in those form revealing pants would test his willpower. These were going to be the longest hundred and fifty miles he’d ever ridden.
Hours later, the sun had dropped below the western mountain peaks, but enough light remained for Torin to locate a creek not far from a small grove of red oaks. As soon as he found a level spot for the wagon, he set the brake and started giving instructions. More so that he didn’t forget anything. Every ray of light was precious, and so much had to be done. “I’ll build the corral myself. Gather what wood you need for cooking two meals inside. Walk the dogs, but keep the wagon in sight at all times.”
Nola guided Captain to the back of the wagon and dismounted.
Torin steeled himself against the moan he heard hissing through her lips. The only way to get used to riding hours in the saddle was to grit your teeth and do it. He hefted a coil of rope on his shoulder and headed to the trees. Without looking back, he listened and kept aware of her movements as she performed her chores. By the time he’d tended and fed the horses, the camp was in full dark. Moonrise was still hours away. He had to light a lantern for the walk to the creek to fetch a bucket of fresh water. Tomorrow, they’d make camp earlier, and the process would be easier.
Stepping into the wagon with scents of food cooking eased some of his tiredness. As did the sight of his trousers-clad wife leaning a shoulder against the cupboard as she stirred something in a frying pan.
Gigi and Queenie looked up from their food dishes and then dove back to swallow whatever few crumbs covered the bottom.
He eased the sling over his head then shrugged out of his coat and tossed it on the settee. For a few minutes each day, he exercised his arm, swinging it to the side, along his body, and over his head. Doc Rawlins from Morgan’s Crossing, who wrapped the wrist, had advised the moves to keep the joints loose. “Food smells great. Do you need help?”
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br /> She looked his way, frowned at the coat, and then shook her head, pointing to the table already set with silverware and cups.
After the sling was in place, he hung the coat in his assigned cupboard and sat on the settee to wait. If he’d had a few more minutes of light, he might have pulled out Aegnus’s halter and that bottle of oil Nic gave him. Torin liked having something to do with his hands whenever he was indoors.
The dogs finished and hopped up, one on either side. He leaned back, and they each hooked a paw over his thigh. “Friendly little things.” With careful moves so he wouldn’t cause hard, he stroked his fingertips over their little heads. The ranch dogs the family sheltered over the years were working dogs, big ones who trotted alongside the horses on the daily chores. He had no idea how the pack would did along. So far they’d never had a problem introducing a new dog. The repetitive strokes soothed him as much as he figured the dogs enjoyed the touches.
A sharp clap pulled his attention to the kitchen where he saw Nola pointing toward the pan then toward her mouth. “Time to eat.”
Nodding, she gestured toward the stove.
After a quick swipe of his hands against his pants, he filled his plate with a slab of bread topped with beans and bacon then dropped into the closest chair. His portion was half gone before he remembered he should have waited for her to sit before starting to eat.
Nola sat with a thick sigh and propped up her head on her raised palm. She sipped a cloudy liquid from a glass.
“Throat still hurt?”
A nod.
He glanced at the small amount of food on the plate before her. Keeping his first thought to himself, he waited until he’d cleaned his plate. He even dragged out finishing his tea as long as he could, but, in that whole time, he’d only seen her take two bites. Torin slid his arm across the small table and cupped her elbow. “Nola, you have to eat. I know you’re tired, but tomorrow will be longer. You can’t ride for eight or nine hours without food to keep you going.”
Her head jerked up and wide-eyed, she mouthed eight or nine?
Montana Sky_An Unlikely Marriage Page 8
