“Mamá says you have important news.”
“That I do, Estefan.” He held up a folded card with evenly spaced writing. “First, a reminder of the family’s expected attendance at the Montoyas’ fiesta on the Fourth of July. Your mamá is making her famous carne asada.”
Montoya. His chest tightened. “I remember.” More than once, his father had hinted at how Carletta would make him a good wife. Estefan knew the two patriarchs often discussed how the marriage would join the two ranchlands. Marriage was not on his horizon. He was young, only twenty-six, and had much to accomplish before he was ready to settle down.
After a nod, his father dropped the card and picked up a half-sheet of paper. “A telegram arrived yesterday from our very good clients, the Hamptons, in Nebraska. Seems Thomas is struggling to achieve the results he anticipated from the racing pair we shipped two months ago.”
At the mention of the harness ponies, Estefan stiffened. Rancho del Cielo was renown throughout the United States for breeding championship trotters for harness races. Unfortunately, the substance of that breeding program was an oft-discussed subject between him and his father. For years, Estefan advocated using Tronar as stud of a new line with the breeding program. With his bloodlines coming from the old country, from jennet mares and Spanish barb studs, Tronar possessed a natural running gait that could be strengthened by breeding with Appaloosas to create great pacers.
More than once, Roldan argued his customers didn’t want the unpredictable coloring patterns produced by the Palouse breed. Noticing his father’s narrowed gaze, Estefan leaned forward and sat with both elbows braced on his knees. “And?”
“You’ll travel to Hampton Farms and provide him with a week’s worth of training.” Roldan picked up a pen and dipped it in the inkwell then scratched a line onto a piece of ivory parchment.
Watching his father start writing as if the matter was already decided made his blood pound. “I told you several weeks ago I was leaving for Montana Territory on July sixth.” He’d wanted to depart in the first week of the month, but his mother insisted he stay for the traditional Fourth of July festivities. “Trent Melbryne is waiting on stu—I mean my training.” Until he knew the success of Tronar’s foals from the Melbyrne’s Appaloosas, he dared not mention anything about the breedings.
“Certainly, the rancher can wait for a couple of weeks. Nothing is special about taming rangy mustangs. But trotters have races to attend.” Squinting, the older man aimed a rigid finger across the desk. “You have a responsibility to this ranch, son. Life isn’t about gallivanting around the countryside. Besides, I can’t spare either of your brothers. They’re too involved with the mares about to foal.”
A task from which his brothers had persistently excluded him. Jaw tight, he stood and leaned his hands on the desktop, not caring how papers shifted at his touch. “My trips are business-related, not gallivanting.” At least the Hamptons, from the ranch’s extensive client list, lived in western Nebraska not far from where the Central-Pacific and Union-Pacific Railroad lines crossed. “One week, Padre. Then my time is my own.” As he turned to leave, he wondered which one of them actually believed his last statement.
One month later
Chapter Two
Never had Savina imagined life as a housekeeper and cook on a horse ranch on the untamed prairie in Montana Territory. She balanced the wooden crutch her cousin made against the cupboard. Dirty breakfast dishes covered the counter. Holding out her hands that used to interpret musical notes, she saw red chapped skin and let out a sigh. Then she set to stacking and organizing them from cleanest to dirtiest.
Mister Hazenbright had kept her on the payroll for the first week of her convalescence—at half her salary—until she’d mended and patched every costume that needed repair. Then he’d asked her to vacate her bed at the rooming house and provide space for a new dancer. Panic had erupted at the thought of being forced to move back to Missouri.
Luckily, her mother’s brother still owned a ranch only a few hours from Helena. Her older cousin, Trent Melbryne, took her in. Thankfully, the cousins had reconnected a couple of years earlier when he came to a show at the opera house. Trent was the third generation of his mother’s relatives to live in this sturdy house made of logs. Savina’s mother’s brother, Uncle Perry, and his wife Kay had moved to Nebraska. Her other Melbryne cousins were now either married or their jobs scattered them to the four winds.
Being on the Rolling M Ranch was better than having to send home for money. If her father knew she’d lost her job, he’d demand she return to Columbia, Missouri. Back into the social activities befitting a professor at the university and his well-bred family. Balancing the arch of her healing foot wrapped in muslin strips on top of her right boot, she cut slivers from the white soap bar into the sink of hot water then swished her hand until bubbles appeared. The memory of attending pretentious fundraising teas and stuffy book club meetings made her shudder. She swished harder until the suds climbed to coat her wrist.
As she wiped a rag over the pottery plates, she glanced through the window to where Trent and his men clustered along the corral. They watched a beautiful red horse with a pattern of white on its hindquarters gallop and kick, doing its best to stay away from their lariats. Each working day since she arrived, the sight was the same. Four men were needed to capture a mustang and get it tied to the post in the center of the corral so the taming could start.
She bent to the washing, wanting to get her next task accomplished so she’d have plenty of time to read. Since her injury, she rediscovered the simple joy of having time to herself. At the beginning of the week, Trent announced a guest was expected soon. A horse breeder from New Mexico Territory on his annual visit. Several days had passed, so today she’d need to tidy one of the three spare rooms for his use.
Once the dishes were dry, she clumped her way upstairs and turned right toward Trent’s bedroom, opening doors as she moved. She walked with her uneven stride of planting the crutch on her left side and then stepping with her right foot and swinging her left foot forward. Using the crutch altered her walk, and she missed her former grace.
Until now, she hadn’t wanted to appear rude by exploring behind closed doors. But her assigned task gave her permission to look into rooms other than the ones she normally cleaned. After arriving at the ranch, she’d taken cousin Louella’s room at the opposite end, because she admired the cabbage rose wallpaper and eyelet-edged quilt.
Musty air wafted into the hallway from the unused rooms, and she wrinkled her nose. One room held a sewing machine, a stack of unmarked boxes, and two dress forms—but no bed. The next one had a bunkbed, a bookshelf, and two bureaus, and had probably been shared with his older brother, Ranford, before Trent took over his folks’ room.
On her end of the hall were rooms painted in yellow with lacy curtains—probably younger cousin Kathryn’s—and another that must be used for storage. Chairs, small tables, a bookcase, and a bed frame filled the space. Usable pieces and ones needing repair were stacked every which way. The choice was easy. She returned to the room with the bunkbed, crossing the floor to unlock then push up the window sash to let in fresh air.
Movement in the distance caught her eye for a moment, and then disappeared on the undulating prairie. The Rolling M Ranch was more than an hour’s ride from a small mining town called Morgan’s Crossing. So people were either intentionally visiting the ranch or had gone astray from the trail leading to the next biggest town of Sweetwater Springs.
She angled a hip against the wall, resting her bandaged foot as before and wincing when her big toe bumped against the wall. The doctor at St. Peter’s Hospital said the bones might take three months to heal, but she had hoped his estimate was conservative. As she waited for the figure to reappear, she enjoyed the view of golden prairie grasses dotted with pink fireweed, mountain bluebells, and yellow goldenrod.
Finally, a man dressed in dark clothes and hat sat atop a red-gold horse with such a smooth gait the rider barely stirred
in the saddle. The horse’s luxuriant mane and tail of pale gold rippled in waves and caught the morning sunlight. She leaned an elbow on the window sill and gawked at the duo who moved like a single entity. Such symmetry and synchronization. Like when she’d performed a spotlight routine with a skilled partner, and they’d danced the steps with complete silent communication between their bodies. A blissful experience that hadn’t happened often in her career.
A shout erupted from below, and she spotted Trent waving his hat in a wide arc. The rider must be the expected guest. Working as quickly as she could, Savina put on clean sheets and topped them and the pillow with a lightweight patchwork quilt in blues and greens. Her fingers lingered a moment on the intricate stitching that outlined the contrasting triangles. Aunt Kay did such beautiful quilting. Using the hem of the discarded sheet, she rubbed a layer of dust from the furniture, changing corners as the cloth darkened.
Papers sticking out from a thick book on the bottom shelf caught her eye. Easing herself down, she sat as gracefully as she could in her rough-textured skirt and winced when the waistline pinched. With limited exercise and cooking three meals a day for four hard-working men, she had packed on weight—the heaviest she’d been since a teen. She dreaded the thought of the work involved to lose it when her foot healed. But feeling satisfied after eating a full portion was a sensation she’d forgotten over the past four years of being a professional dancer.
Turning a few pages, she saw this book held mementoes of various accomplishments—newspaper clippings, engraved cards, certificates of achievement—for everyone in the Melbryne family. She wished her mother had started such a book for the Lombard family. Then she could have mailed the playbills from the various cities where she’d performed. Maybe then her parents would believe in her talents and not berate her for wasting time on frivolous pursuits.
The photograph of a wavy-haired man with a goatee wearing long fringed buckskins grabbed her attention. She leaned closer to read the caption, Buffalo Bill of the Wild West. The next page held a poster announcing a show in Omaha, Nebraska four years earlier. More articles and clippings followed. Then she turned a page, and her hand stilled.
A poster displaying an image of a woman dressed in a fitted, calf-length dress holding the muzzle of a rifle filled the page. Dark wavy hair tumbled over her shoulders from under a broad-brimmed hat. On the woman’s bosom were a variety of pins, ribbons, and medals. The caption read, Miss Annie Oakley, the Peerless Lady Wing-shot. Fainter images in the background showed a man tossing up small balls and a woman taking aim from a standing and a kneeling position. When were women hired to perform in the traveling performance dubbed “America’s National Entertainment”? Pulse racing with anticipation, Savina scanned the poster for a date. 1885—only two years earlier.
Another poster showed Annie standing on horseback, aiming her rifle at a target in the center of the ring. Yet another showed a woman on the back of a rearing horse—that woman’s name was Emma Lake Hickok. Papers crinkled as Savina flipped through the pages, looking for other pictures of the women performing. Descriptions stated the arenas were outdoors and large. No speaking would be expected. Excitement bubbled in her thoughts. Could she somehow use her ballet skills while on horseback?
Savina tucked the book under her arm, clumped downstairs to the parlor, and set the book on a low table. This time, she looked at the furnishings differently than assessing what needed to be tidied. She studied the furniture consisting of several upholstered armchairs and a long sofa for sturdiness and resemblance to a horse’s back.
Laying aside her crutch, she hopped across the floor to the arm of the dark blue settee. Trimmed in polished wood along the top ridge of the upholstered backrest, the sofa had wide padded armrests that curved away from the seat cushions. She scooted her bottom onto the armrest but, when she tried to sit astride, her skirt and petticoat restricted her leg movements. This would never do—she needed a looser fit that allowed freedom.
Irritation tightened her jaw. If only she’d changed into the dance costume she’d brought with her while she was upstairs. Instead, she retrieved her crutch and made her way to the kitchen. After locating the shears, she snipped the side seams of her skirt from hem to knee on both sides. Then she shimmied out of her petticoat, leaving it draped over the back of a chair, and stripped off her boot.
Returning to the settee, she straddled the armrest and braced her hand at the front edge, fingers gripping the indentation marked by a row of domed brass tacks. A backward swing of her legs brought her feet under her, and she balanced in a squat on the ball of one foot and the heel of the injured one. Arms held straight out for balance, she rose to a stand then dipped her knees before kicking out her left leg.
What other moves would be entertaining? A pirouette? Using her left heel as the anchor, she pushed off with her right. The sofa’s fabric was nothing like a polished floor, and she only achieved a half turn before tumbling onto the cushions on her back, her skirts above her knees. She giggled at the wonderful sensation of that brief spin and using her training. The second and third attempts were more successful, so she pushed herself harder.
Humming put cadence into her movements. Using her right foot held in demi-pointe, she curved her left leg behind for attitude derriere. The skirt constricted so she slid it a couple inches higher before lifting her arms into graceful arcs—one level in front of her chest and one pointing upward. Eyes closed, she held the position, counting to five in her head as she assessed her body posture. Stretching her muscles produced a sting, but she relished commanding her limbs into familiar actions.
“Hey, Savina.”
The interruption of Trent’s call broke her concentration, and her eyes snapped open as she windmilled her arms.
“What the dickens?” Trent called.
Footsteps ran across the rug. “Hold on, I’ll catch you.”
The deep rasp of the strange voice startled her, and she froze then teetered. A flash of black moved closer. She finally lost her balance and fell sideways away from the couch into a pair of outstretched arms. The first sensation she registered was heat. The dark shirt she grasped retained the morning sunshine and the scent of fresh air tinged with an herb scent. Rosemary? And the earthy smells of leather and horses. Then she glanced upward into the darkest eyes she’d ever seen under twin slashes of thick black eyebrows. Her stomach jetéd.
“Uh, Savina, what were you doing standing on the sofa?”
Trent’s voice held a confused note. Or was that concern? Of course, he’d wonder at the unusual spectacle she’d created. Her cheeks flushed, and she wiggled to show her desire to be released. In this position, her bare legs were exposed by the splits of her skirt.
An eyebrow quirked, and the side of the stranger’s mouth moved upward in a crooked smile.
After wetting her lips, she inhaled against the rapid heartbeat that threatened to keep her from speaking. “P-please, sir.”
Grinning, he leaned forward, tipping her upright as he lowered her feet to the floor.
Savina landed on her right foot then gripped the settee’s armrest for support.
Trent stepped forward to retrieve her crutch and held it out. “Estefan, this is my cousin, Savina Lombard. And, Savina, here is the horse trainer I told you would be visiting, Estefan del Vado.”
The guest pulled the black hat from his head and grinned. “Ma’am.”
Her senses still reeled from being held in the stranger’s arms, and she could only nod. Any further utterance at this moment was past her ability. The introduction gave her permission to glance again at the stranger. He was tall and lean, with straight black hair. Flat silver disks accented his leather belt, as did a large matching buckle. From their brief contact, she knew the body under his shirt was well muscled. Firmer and more rounded than the men who’d been her dance partners.
Trent stepped in front of her and bent down to gaze into her eyes. “You all right, cousin?”
Nodding, she flashed him a smile that
she hoped looked confident. “Fine. P-practicing my b-b”—she cleared her throat—“d-dance steps.”
“Is your foot better?”
Realization hit—her feet were bare and on display. She sucked in a breath and glanced at Mister del Vado’s grin. “It’s healing…slowly.”
“You should rub liniment on it. Works wonder on my horse.”
The flash of his white teeth and his narrowed gaze made her think he was amused at her discomfiture. The idea of compare her to a horse. Her backbone stiffened, and she straightened, pushing her shoulders down and back.
“Come on, Estefan. I’ll get you settled to save Savina from making a trip upstairs.” Trent waved the dark-haired man forward. “Which room did you prepare?”
Which words to use? flashed through her mind. None with the problematic initials that caused her to stutter. Not blue or bunk. “Your old one.” Her answer might take longer, but she always felt better about speaking without the embarrassing hesitations.
Mister del Vado lifted a finger to his forehead before striding after Trent, pausing in the doorway to pick up a leather carpetbag.
As soon as they moved out of sight, she slumped against the armrest and blew out a breath. Not since her first stage audition had she been so uncomfortable about displaying parts of her body. Pushing aside the distraction of this idea, she moved toward the kitchen to complete her real tasks. The sight of her petticoat in plain view made her gasp, and she stashed it under the sink with the towels. After gathering ingredients, she stood leaning against the counter, measuring cornmeal into a large bowl. As she worked, she hummed and swayed. The beans and ham hocks she’d put on to simmer after breakfast were almost cooked.
Heavy footsteps on the stairs announced the men’s arrival in the kitchen.
“And here’s the heart of the house.”
Savina heard the pride in Trent’s voice but resisted participating in the conversation until specifically invited. Still, a frisson of awareness tickled her neck.
Montana Sky_Hearts In Rhythm Page 2
