Tearing his gaze away, he glanced at the other men and saw the same hunger in their eyes that lurked in his belly. Mine. He wanted to step to her side and stake his claim.
Bertha saw all the men staring at her, and she started to shrink away. But surrounded by her friends, she couldn’t escape out the door.
At a nod from Mr. Morgan, Obadiah Kettering raised his fiddle and ran the bow across the strings in a summons to the dance floor. A mine guard flanked the musician, tasked with keeping liquor from the man. All day, Mr. Morgan had the fiddler under watch, so no drop of alcohol would cross the man’s lips. Tonight, the mine guards would take turns on Obadiah duty so they could enjoy the party as well.
Obadiah began a waltz; Howie recognized the piece as the one the man had played at the party to celebrate the Morgans’ wedding, when, he suspected, the couple had first begun falling in love.
This time they had a space far bigger than their parlor, and Mr. Morgan made good use of every inch, twirling his wife to the gliding beat. The couple had eyes and smiles only for each other, moving with ease as if they’d danced together for many years.
After they’d taken several turns around the room, their visitors joined them. Howie knew from snippets of conversation overheard while everyone worked today that the other mail-order brides had never before danced with their grooms. For that reason, the boss had requested everyone else wait the first number out.
Earlier today, Prudence had pulled Seth and Jonah aside for a lesson in the waltz. Now the four couples spun and dipped, with varying levels of expertise, but all wore happy expressions.
Howie searched for the fifth woman from the mail-order bride agency and saw her surrounded. As the only eligible woman at the party, the miners swarmed the newcomer. Not just the miners. Like ants after the only crumb on a picnic blanket, available men had ridden in from miles around to attend the dance and talk to womenfolk, no matter their age or marital status.
He was about to fight his way through the crowd but saw Mrs. Tisdale, the town matriarch, take the situation in hand, standing guard over Bertha in much the same way the mine guard did over Obadiah. She ordered the men to form a line, which quickly snaked along the wall.
Howie had no hope of claiming Bertha for a dance, and mentally, he kicked himself for not thinking to set up camp by the front door. Instead, he’d automatically sought the familiarity of the shadows between two circles of light from the hanging lanterns where he had a good view of the room. I’ll have to keep watch over her from afar.
When the first dance ended, a cowboy whose name he didn’t know—a wiry fella—took a bowlegged stride to Bertha’s side. At the same time, one of the older miners persuaded Mrs. Tisdale to take the floor.
He looked away from Bertha and saw a mine guard, standing near Obadiah, trying to catch Howie’s eye. The man motioned him over.
Howie made his way through the crowd, reaching the mine guard.
The man tilted his head at Obadiah. “He wants water. I can’t leave his side. And I don’t trust his cronies not to spike his glass.”
“I’ll get you some.” He knew a barrel of water with a tap was near the food tables, for he’d carried it here earlier. He made slow time through the room, for everyone seemed to want to greet him, even if they’d already seen him that day. At the barrel, he had to wait in line. Should have just gone outside to the well. By the time he returned with two glasses of water—one for the guard, too—three dances had passed.
Howie moved back to his shadowed spot where he had a good view of the dance floor. From there, he watched Bertha polka across the floor with Dean Tisdale, a widower with a son. Dean was a friend of Howie’s. But in that moment, they became rivals.
Bertha’s full breasts, showcased by the square neckline of her low-cut pink dress, bounced with every hop. For such a full-figured woman, her steps were light and graceful, a contrast to her lumbering partner who galloped along beside her. She looked about to peter out, though. Her cheeks were red, forehead sweaty, and her mouth opened as she gasped for air.
All the other women looked similarly disheveled, even Mrs. Tisdale, for they never had a chance to sit and rest. As soon as a song ended and their partners escorted them off the dance floor, men swept them back on. But the other ladies obviously were enjoying themselves, unlike Bertha who’d worn a pained expression ever since he’d first laid eyes on her tonight.
The music came to an end, leaving Bertha and Dean only a few feet away from Howie. When she saw the line of men waiting to dance with her, the look of despair on her face galvanized Howie into action. He stepped into the light and reached out to touch her.
* * *
Bertha had been to dances before, usually impromptu hops, often at her own home—where someone said, “Let’s dance,” and everyone moved to push the furniture against the wall and roll up the carpet. Someone would sit at the piano and belt out the tunes.
She’d take a sedate turn or two around the room, most likely with a polite man who was waiting for the woman he really wanted to become free. Afterwards, she’d retreat to a seat screened by a potted palm or piece of furniture and remain there, watching the others.
Here, she had no such escape. Every moment, a dozen pairs of eyes focused on her. Bertha felt like a deer—no, an elephant—pursued by hunters in an open field, and she desperately wished for the silence and safety of the forest. She looked for Howie, but couldn’t see him.
After the polka ended, she stood with Mr. Tisdale—a big man with the same blue eyes as his mother—waiting for people to clear the floor. She pressed a hand to her heaving bosom, striving to calm her racing heart and get enough air to catch her breath.
Bertha discretely pulled a handkerchief from a small pocket tucked in the velvet stripe on the side of her skirt and dabbed at her face, knowing she must be beet red. She pushed some slipping hairpins into the curls and braids swept up on top of her head and knew the dampness of her forehead was causing her fringed bangs to lose their curl. Why did I let Prudence talk me into this hairstyle?
Bertha wished she could sit, rest her aching feet, and cool off. Belatedly, she remembered the oval fan hanging from her wrist. Earlier, Darcy had doled out evening gloves, fans, and dainty gold jewelry to Lina, Prudence, Bertha, and Trudy, saying she owned far too many frivolous trinkets, and if her friends didn’t relieve her of some, the items would remain unused in a trunk.
Bertha snapped open the fan. Under the guise of cooling her cheeks, she scanned the room, looking for Howie.
With a hand on the small of her back, Mr. Tisdale guided her toward the line of men.
Bertha stiffened to hide an instinctive cringe, disliking being touched in a way that felt too intimate, too possessive.
“I enjoyed the dance, Miss Bucholtz,” Mr. Tisdale said, giving her an appreciative glance. “You’re mighty light on your feet.”
For such a heavy woman. From experience, Bertha filled in the rest of the sentence. She glanced at the man next in line, a rough-looking miner with a scar across his chin. He frowned at her.
Bertha’s meager courage was quelled. She looked around for Howie, but once again couldn’t see him. Where is he? What if he doesn’t attend the party?
From behind her, someone touched her arm.
Bertha glanced around to see Howie, and her stomach dipped.
“My dance, I believe.”
Greatly relieved by his request, she nodded a dismissal at Mr. Tisdale and didn’t dare look at the men waiting by the wall. She closed and dropped her fan, letting it hang from her wrist, and tucked away the handkerchief.
“Come with me,” Howie said in a tone of quiet command.
She felt his palm on the small of her back and, unlike the touch of Mr. Tisdale, she didn’t mind Howie’s one bit.
He moved her away from the line of waiting men, around a cluster, and then took her hand, threading it through his arm and leading her along the side of the dance floor, winding through the crowd of people.
The violinist struck up another song, a reel this time, and couples formed in parallel lines.
Curious eyes glanced their way.
Instead of turning to step toward the middle of the room, Howie kept on going, easing her along just fast enough so no one could stop and talk to them, a maneuver she admired. In a jiffy, he had her through the partially opened door, down the two steps, and out in the street.
The air was crisp, the chill welcome on her heated skin. Stars like sugar sprinkled across a black sky. The quarter moon cast only the faintest shimmer of light.
Bertha was surprised to see no one standing around. Perhaps it was still too early for men to want to take a discrete smoke or drink away from the presence of the ladies. Curious, she glanced at Howie, feeling free to allow her gaze to linger, for he kept his eyes straight ahead.
They reached the boardinghouse and stepped onto the porch. No lanterns illuminated the doorway, and the overhang kept the faint moonlight at bay.
He gestured toward the front of the building. “I don’t know if you noticed earlier…. There’s a bench about three steps in front of you. Should be pretty clean since it’s used every day. But, just in case, I’ll wipe it down for you. You can sit in peace for a spell.” He pulled out his handkerchief and rubbed it over the wood.
“Wonderful,” she said on a sigh, reaching out until she felt the wall of the house and then groping downward until her fingertips brushed the bench. Grateful, she turned and sank down.
“There’s a well about thirty steps away. I’ll fetch you some water, but I’ll have you in sight the whole way.”
Bertha became aware of how parched she was. “Water would be lovely, thank you.”
By now, her vision had adjusted to the dark, and Bertha could see him standing on the street. But even as she watched, he faded away. I wish I had his talent for disappearing in plain sight.
She closed her eyes, slowly inhaling and exhaling, allowing the peace of the evening to seep into her. A night bird trilled. I wish I could stay out here and not return to the party. She had no desire to be among the sea of humanity, even if her friends were in there, no need to converse with anyone except one particular man. “Mr. Brungar,” Bertha called softly before she had a chance to argue herself out of the idea.
“I’m here.” His voice came from the right.
“I can’t see you.” She strained her ears, trying to hear movement or footsteps.
Howie materialized, carrying a dipper. He walked up the steps, lowering the dipper. Instead of giving it to her, he held the edge to her mouth.
Bertha cupped her hand around his fingers and drank. The water was cold. “The best I’ve ever tasted,” she said, eyeing him. “Have some.”
“This is all for you.”
She finished the dipper.
He took it from her. “I’ll replace this and be right back.”
It seemed only a minute before his voice came out of the darkness. “Rest now, Miss Bucholtz. I’ll keep watch so no one disturbs you. When you’re ready to return, just say the word and I’ll escort you back.”
He understands.
Without the distraction of speech or sight, all Bertha saw of him was a shadowy figure, moving toward her with masculine grace in a strong, fluid gait. She patted the bench. “I’d welcome your company.” Startled by her own boldness, Bertha pulled away her hand as if the wood were a hot stove, her heart beating.
“Howie, please. Not Mr. Brungar. Not to you.” He took a seat about two feet away.
“I’ve been thinking of you as Howie,” she confessed. “Falling on someone does tend to shatter formality.”
He laughed. “You’re right about that, Miss Bucholtz.”
“You must call me Bertha.”
“I think of you by your given name, too. Although with you running the boardinghouse, and all, I couldn’t address you that way. Wouldn’t be respectful.”
“Be formal in public, then. But when it’s just us, I’m Bertha.” She found herself hoping for more times when they could be alone.
He didn’t object to her suggestion, and she took that for an agreement.
“If we stay out much longer, you’ll get chilled. Here.” He stood. “Let me give you my coat.”
Bertha heard a rustle of heavy fabric. The weight and warmth of his coat settled over her shoulders. “Thank you, Howie,” she murmured.
“Allow me to help you put it on.” His hand brushed her shoulder.
Tingles trailed over her skin from his touch. She’d never felt anything like them, and she ached for more.
He shifted to the right, breaking the spell.
Panicked, Bertha knew she wouldn’t fit in a coat his size. She imagined trying to stuff her arm into a sleeve like meat into a sausage casing. The very thought was humiliating. “Just help me close it around my shoulders like a cloak.”
He gathered the front under her chin and fastened the top button. “There. That should keep you until you’re ready to return.”
The warmth from his body heat, from his smell, enveloped her.
They sat in silence, but not the uncomfortable, almost painful drawn-out pause that would happen when a man waited in vain for her to speak. This silence felt contented, companionable.
What a soothing man he is.
Gradually, her tight shoulder muscles relaxed. Unfortunately, that only made her aware of her aching feet. She shifted and sighed.
“Do you want to return?”
“Never,” she blurted, and then winced thinking of how much everyone had done for her and the effort they’d made for the event.
His chuckle, low and rich, warmed her as much as his coat. “Normally I wouldn’t have gone to such a shindig.”
“Then why did you?” A long pause followed her question, and Bertha thought he wasn’t going to answer.
“Because you were there.”
She inhaled a sharp breath. “Were you afraid I’d fall again.”
“Wouldn’t mind if you did. As long as I was close enough to catch you.”
“I was so humiliated last night.”
“Are you referring to the best moment I’ve had in years?”
A laugh bubbled up inside her. “How can you say that?”
“Darlin’,” he drawled in an amused tone. “I had my arms wrapped around the softest woman-flesh in the whole of Montana Territory. I figure I was the luckiest man around.”
* * *
The moment the words left his mouth, Howie wanted to smack his head. Woman-flesh? Did I really just say that?
Her soft laugh relieved him. It wasn’t a you-just-made-a fool-of-yourself laugh, but one that sounded surprised, even happy.
“I think that is the most unique and special compliment I’ve ever heard,” she said. “And I have six beautiful sisters, so I’ve heard men pay them many, many compliments.”
He had to chuckle. “What do you mean them? I’m sure fellas have paid you many, many, many compliments, too.”
“Actually, no,” she said in a small voice. “This was my very first one.”
Wanting to reassure her, Howie reached over and touched her elbow, sliding his hand down her arm to entwine their fingers. “Then I’m glad I made it memorable. Even more so, that I was the one with the smarts to see the treasure those blind oafs who were stumping around yours sisters missed.”
“You are such a charmer, Howie.”
You bring that out in me.
He wavered about saying so aloud. As much as he’d like to court Bertha Bucholtz, he didn’t have anything to offer a woman like her. He couldn’t imagine going down on one knee and proposing, Will you marry me and live the rest of your life with me? In a stable?
No, best back away.
Howie heard her sigh and wondered if she’d gotten bored with his company. I’d best ask…. “I’ll bet you want to get back inside.”
“Actually, my feet hurt. I just sighed at the thought of going inside. More talking and dancing would be utterly exhausting.”
“What are you doing?” Her words sounded breathless.
“Rubbing your feet.” He waited for a sign of permission to continue. When she didn’t protest or pull away, he lifted her foot, slipped off the cream satin shoe, and set it on the floor of the porch.
Her foot was small and plump. He wanted to kiss her toes. Instead, he began to massage her sole, moving up the arch to the ball of her foot.
She gave a sharp intake of breath, followed by a small moan of pleasure. “Oh, Gott sei dank, that feels heavenly.”
Howie smiled, wishing he could see her expression. He imagined sliding his hand up her calf, raising her skirt, and kissing the dimples he knew would be there on her knees.
Male voices sounded from the direction of the meeting hall, pulling him out of the fantasy. Howie realized he was risking Bertha’s reputation. But he wanted to stay and attend to her other foot. Surely the darkness hides us from sight.
Just another few minutes. He slipped on her shoe and picked up the other foot, pulling off her shoe and beginning to rub his thumbs on the arch.
Her toes curled up. “This feels so good, Howie.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.
“I’d do more, darlin’, but I’d best get you back to the meeting hall. You’ll be missed, so we can’t stay away much longer.”
Bertha sighed. “I suppose so.” She sounded disappointed.
Howie put her shoe back on. He lifted her hand from his shoulder and stood, raising her with him. He led her off the porch, making sure to hold on, so she wouldn’t misstep.
“I can walk better, thanks to you.”
He held her hand until they reached the edge of the light streaming from the meeting hall windows and open door. The sound of the fiddle drifted on the breeze. With reluctance he released Bertha’s hand.
Mail-Order Brides of the West: Bertha: A Montana Sky Novella (Montana Sky Series) Page 7
