Montana Sky_Laced By Love

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  “Nah.” A bearded man wearing round spectacles stepped up. “Name’s Emmett Michaels. The tall one’s Janus Swenson, and t’other is Hugh Bemeere.”

  Together, the women murmured, “Gentlemen.”

  Cinnia recognized the questioning looks in the other women’s eyes and knew her gaze portrayed the same quality. She glanced to her left and spotted a man at the back of the yellow-and-orange wagon speaking with either Milly or Gerda.

  Dorrie smoothed a hand down the front of her blouse. “I’m sorry, sirs, but your visit has surprised us even before we’ve stirred the fire and put on the coffee. Can you explain again what your appearance this morning at our wagon has to do with our manager?”

  All three men talked at once, correcting what the other said. Then each man just raised the volume of his voice to be heard.

  As Cinnia caught the gist of the men’s story, she tensed, indignation clamping her jaw tight. “I don’t believe what I’m hearing.”

  “What?” Dorrie turned with her lips pinched into a frown. She lifted a hand to shield her mouth. “I can’t understand a single thing, but that long-haired one is real handsome.”

  Cinnia narrowed her gaze and shook her head. “Now’s not the time, Dorrie.”

  Nola again moved closer, her arm extended where the dogs still scampered. “Darn dogs, they really needed to go. I missed what the men said. What’s going on?”

  Cinnia leaned close and pointed among the three. “Sounds like Mr. Thomas told these men he would reserve “appointments” with us. Actually, he sold the appointments to these men.” Movement across the grass past the group of arguing men caught her eye.

  The blond man stepped away from the back of his shop and headed toward the small outbuilding.

  “Hey, Andrews.” Mr. Michaels circled a hand over his head. “Come over here and settle something.”

  Andrews? Finally, Cinnia had a name. Although she didn’t know if she could look Mr. Andrews in the eye after her escapade an hour or so earlier.

  The man approached, the strap of a squarish leather bag slung crosswise over his chest. “Morning, ladies.” He lifted his hat from his head then turned to the man who’d hailed him. “What do you need, Emmett?”

  “You were at the poker game at Rigsby’s with us last night. Tell these young ladies what Mr. Thomas offered us.”

  Mr. Andrews winced and glanced at the women then back at the man opposite him.

  Cinnia studied his face and could see he didn’t want to share the information he so obviously knew. But why?

  Squaring his shoulders, he pulled off his hat and turned toward the trio of women, but his gaze sought out Cinnia’s. “For a dollar, men could reserve special time with the single ladies among the performers.” Then he pressed his lips tight and looked to the side.

  “Right. That’s what I said.” Hugh slapped his hat against a leg. “We paid, so we want to arrange a meeting.”

  Gasps came from the women on either side of her. Paid for our time? As if we’re common—She shook her head, unable to finish her thought. Cinnia pressed a hand to her stomach that pitched and rolled like when the wagon rode over a rut in the field.

  Huffing out a breath, Dorrie jammed her hands on her hips. “Well, I never!”

  “How dare he!” Nola charged up the stairs, let the dogs inside the wagon, and then clambered down the steps again. “We will just see about this matter. I’m sorry, gentlemen, but you must have been mistaken in what you heard. I can assure you, we are not in the habit…” With her arms pumped at the sides of her body, she strode through the group of men who stepped out of her way. She climbed the steps to the back porch of the gold-and-black wagon. “Mr. Thomas.” She rapped on the door then crossed her arms over her chest. “We’ll see what he really meant.”

  After a glance at Mr. Andrews who remained but now studied the strap of his satchel, Cinnia linked her arm with Dorrie’s. Together, they walked to stand behind the wagon so they could see the door when it opened.

  The wagon’s door remained closed. No movement tilted the wagon on its axles, and no sound came from inside.

  “Knock again, Nola.” Cinnia glanced over her shoulder to see if the men remained. They’d formed a half circle behind where she and Dorrie stood.

  Nola knocked but again, the sound produced no response.

  The entire realization of what happened hit Cinnia, and her pulse raced. She was used to receiving her wages after she’d completed her performances. Monetary compensation for a sharing of her talent—that was a professional arrangement. But to sell her free time was personal, and her skin crawled at the insinuation of how others might view what Mr. Thomas arranged. This was definitely not the way proper ladies should be treated.

  How had he worded the proposal? Had these men been avid about their agreement? Had bidding for their time taken place?

  At that demeaning thought, she spun to face the men and took a step in their direction, her eyes narrowed to a slit. Making sure to look each man in the eyes, she stared at Mr. Andrews. “How much alcohol was consumed while you came up with this scheme?”

  His forehead wrinkled into a frown before Mr. Andrews shook his head. “Not our scheme, miss. Your boss was the one who suggested it. In fact, he waxed poetical about your virtues. I admit, I didn’t like the sound of what he planned. In fact, I left as soon as I could.” He looked around at the others. “Right?”

  Shoulders shrugged and heads nodded.

  Not placated, Cinnia stormed up the steps and pounded the side of her fist against the manager’s door. “Mr. Thomas, you have to wake up. Right now.” She struggled to believe the man who had been in charge of the troupe’s welfare for the past five years would do such a thing. “We need answers.”

  Nola added her efforts to the pounding. “Out of the wagon. Now!”

  “Cinnia, Nola, what’s happening?” a female voice called out.

  Cinnia looked over her shoulder to spot sisters Milly and Gerda Sigmund, the violinists, and Josette Manneville, the opera singer, hurrying toward them. A tall man who she did not know trailed in their wake.

  Dorrie rushed forward. “Mr. Thomas sold appointments with us to these men.” She flung out an arm to indicate the four men standing behind her.

  “Not me.” Shaking his head, Mr. Andrews took several steps to the side, putting a couple feet of distance between him and the miners. “I didn’t pay a thing.”

  “That’s what Mr. Dawson here claims, too.” Milly, a short brunette, flashed the stranger a trembling smile. “But that makes no sense.”

  Cinnia turned to Nola and frowned. “We’re making enough noise to have woken him. What if something’s wrong?” She still clung to the hope a logical explanation would be forthcoming. “He might have fallen ill during the night.”

  “What is this racket for?” Arney, the juggler, ran a hand through his brown hair.

  The comic, Flynn McBride, shrugged on his jacket. “Hey, ladies, you woke me from my beauty sleep.”

  “We have to check on him.” Cinnia reached for the doorknob. “Don’t we?”

  “No,” a deep male voice shouted. Then Mr. Andrews shouldered her aside. “I’ll check, you stand back.”

  Cinnia gasped at the contact from his muscled arm and clung to the metal railing. An earthy scent wafted from his clothes, and without even thinking about her action, she breathed it in.

  “If you’ll just let me pass, sir.” Nola pointed toward the ground. “The door swings outward and comes toward my position here.”

  Mr. Andrews nodded then glanced at Cinnia. “Do not go in there.” His gaze connected with hers, narrowed, and held.

  At the edge of his so-blue eyes was a navy ring. Her body angled a degree forward. She felt drawn in, like she could stare into those icy depths until—

  “Miss?”

  “Yes?” She blinked and gave her head a shake. “Oh. No, I won’t.”

  The three people on the small platform shifted positions until Nola was on the ground and C
innia stood to the right side of the entry. Standing this close, she noted the cut of the man’s shirt was different than the current style. The sleeves were fuller and inset into a square-shaped armhole. A peasant-like style.

  Mr. Andrews opened the door an inch or so. “Coming in, Mr. Thomas. I sure hope you’re clothed.” After pulling off his hat, he swung the door wide and stepped inside. “Oh, boy.”

  Why would he say that? Cinnia peeked around the door jamb then sucked in a breath. What in the world happened inside this wagon? She watched Mr. Andrews pick a path over and around items in the center aisle to reach the sleeping section and pull back both sides of the curtains. Cupboard doors stood ajar, the remaining items scattered in disarray, empty clothes hangers hung from a rod. Drawers had been pulled out, emptied of the majority of their contents, and left open.

  Mr. Andrews turned. “No one is here.” He glanced around and lifted a shoulder. “Looks like the man took off during the night.”

  Still not believing the mess of the manager’s belongings strewn around the wagon, she took a step inside. “But, he can’t be gone.” A lump formed in her throat, and she turned to stare, hoping the man just inches away had a different explanation. “He just left us?” There was no way to disguise shaky tone in her question.

  “Cinnia, what can you see?” Nola asked. “We need to know.”

  Her insistent question was echoed by others who waited.

  “I’ve heard Mr. Thomas does have an affinity for the gaming tables.” She lifted a small pillow from the edge of the settee and hugged it to her middle, rubbing her fingers over the silk tassel. “Maybe he had to make good on a bet with some of his possessions.”

  Mr. Andrews stepped close, turning the brim of his hat in a circle. “I’ve only been in town a few weeks, miss. But I feel obligated to inform you that, based on my experience, the games at Rigsby’s Saloon have always been played for cash.”

  “Cinnia, what’s going on in there? Are you all right?”

  Even as upset as she was, Cinnia noted the quiet, calm tone in his voice. She appreciated the effort he’d made on her behalf. Hot tears stung the backs of her eyes, and she bit her trembling lip.

  “Miss York, do you want me to tell the others?”

  Suddenly, the intimacy of being inside such a small space with this handsome man overwhelmed her. Blood rushed in her ears, and all she could do was answer with a simple nod.

  He turned to slide past her in the narrow space, reaching out and pressing a hand to her shoulder for just a moment.

  Cinnia dropped onto the settee, angled her body so she could see through the doorway, and heaved a sigh. Distress weighed on her shoulders, and she leaned back…against a very soft cushion. Just as soft as the pillow still in her grasp. A part of her was aware of how much nicer this coach was than the one she, Nola, and Dorrie had.

  From where he stood on the tiny wagon porch, Mr. Andrews lifted both hands and held them there until the buzz of conversations stopped. “From what I can see of the interior, my guess is Mr. Thomas disappeared during the night.”

  “No.”

  “Can’t be.”

  Pushing off with her hand against the rich brocade upholstery, Cinnia stood and walked to stand next to the man who’d broken the news. “It’s true. The inside looks like he packed in a real hurry. Only a few items remain.”

  “That’s not possible. I don’t believe that, not for one minute.” Josette rushed forward and, holding the uprights of the railing, she moved her head to look past their legs as she peered into the wagon. “No.” Then she let out a sob and covered her face.

  “Let me see.” Nola lifted the front of her skirts and stomped up the steps. Her gaze widened at the mess, and then she turned to gape at the waiting crowd. “Look to the horses. Are Commodore or Admiral missing?”

  “Good thinking, Nola.” Flynn jogged to the rope corral, ducked under, and then moved among the grazing herd, his head turning in every direction. For a moment, he disappeared as he walked down the incline to the river’s edge.

  A minute or so later, the sight of Flynn’s slumped shoulders provided Cinnia with the answer she’d been dreading. Her grip on the metal railing tightened until her knuckles ached.

  “Sorry, miss.”

  At the soft-spoken words, she looked upward and met Mr. Andrew’s intense gaze under his wrinkled brow.

  “I best get to my chores, and leave you to figure out what to do.” He touched a finger to the brim of his hat before turning and walking down the steps.

  She dipped her chin in response, but she couldn’t pull her gaze away from his straight back and long stride until he disappeared into the small stable. Then, confusion overwhelmed her, and she reached behind her to grasp Nola’s hand.

  Nola moved abreast and squeezed their joined hands. “I’ll figure something out, Cinnia. You know I will.”

  “I know.” She swallowed past the lump of regret that had lodged in her throat. Her thoughts were spinning, and she wished for the chance to just sit and think. First, Mr. Andrews stepped in to protect her, to make sure she didn’t walk into danger. Then, he suddenly had work to attend to and just left?

  She shook her head. Of course, he left—he’s not involved in this fiasco. She looked up in time to see Dorrie shooing away the four men who’d arrived at their encampment like she would a pesky chicken in her flowerbed. If she had such a thing.

  Then Dorrie walked over to the other ladies, conferred for just a moment, and headed toward the manager’s wagon. As she stomped up the steps, she proclaimed, “I told them to round up everyone and be at the meeting hall in fifteen minutes.” She breezed past the sisters and then let out a long two-note whistle. “Will you look at the finery of this wagon!”

  Cinnia turned to watch Dorrie’s inspection, keeping her body angled so she could see Mr. Andrews when he exited the stable. At the moment, the reason escaped her. But she couldn’t deny that she’d felt comforted when he’d insisted on entering the wagon ahead of her. In an absentminded gesture, she rested her hand on the shoulder where his hand rested. That touch showed his concern, hadn’t it? The scuffling of footsteps made to turn to the wagon.

  Wide eyed, Dorrie ran a hand over the polished wooden trim of the settee. “Is this mahogany? And the fabric on the cushions feels like silk brocade.” After sitting, she wiggled her bottom side-to-side and gave a little bounce. “Real comfy. The tucks and buttons on this backing are pretty, too.” She pushed to her feet, moved toward the sleeping area, and fingered the hem of the curtain. “Did you see this, Cinnia? Is this velvet?” After shooting them an arched look, she dropped a hand to the shiny fabric covering the mattress. “Golly gee, the man sleeps on silk sheets. Well, la-de-dah.” She turned, held out one hand flat like a saucer, and pantomimed sipping tea with her pinky held high. Then she burst into a fit of giggles.

  “No time for fun and games.” Nola squared her shoulders. “If we want anything for breakfast before this meeting, we had better stir up the fire and set on a kettle.”

  Dorrie moved to the cupboard over the dry sink where the women kept food in their wagon. She started pulling out tins, boxes, and jars. “He’s got soda crackers and”—she squinted at the label—“peanut paste. Look, it’s from Canada. Lemon curd, whatever that is. Teas from China and London. Tinned beef and fish. Orange marmalade. Oh, and something called pate.” She rolled her eyes and sighed. “I know what I’m eating this morning.”

  Dorrie pronounced the last item as a single syllable. “I believe that called pâté.” Although why correct pronunciation mattered at a time like this, Cinnia didn’t know. Raiding Mr. Thomas’ cupboards didn’t feel right, and she hesitated, uncertain of what to do. However, letting the food go to waste wasn’t the solution either. So she scooped up the items she could carry and scurried over to their wagon.

  Ten minutes later, the three women crossed the dirt street, climbed two wooden steps, and walked into the meeting hall where everyone else waited.

  Someone h
ad grouped several of the wooden benches into a circle.

  Milly and Gerda sat on either side of a sobbing Josette—one stroked the singer’s hand, and the other patted her broad back.

  Wallace and Helen Foster, the brother and sister dance team, were perched on a bench together, as usual. Their day outfits were almost as color-coordinated as their performance costumes—today the combination was a sky-blue shirt or blouse over navy trousers or skirt.

  Flynn and Arney shared a bench, and Giorgio sat on one by himself.

  After finding the remaining empty places, the latest arrivals sat.

  Cinnia couldn’t help but wonder what everyone was thinking. More importantly, why in the world was Josette so upset?

  Nola looked around the group. “We’re all here. Does anyone have a suggestion for what we should do?”

  “You mean Nola the planner doesn’t have a solution?” Arney reached into his pocket, pulled out a coin then rolled it along the tops of his fingers.

  “Of course, I do, but I thought someone else might want to speak first.” Frowning, Nola crossed her arms over her chest and looked around the circle.

  Josette jumped to her feet and pressed a hand to her generous bosom. “I, for one, do not believe Hor—, I mean Mr. Thomas is gone.”

  Hearing her slip-up and start to use the manager’s first name, Cinnia leaned forward to catch Nola’s eye and lift an eyebrow. On more than one occasion, the sisters had shared comments about how much “consultation” the manager and the opera singer did over which songs to perform.

  Giorgio, the magician, stood, tugged down his shirt, and rolled a plump hand in the air toward the street. “Even though we all be aseeing that heez horse iz gone.”

  “Cut the accent, George.” Wallace jerked his head. “We all know you were born in New Jersey. Helen and I had already been discussing our options before this incident.” Angling his body, he glanced at his sister and waited for her nod. “We plan to take the wagon and team as our final payment. We’re heading south toward Denver. From what we’ve heard and read in the trade papers, the theater community in that growing town is thriving. Our hope is to find jobs, maybe in a big-name theater, before winter sets in.”