Mrs. Morgan dropped her jaw then quickly snapped it closed. “He’s dumped you here in Morgan’s Crossing? I’m sure my husband will have a thing or two to say about that.”
“Yes, well, your husband appears to be the only one who knows what was discussed in the original conversation. The number of shows, or the days the troupe was to remain in town, or if a rental fee has already been paid on the hall are all questions we have.” The firm set of the woman’s mouth displayed disapproval, and Cinnia hastened to finish. She didn’t want to remain any longer than she had to in this uncaring woman’s presence.
“Sorry as I am to admit the fact, I know little of the particulars of my husband’s business affairs. I’ve had dealings with the mercantile, and more recently, I’ve overseen changes at the boarding house.” She clasped her hands and set them in her lap. “Although I have taken on the instruction of the town’s children. In fact, they’re waiting for my return.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Relief the conversation was coming to an end pushed Cinnia to a stand. “I’ll not take up any more of your time. I’d appreciate you asking the mayor to either speak with me after tonight’s performance. If he’d rather, he can find me in the lavender wagon afterwards.”
“Your wagon?” Mrs. Morgan frowned and slowly rose to her feet. “I hardly think that’s appropriate.”
What does she think I’m asking? Cinnia twisted the strings of her reticule through her fingers and held tight. “My sister and a friend live there, too. The other people from the troupe will be close by.” She started to stomp off across the room but held her strides in check. No sense in burning her bridge with the mayor’s wife in a fit of pique. The other—and in her opinion, more important—matter hadn’t yet been addressed. Cinnia turned and plastered on a smile she knew would not look sincere. “Did I hear correctly that your husband owns the buildings in town?”
The woman puffed out her chest just a little. “Yes, that’s correct.”
“I profess I haven’t had the time to investigate for myself. I wonder, if you happen to know of any shops on the main street which are available to rent.”
“Why do you wish to know?”
This was it, the first step toward her new way of life. “In addition to performing recitations, I am in charge of the troupe’s wardrobe. Rather than continue with the vaudevillian life, I wish to remain in Morgan’s Crossing and open a dressmaking business.”
“A dressmaker?” A slim eyebrow quirked upward. “Hmm, I can see where having a seamstress in town would be quite an advantage over sending away for my clothing.” Again, her gaze ran the length of her visitor’s body. “What are your sources for the latest fashions?
Is that a positive note in her voice? “Once I have a permanent address, I can subscribe to The Young Ladies Journal to keep updated. The illustrations have often proved detailed enough for me to create my own patterns.”
Nodding, Mrs. Morgan smiled. “I remember seeing copies of that illustrated magazine when I lived in St. Louis. Please know, if I had anything to say about the matter, I’d encourage my husband to rent to you at half-price. Just for the convenience of having fittings, and then there’s the savings in the freight charges to transport the items, you understand.”
The nervousness was back. “If?”
“The only empty space I know of is the shop next to the leather worker.” The slender woman extended a hand toward the door and stepped forward. “Of course, Mr. Morgan rents the land to the saddler, but Mr. Andrews built both shops with his own funds. So you’ll have to work out a rental arrangement with that gentleman.”
Cinnia’s pulse raced, and her cheeks flushed with heat. The man who held the key to her possible new future was one and the same as the man she’d greeted this morning wearing only her nightclothes?
****
While Nicolai tended the hides, readjusting their positions in the tanning solution, he thought of the early morning events. Being surprised by the beautiful redhead exiting his privy had started off his day on an upbeat note. Brighter than any he’d had since moving to Morgan’s Crossing. The blushes that pinked her cheeks revealed whatever emotion Miss York was feeling. He liked seeing her reactions, and her stuttering excuses for being there proved entertaining.
Although, they were nothing in comparison with the previous night’s poetry recitation. Because of the dim lighting, he didn’t think his progress toward the front of the hall had been obvious to the other attendees. All he’d cared about was seeing the flash of her green eyes as she spoke. Even after the card game at Rigsby’s, he’d had trouble falling asleep as he recalled her lovely voice and the gown that clung to her figure. Then seeing her in her nightclothes this morning had only redoubled his interest in the intriguing woman.
His grip tightened on the paddle as he recalled his father’s admonition. Using his authority as the patriarch of the family and the person in charge of the business, he’d sent his three sons in different directions away from the store. His directive included a statement that, until the patent was secure, the young men needed to keep to themselves and not draw undue attention.
That was Nicolai’s reason for not attending the Morgans’ welcome to town party for the new cook at the boarding house a few weeks back. Although he begrudged the missed opportunities to introduce his business to local ranchers, he acknowledged keeping a low profile was the wisest action.
A breeze kicked up, scattering dried leaves along the rocky ground.
Nicolai glanced up and saw the tops of the trees swaying. Gray clouds moved across what had been a clear sky when he left the shop hours earlier. He bent to grab the vat lid and heaved it into place. If a storm was coming, he didn’t want to be caught out in the elements.
A horse’s whinny sounded, followed by another—this one higher-pitched.
He glanced toward the small creek at the bottom of the hill and spotted a rider hunched over the saddle. Following his horse was a pack horse and a string of six shaggy-maned mustangs of various colors. The horses, connected by leads from rope halters to the main rope, danced along the muddy creek edge, appearing nervous about fording the creek.
Something wasn’t right. If that rider didn’t pay closer attention, he’d lose the animals when the next stiff breeze tossed a swirl of leaves into their midst. Nicolai searched the rider’s back trail to make sure he was alone. After careful scrutiny of the surrounding area, he saw no other movement. The stranger was most likely not searching for his family’s leather secret, but instead was a cowboy headed back to a ranch somewhere with his captured horses.
Nicolai dashed to Yasha, untied his reins from the tree branch, and vaulted into the saddle. Giving an encouraging click of his tongue, he guided the horse down the incline until he was within shouting distance. “Hey, mister. You all right?” He kept Yasha moving downhill on a slant until he was opposite the other rider.
“Think I busted my wrist.” The man slowly lifted his head, his mouth twisted in pain. He’d tucked his left forearm between the middle opened buttons of his heavy jacket.
The mustangs settled at the sound of their voices.
“Let me help.” Nicolai splashed across the creek and then guided Yasha so he could approach the rider from the downstream side. He stretched out a hand and leaned to the side. “Unwind the rope and hand it off.”
“Steady, Aengus.” The man did as instructed and extended the rope in a gloved hand. “Much obliged.” The stranger straightened and looked around. “Where are we? I must have gone astray from my route.”
Once he grasped the rope, Nicolai passed it over his head then wound it around the pommel, leaving enough of a tail to wrap around his glove. He wanted to lead from the near side of the roped horses. “You’re outside a small mining town known as Morgan’s Crossing.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Don’t think many have.” At least, that’s what I’m hoping. “Name’s Nico--, uh, Nic Andrews. Fastest way is to go up that incline and around a hill by th
e mine. The ride’s less than a mile.” He pressed his heels into Yasha’s sides and urged the horse through the creek, giving the rope a gentle tug when the slack pulled tight.
“I’m Torin Quaid. My best guess is I dozed off, and Aengus here took charge of our compass heading. Sure don’t recognize those peaks to the south.” He chuckled. “We’re still in Montana Territory, right?”
“That we are.” Checking over his shoulder several times, Nicolai guided the string of horses up the bank and onto the hill toward the mine. Their manner was calmer as they plodded behind the pack horse, and he no longer worried they’d try to run off. Chasing down and lassoing a runaway horse was not a skill he’d ever tried. At last, Quaid sat a bit straighter than when he’d first spotted him.
As he rode, he thought about the ramifications of his rescue. Quaid would obviously need a few days to rest up before he was healed enough to set out again—maybe as long as a week. The least Nicolai could do was invite the man to stay at his place. Rolling out a bedroll on a plank floor couldn’t be any worse than sleeping on the hard, cold ground.
Nicolai reached the crest of the hill and pulled Yasha to a stop. When he saw the wagons were still parked in place, he let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. Before him the afternoon sun slanted long rays over the golden grass. He glanced behind him to see the gray clouds moving off to the southwest. The immediate threat of rain had disappeared.
Quaid pulled alongside. “Now that I see the prairie spread to the east and the mountains to the west, I know I’ve not been here before.” He leaned his good arm on the pommel, squinting. “What are those wagons? Gypsies?”
“No, a traveling vaudeville group. They arrived yesterday and put on a show last night.” Now that he’d been reminded, he was curious what had happened after he’d left Miss York in the middle of the morning’s predicament. A few pedestrians moved on the street and near the wagons, but the distance was too great for him to spot if one was her.
“Were the performers any good, Nic?”
The image of a green-eyed beauty in a flowing gown flashed in his mind. Nicolai gave a shrug before urging Yasha forward. “Most were.” As he passed the fork in the road that led over the bridge, he realized their arrival might cause as much curiosity as the troupe’s had the previous day.
A temporary corral would have to be constructed like the other one, probably sturdier because these animals of Quaid’s weren’t used to being confined. Turning to his left, he spoke over his shoulder. “The town doesn’t have a livery, so I hope you packed a good supply of rope.”
“No livery? This is a small town.” He jerked his thumb behind him. “Got plenty. I’ve been making rope corrals myself.”
Nicolai pulled up Yasha at the front of his shop, knowing that the seven animals trailing would stop when their noses bumped the rump in front.
Ziven whinnied from the stable, and Yasha answered.
The sounds that let Nicolai know he was home. “What size corral do you need? I figure you’ll be the boss, and I’m the one doing the work.”
Quaid winced and shook his head. “Until the injury is wrapped, this hand isn’t good for much.”
“The small stable on the left you can use for the tame horses.” Nicolai swung down from the saddle and tied Yasha to the metal ring on the overhang support. Pride inflated his chest every time he returned to the shop and saw the clean lines of the solidly built structure. Especially when he viewed his business name—Andrews’ Saddlery—spread across the window.
Painting the store’s name had allowed him to use his creativity in a different medium. He’d outlined the stylized block letters—backwards—with red paint, copied from a pattern book, and then filled in each with yellow. Didn’t matter that the task took several evenings to complete—he liked to keep himself busy.
“Is this your shop? You work with leather?” Quaid let out a chuckle and flashed a grin. “Just last night I was bemoaning the lack of a three-legged hobble for the stallion of the herd. Ain’t Providence grand?”
“If I don’t have what you need, I can make it. Now, point me to those ropes.” Before construction of the corral could start, Nicolai ended up unloading and stabling the pack horse, while Quaid handled his own mount.
“What’s the name of the white horse?”
“Banan, which in Irish means “white”. Leave it to my twelve-year-old sister, Richelle, to pick such an obvious name.” Then, bracing his injured arm with his right hand, Quaid paced off the area behind the stables, pointing out where he wanted the perimeter to be laid.
Before Nicolai uncoiled the first rope, he spotted a couple of the vaudeville performers ambling over the intervening grassy expanse.
Introductions were exchanged among the men, and Flynn and Arney, who’d been sitting around a small campfire behind the wagons, offered to help.
Since Nicolai had watched them construct the enclosure yesterday for the troupe’s animals, he quickly agreed to let them guide the operation. He noticed Quaid didn’t seem offended when his design was changed to one that ended up looking sturdier with intersecting ropes between two main lines. As Nicolai worked, he kept shooting glances toward the second wagon in the line, hoping for a glimpse of Miss York.
With slow steps, Quaid moved away from talking with the two men and leaned his back against the closest tree.
Nicolai walked past to deliver the last rope to Flynn and noted pain lines etched around the cowboy’s mouth. On his way back, he paused near Quaid. “About time for me to give you the tour of the place. Come on inside.” He figured he had just enough time to brew a cup of willow bark tea before he was needed outside to help relocate the mustangs.
“Sure.” Quaid plodded along at his side, his boots dragging along the grassy ground.
“This back entrance leads right into the living quarters.” He fished the key out of his pocket, unlocked the door, and swung it inward. He stepped inside and crossed the plank floor to the small wood-burning stove, lifted off a circular cover, and tossed in several lengths of kindling. Then he set the kettle atop the plate. “As you can see, this is small square footage for a kitchen and dining area, but living alone, I don’t need much. The loft above”—he waved a hand toward the platform that covered a third of the floor space—“has a mattress, nightstand, my trunk, and a chest of drawers.”
Quaid nodded as he looked around. “Nice carpentry. I recognize quality work. My dad built the family’s farmhouse years ago when he and Mom migrated from the East.”
Nicolai swung the door into the shop, glad enough sunlight remained to illuminate the space. “On this side of the room, I display the finished products and over to the right is my work area. Go ahead and look around, if you want.” Behind him, the kettle whistled, and he ducked back into the kitchen area. Within minutes, the tea was steeped, and he set the ceramic mug on the table. Wanting to appear sociable, he added a couple splashes of hot water to the dregs of the coffee left over from breakfast to make it drinkable. “Hey, Quaid, come on back.”
Slow footsteps marked the tall cowboy’s approach.
Nicolai waved a hand at the mugs. “You’re looking like you could use a taste of healing tea. Willow bark helps ease pain.” He pulled out a chair and sat, then sipped his barely warm brew.
“Appreciate the gesture.” Quaid slid into the other chair, biting back a groan when his arm grazed the edge of the table. “The son-of-a-gun is throbbing mighty fierce.”
“If the willow bark doesn’t work well enough, I also have some feverfew. My pa swears by it when he’s hurting.” Nicolai leaned forward to peek out the window. “The fellows out there look to have the corral almost finished. Anything I need to know about moving the mustangs into the enclosure? I’m not much of an—”
A knocking came on the front door.
Quaid glanced over his shoulder. “Sounds like you have a customer.”
That would be a welcome incident. So far, he’d only sold a couple of small items. Nicolai stood and walk
ed across the floor, palming the key so he’d be ready to use it as soon as he reached the entrance.
The knock came again, more rapid this time.
Someone is anxious to be let in. He set the key to the lock then swung open the door and spied the woman who’d been on his mind most of the day. “Miss York.” A straw hat perched on top of her head, the blue flower still bobbing from her walk to his doorstep. Color was high in her cheeks, as if she was excited and bursting to reveal a secret. Why that thought grabbed him in the gut, he wasn’t sure.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Andrews.” She bobbed a tiny curtsey and flashed him a wide smile. “I hope you’ve had a productive day. Although I noticed you’ve been absent for a good many hours.” Shaking her head, she took a deep breath. “Really, I’m sorry. I don’t even know why I said that. Let me be more specific. I’ve come to speak with you about a business proposition. Actually, some might label it the potential for a business agreement.”
Her genuine smile caught him off-guard, but he was too focused on her torrent of words to return the gesture. Instead, he frowned, not sure why a vaudeville performer would think they might conduct any type of business together. “I’m listening.”
Miss York took a step forward, her green-eyed gaze widening, and she stood on tip-toes to look past him. “I need a big favor, and I’ve just been told you are the only one who can grant it.”
“You do? I am?” The word “favor” could mean so many things. Taking a moment to consider that, he glanced at her figure, noting how the green color of her blouse highlighted her eyes. His grip on the brass doorknob tightened before he remembered his manners. Quaid’s presence guaranteed no one could point a finger or gossip about him inviting her into his shop. “Please, Miss York, come inside.”
Montana Sky_Laced By Love Page 7
