Montana Sky_Laced By Love

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  The cowboy is quite a charmer. Knowing his words were just empty flattery didn’t stop a flush from heating her cheeks and lightening her mood. She lowered into a deep curtsey and used her free hand to swish her skirts to the side. “You are too kind, gallant sir.” Looking upward, she shamelessly batted her eyelashes.

  Then she spotted a dark frown tightening Mr. Andrews’ mouth, and she slowly rose and climbed the steps to the meeting hall. As she stepped over the threshold, she heard a low voice mutter, “You look real nice, lisichka.”

  The compliment in Nic’s deep voice warmed her heart, but his last word was spoken so softly she couldn’t make it out. She slipped into the vacant chair, removed the lid from the tin, and glanced around the hall. The audience now filled about seventy-five percent of the benches. Coins clinked into the tin, and she nodded at the men paying their fees before they moved to vacant seats. Try as she might, she couldn’t help noticing that Mr. Andrews sat in the outside seat of the fourth bench on the left side.

  At the front of the hall, a red-faced Nola repeated the signals for Queenie to jump atop of the big ball. But the dog remained seated. Gigi waited atop her six-inch wide hoop and finally, Nola gave her the signal. Gigi walk-rolled the hoop across the floor. Only after Gigi was on the opposite site of the room did Queenie hop up on the ball and follow her.

  Knowing how embarrassed her sister was, Cinnia started the applause, and the sound rippled toward the front as others joined in.

  Dorrie skipped into center stage, keeping time while jumping rope, and called for Queenie to join her. This time, the dog obeyed the command on the first call, and they skipped rope in tandem for ten beats.

  Cinnia let out a relieved breath. So maybe the worst was over. She stretched from side-to-side to see if she could spot the mayor in one of the front benches. Really, she hoped to spot Mrs. Morgan because she hadn’t yet been introduced to the mayor.

  The animal act concluded, and after a final bow, Dorrie escorted the dogs off to the side.

  Nola scurried back out, clasping the paper tight and glancing at it before she looked up again. Her mouth was set in a grim line.

  Cinnia saw her sister’s frown and whispered to herself, “Smile, Nola, this is entertainment, not a chore.”

  “Now, for your listening enjoyment, I am pleased to introduce the singing sensation, Mademoiselle Josette Manneville.”

  Oh no. Cinnia bit her lip. Nola forgot to mention the singer’s classification and her range of octaves. Specific details that Mr. Thomas always included.

  Nola swung a hand toward the sidelines. “Tonight, she will be performing “Habanera” or “L’amour est un oiseau rebelle” from the opera, Carmen.”

  Nola’s butchered French pronunciation of the title made Cinnia cringe. Hopefully, no one in a small town such as this would be offended.

  Josette took measured steps to reach the center of the stage, her hands clasped at her waist. Tonight, her blonde hair curled in ringlets over her left shoulder. She wore the aqua silk gown with rows of sequin accents running from the neckline, narrowing at the waist and then flaring to spread across the front of the skirt.

  Maybe sitting out in the audience has its advantages. The beautiful gown was the latest one she’d created for the opera singer. This was the first time Cinnia had viewed it from a distance farther than the backstage sidelines. Hours had been devoted to sewing on all the individual disks, but the shiny lines did provide the large woman with a slimmer appearance.

  The first bars of the opera filled the air. Josette took a deep breath and recited the four-line introduction in French.

  The impact of the forthcoming lyrics hit Cinnia, and she flopped back in the chair, shaking her head. Why in heavens did Nola have her perform this song? In her mind, Cinnia translated as Josette sang,

  “When will I love you?

  Good Lord, I don’t know.

  Maybe never, maybe tomorrow,

  But not today, that’s for sure.”

  Josette hit the first couple of notes of the next stanza and then choked out a sob. Her eyes shot wide, and she tugged a lace handkerchief from somewhere in her abundant décolletage. “I’m so sorry, but I cannot continue.” She dashed off the stage, tears streaming as she wailed with huge gulping sobs.

  The heartrending sound echoed in Cinnia’s ears. Nola should have scheduled the Toreador Song. Everyone loved those exciting lyrics about the bravery and courage of the bullfighter.

  The audience looked at one another, and words buzzed among the crowd like a disturbed hive of bees. The music stopped with a screech as the needle was jerked from the wax cylinder.

  Milly and Gerda scurried forward, carrying their violins in one hand and a chair in the other. They angled the chairs toward one another and then sat. Arney followed with their music stands. No one remembered to change the backdrop to the painting of a well-appointed parlor. All actions that were normally done with Mr. Thomas front and center, distracting the audience from watching the necessary, but clumsy-looking, staging with his lively patter.

  Cinnia noted the sisters wore the white silk blouse and deep purple velvet skirt outfits. Chignons enclosed in black nets and single strands of pearls completed the classic sleek look.

  The women set the bows to the strings and started the musical piece. Sweet notes played in perfect synchronicity filtered a calm mood throughout the room.

  Tapping a foot to the beat, Cinnia felt her earlier tension ebb away.

  A few people in the audience swayed in rhythm. A man reached a hand around the shoulders of the woman next to him, and she leaned her temple against his jaw.

  Seeing the shared affection grabbed Cinnia’s throat, and hot tears pricked at her eyes. Would she ever have that type of closeness with a beloved partner? Blinking fast, she crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself, and sighed.

  Clomping footsteps of several people mounting the steps announced a group’s arrival. The glow from multiple lanterns moved in a wavering pattern along the wall before a group of men, dressed in denims and heavy coats, stormed inside.

  Cinnia jumped up, grabbed the tin, and stepped in front of the group. She spread out her free arm, waving in an attempt to block them. “The entrance fee is a dime each, gentlemen.”

  A tall man with a dark bushy beard brushed past her, holding aloft his lantern. “Michael Morgan, are you here?”

  The sweet violin notes ended with a squawk that sounded like a chicken being strangled.

  In the front row, a dark-haired man stood and turned toward the voice. “I am present. What is the meaning of this interruption? Is there an emergency at the mine?”

  The remaining men skirted around Cinnia and formed a line behind the last row of benches.

  The tangy odor of alcohol and working men wafted in the group’s trail. Wrinkling her nose, she recognized several in the gang as those who’d made an appearance at their wagon. Had that confusing and enlightening confrontation only been this morning?

  “The problem’s not at the mine.” The man set the lantern at his feet and crossed arms across his wide chest.

  This cannot be good. A knot curled in Cinnia’s stomach. The man’s deep voice sounded ominous. She scooped up the lid, capped the tin, and set it on the chair where she could keep a watchful eye on it.

  Mr. Morgan walked halfway down the aisle and put his hands on his hips. “Mr. Clayton, perhaps you’d better explain why you and your cohorts have interrupted a very fine musical performance.” He graced those audience members in the immediate area around him with a wide smile. “Don’t you agree?”

  Several people nodded, but their gazes returned to the angry miner.

  “Michael, what is it?” Mrs. Morgan scurried up to his side, clutching her reticule at her waist.

  The only way Cinnia could see over the shoulders of the taller-than-her miners was to prance on her tip-toes or peek between the men’s shoulders. But she did notice that the mayor’s wife wore a lovely gown of honey-colored silk, complete w
ith a small bustle at the back. Quite fetching, and the cut accented the woman’s figure to the best advantage.

  “I’m sure this is nothing to worry about, dear.” He held out his hands toward the audience in a placating manner. “Folks, hold on for a few minutes while I get to the bottom of this issue.” Turning back toward the miners, he dropped his smile and stared. “Clayton, please explain what your problem is.”

  When the mayor wasn’t smiling, he was a formidable man. Cinnia wondered why these men were willing to risk this man’s ire.

  “Our problem is right there at the back of the hall.” He jabbed a stiff arm toward the stage area where several of the troupe members stood.

  Cinnia sucked in a breath and clamped a hand over her mouth.

  “The performers? Why would that be?”

  “That manager of theirs took our money.”

  Shocked gasps sounded from several spots around the room. People craned their necks for a view of the confrontation.

  “Yeah, that’s right.” Mr. Bemeere shook a fist in the air.

  Mr. Michaels stepped next to Clayton. “I paid that fast-talking man a dollar.”

  A rough-looking man with a scar across his chin glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah, he sure took my dollar.”

  The sight of his insolent gaze raking her length made Cinnia feel outnumbered and vulnerable. Inside, she cringed, but this wasn’t the first lecherous look she’d been subjected to. In response, she narrowed her gaze and lifted her chin until he turned his attention back toward his leader.

  Heart racing, she scooped up the tin, ducked her head, and scurried up the side aisle to get where she rightfully belonged—with the rest of the troupe. Out of the corner of her eye, she registered Mr. Andrews and Mr. Quaid had taken up positions leaning against the side wall. Just knowing they were still in the meeting hall let her take a full breath.

  “There you are.” Her frowning expression relaxed, and Nola pulled her close, linking their arms.

  “Silly me tried to get that gang to pay the entrance fee.” She turned her head so she could whisper, “Somehow, I think that is a minor issue compared to what these men want.” The simple act of standing with her sister made Cinnia feel more at ease. She glanced around to make sure everyone was present. “Is Josette safe in her wagon?”

  “I hope so. I was getting the dogs settled and arrived backstage in time to catch this group’s unplanned entrance.”

  “Can’t claim it wasn’t dramatic.” Cinnia grinned and then focused on the argument.

  “Gentlemen, I understand that you all paid Mr. Thomas money. But for what?” The mayor waved an arm toward the troupe. “For specific musical numbers? Or for a special show with elements selected by you men?”

  “No. For private meetings with the single ladies.”

  Mrs. Morgan gasped and covered her mouth with a lace-gloved hand. Several of the women in the audience echoed her gesture.

  A knot settled deep in her stomach, but Cinnia couldn’t tear away her gaze.

  “See here now, Clayton. I met with Mr. Thomas, and he seemed a decent enough fellow.” Mr. Morgan glanced back at the performers. “So far, the acts I’ve seen have been what I’d call wholesome entertainment. I think you’d better explain what you mean by private meetings.”

  “The fancy-talking man claimed all these lady performers were in the market for husbands.” Clayton punched an extended finger at each of them.

  What? Almost on reflex, Cinnia jerked back from the man’s anger. She glanced to the side and knew her gaze was as wide-eyed and shocked as Nola’s was. The color had drained from her sister’s face. Looking over her shoulder, Cinnia noticed Milly and Gerda clutched each other, as well, with a frowning Dorrie standing next to them. Behind the trio and almost in the shadows, Wallace stood with a protective arm around his sister’s shoulder.

  Flynn, Arney, and Giorgio had sidestepped to stage left and formed a masculine, if uneven in height, wall of braced legs and crossed arms.

  Clayton spread his arms wide and looked around at the audience. “Remember us bringing this complaint to your door earlier this year about the town not having enough women? Well, we’re men who are looking to get wives.” He looked back at his followers who all nodded. “Thomas said he was a bride broker, and he sold us time to meet with our prospective brides.”

  Brides? Her breath caught in her throat. What had Mr. Thomas done?

  Mr. Morgan stroked a hand over his jaw. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of such a thing.”

  “Well, I heard it, and his explanation went something like this.” Mr. Michaels strode close. “Instead of having to pay for the transportation to bring mail-order brides here and wait like you had to do…” He doffed his hat toward Mrs. Morgan. “No offense meant, ma’am. He told us we could look at these ladies during the show and reserve time with the one that tickled our fancy. Then we paid a dollar for each shared hour.”

  “So bright and early this morning, we went to introduce ourselves and set our individual times.” Mr. Bemeere moved into the center aisle. “But the women here claimed not to know anything about the arrangement.”

  “Because we didn’t.” Nola stepped forward, her hands clenched into fists at her side. “Nor would any of us have agreed to such an unprecedented arrangement.”

  Temper would not serve in this situation. Cinnia moved to her sister’s side and brushed her hand against the fist she could reach. “Mr. Morgan, we were as surprised as could be to discover that Mr. Thomas deserted the town during the night.”

  “I second what she just said, sir.” Dorrie shuffled up to Cinnia’s other side and nudged her arm.

  Only a simple act, but Cinnia felt the solidarity of her friendship and support.

  He nodded, glanced to his side, and smiled. “Yes, my wife informed me of this unfortunate turn of events at supper tonight. May I assume you’re the young woman who visited this morning?”

  “Yes, I am. Cinnia York, sir.” Out of habit, she bobbed a shallow curtsey, and then felt silly for doing so in the middle of such a serious discussion.

  “Mayor,” Clayton spoke in a loud voice. “We want this matter settled tonight.”

  “I’m not sure that can be accomplished.” The mayor shook his head.

  Mrs. Morgan moved beside her husband, stretched up on her toes, and whispered in his ear.

  “Very good suggestion, Prudence. Thank you.” Mr. Morgan jammed his hands in his trouser pockets and scanned the audience. “Folks, you all came tonight planning to see a full performance, and I understand you’re disappointed about the show being disrupted. I don’t see any way the program can be completed, because the matter brought before this gathering is a serious one. I feel only those directly affected, those people who have a vested interest in the decision, need to be involved in any further discussion.”

  A muted groan rippled through the crowd, and people whispered to the person next to them.

  Mayors used just about the same number of words as vaudeville managers. Cinnia’s interest strayed just for a moment, and she let her gaze slide stage right to look for Mr. Andrews. She connected with his intense stare, and her pulse kicked up a notch.

  Benches and shoes scraped on the floor as people stood and moved toward the door. Several dragged their feet and kept looking over their shoulders.

  “Thank you, folks, for your cooperation. Having a smaller group present will help the rest of us come to an amenable solution.” Mr. Morgan smiled and shook a few hands as he walked toward the front door with the exiting group.

  The door latched with a resounding click.

  Then Mr. Morgan rounded the corner and glanced at the groups of people still in the room. “The problem we have before us can’t be solved with my guards’ usual method of tossing drunks in the river to sober up.” He forced out a laugh that received no echoing response. Then he looked around, his gaze stopping on the two men still leaning against the wall. His brows lowered into a frown as he walked closer. “Mr. Andrews, does
your presence mean you’re part of Mr. Clayton’s group?”

  “I’m not part of that group, but I think you want me here to verify what was said last night in Rigsby’s.”

  Mr. Morgan waved a hand toward the tall cowboy. “I’m sorry I don’t know this man.”

  “Torin Quaid, sir. A new arrival in town, and”—he pointed toward the sling—“until I heal a bit, I’m Nic’s houseguest.”

  “Well, Mr. Quaid.” The mayor ran a hand over his shirt front. “I’m always glad to welcome a new visitor to our town. However, I don’t see that you have an interest in this discussion.”

  Quaid chuckled and used the tip of his boot to pull a bench closer. “Beggin’ your pardon, but I paid my dime, Mr. Mayor, and this looks to be a right interestin’ show. I aim to occupy my front row seat until the final curtain.”

  Nola giggled then pressed her fingers against her lips.

  Cinnia did a double-take at her sister’s unlikely reaction.

  Mr. Morgan huffed out a breath and then moved up the center aisle. “Let’s turn the benches to face each other and then everyone find a place to sit. Ladies, to the left there.” He pointed. “And miners here. Those who brought lanterns can set them along the perimeter of the seats.”

  The scuffling of moving benches and shoes filled the air as people arranged themselves into their designated places. The lanterns in a circle at floor level provided enough light for people to see each other across the aisle.

  Flynn grabbed a bench and set it cross-wise from the current configuration but close enough to hear the proceedings. Arney and Giorgio joined him. Wallace and Helen moved the violinists’ discarded seats behind the bench and sat.

  Our own cheering section. Helen chose not to sit with the other women. Interesting. In this position, Cinnia couldn’t see Mr. Andrews but was comforted by knowing he stood close by. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Mrs. Morgan settling onto the end seat of a bench on the female side.

  Mr. Morgan paced the center aisle. “The problem I see is that individuals have paid for a service that—”