Montana Sky_Baling Wire Promises Read online

  Text copyright ©2017 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Debra Holland. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Montana Sky remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Debra Holland, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  Welcome to Montana Sky Series Kindle World, where authors write books set in my 1880s “world” of Sweetwater Springs and Morgan’s Crossing, Montana. Aside from providing the backdrop of setting and townsfolk, I haven't contributed to the stories in any way. The authors bring their own unique vision and imagination to the KW books, sometimes tying them into their own series.

  Baling Wire Promises, book 4 in the “Entertainers of the West” series, is written by Linda Carroll-Bradd. I first met Linda in June 2012 when she rejoined the Orange County Romance Writers of America chapter after moving back to California. Within a couple of months, she copy edited one of my stories, and soon Linda became my regular copy editor and a friend. She’s always there for me, even if we are working late into the night on a deadline. We are in the same plot group, and I often see her stories build from the barest outline to fleshed-out book. Linda also contributed a story to Sweetwater Springs Christmas: A Montana Sky Short Story Anthology. Her novella in that anthology, Wishes on a Star, features Richelle Quaid (younger sister to Torin Quaid, hero of book 2 who appears in a cameo) all grown up. Laced By Love, book 1 in the “Entertainers of the West” series, features Cinnia York and Nicolai Andrusha. An Unlikely Marriage, book 2 in the “Entertainers of the West” series, features Nola York and Torin Quaid. Dance Toward the Light, book 3 in the “Entertainers of the West” series, features Dorrie Sullivan and Valerik Andrusha.

  I hope you enjoy reading Baling Wire Promises.

  Debra Holland

  Chapter One

  Montana Territory

  August, 1887

  The late summer heat cast a shimmer over the slow-moving creek where Fantine Pomeroy’s flock of six Alpine goats drank. Water burbled over the rocks and rustled the purple larkspur along the far bank. A couple of the young kids squared off and butted heads, and she wondered where they got the energy. Hers had been sapped an hour ago.

  Sitting with her back against the rough bark of a wide-reaching oak, she wished she’d thought to bring along a book. That would have made for a true respite. But she’d been in a hurry to escape the confines of the four walls. Her twice-daily task of watering the goats gave her the only break from being a caregiver at the Sisters of Piety orphanage. Not that she didn’t enjoy and cherish the children, but listening to never-ending questions, keeping them occupied, or soothing an upset child had not been part of her life goals. Music was. A decade of piano lessons, accompanied by heaps of her instructors’ praise, allowed her to wish for a spot at the Oberlin Conservatory.

  Stop. Do not mourn what cannot be undone. A new purpose had been presented at her sister Aubine’s deathbed. To find the daughter Aubine gave up for adoption while estranged from the family. Fantine jumped up, making the goats freeze. “Pardonne moi.” Then she walked down to the water’s edge and sat on a boulder. As she’d done so many times before, she scanned the edge of the creek, looking for any signs of water snakes. Quick as a flash, she stripped off her leather moccasins and dangled her feet into the rippling current. “Ah.” Within moments, her entire body felt cooler, and she leaned over to watch a leaf swirl through the tumbling water. If the creek bottom had been sandy, she might have hiked up her skirts and waded—as uncharacteristic as that act might be for a twenty-five year old.

  A songbird warbled, joined by another in a tree farther down the winding creek.

  Fantine glanced up toward the leafy canopy, searching for what type of bird shared its sweet song. Instead, what she noticed was the long slant of the sun’s rays highlighting the cottonwood leaves. Time to return. She rubbed weeds over her feet to dry them and slipped on her moccasins, fingering the tight stitches sewn by Père and the beading added by Mère. Memories of happier times surfaced, and her throat tightened. What would they be doing now in the little cabin by Flathead Lake?

  From her skirt pocket, she withdrew the strip of braided leather she used as a tether and kept it hidden in the folds of her skirt as she approached Joli, the older of the two doe goats. “Oh, such a pretty nanny. Let me just slip this loop…” With a deftness learned from much practice, she captured the goat and turned away from the creek. Keeping her tone light, she started a song learned at her grand-mère’s knee of a wayfarer many miles from home.

  The other goats grouped behind Joli and followed.

  Tapping her walking stick ahead of her to scare away snakes, she trod the familiar path flattened through the dry prairie grass, using the orphanage’s weathered cedar shake roof as her signpost. The two-story building on the northern outskirts of Missoula showed each of its twenty-odd years. Paint had long ago peeled from the siding, and several of the sash windows no longer opened on their counter-balanced ropes. No matter the outside appearance, inside the orphanage was filled with love and laughter. The sisters did their utmost best to see to the needs of every child who walked through the front door—or, much too often, was left abandoned on the doorstep.

  “Fantine.” On the back stoop, Sister Agatha waved a towel overhead. A simple blue dress, full-length white apron, and modest wimple made up the uniform worn by the four nuns. “Hurry, bring your healer’s bag to the classroom.”

  “Hup, hup.” She lengthened her strides, wondering what illness had cropped up in her absence. To her left, white sheets hanging from the clothesline billowed in the slight breeze. Those would need to be gathered before suppertime. After herding the goats inside the small corral, she latched the gate and hung the tether on a post. Across the sun porch and through the back door she dashed then turned left at the first doorway.

  Her bedroom sat tucked under the staircase. One half was set up as a modest two-bed infirmary divided by a curtain from her bed and bureau. Leaning inside, she grabbed the worn leather satchel holding her packets of herbs and jars of salves that hung from a ladder-back chair. From the end of the hallway, she heard whining and whimpering.

  In the kitchen, Sister Bergetta, tall and spare, stirred a pot on the stove. “Hurry along. Some children have developed rashes and are asking for you.”

  Fantine rounded the corner to the classroom and spotted several red blotchy faces. She gasped then immediately controlled her reaction, not wanting to frighten the children. This rash wasn’t measles. She had no medicine for such a dreaded disease. “I’m here. Shh, shh. Tell me what’s wrong.” As she moved among the fussy children—always looking at their features for a resemblance to her sister who had given up an infant girl for adoption—she slid a hand along the backs of necks or across a forehead. No fevers.

  Julian Billaud scratched his thin arm. “We itch.”

  She moved to where the curly-haired boy sat, squirming. “Let me see.” Taking his hand, she rolled his arm to expose the red patches. Definite inflammation, but no pustules.

  “Me, too.” Kittie Luke stepped close and lifted her chin to show the rash that climbed the fair skin of her neck.

  Fantine watched as, in typical fashion and not to be outdone, Nara John, another five-year-old girl, shuffled across the floor and shoved both arms upward for her to see. “Oh, you poor dears.” She glanced around to count how many others exhibited the same behavior and spotted two of the older children making similar motions. “You must stop scratching. That will only make t
he rash worse.”

  Whimpers sounded. “But, I can’t.” Erin O’Neill stomped her foot and shook her head, making her reddish-brown braids slap her cheeks.

  Thoughts of what would help this ailment swirled in Fantine’s head. Maybe a salve with calamine or a poultice of smashed poke root—both of which she had in insufficient quantity to treat five children. A treatment that would cool the inflammation and soothe the itchiness…ah, a paste of ground oats. “Those with itches, form a line right here.” She swung her arm in front of her. “Good, now we’ll play follow the leader.” With her hands swinging overhead, she zig-zagged her way toward the kitchen, peeking over her shoulder to make sure they imitated her movements. Not long after being hired, she’d discovered the children’s cooperation soared when they thought they were playing a game.

  An hour later, Fantine sat at the supper table, watching dejected children, and an apologetic, round-cheeked Sister Philippa—all with white blotches on their skin—eating their watery beef stew. Seemed the young novice had decided the classroom needed a botany project. After snipping a mysterious ivy she’d found growing in a patch, Sister Philippa’d planted the cuttings into small pots—along with the help of the affected children.

  After the meal and chores were done, Fantine gathered the children close. “Tonight, you might have trouble sleeping. Sister Catherine gave us permission to camp out on the sun porch.”

  The children gasped and, eyes wide, looked at one another. “Really?”

  “Yes, we get to sleep outside.” She smiled at their enthusiasm for the idea. “Now, go upstairs and pack what you need. Make a bundle of your nightclothes and use the sleeves as ties. The sisters and I will carry down your mattresses.” As soon as they disappeared with a thundering of stomping feet, Fantine went into her room and, following her own instructions, gathered what she’d need. Hefting a book in each hand, she glanced between the titles—Wuthering Heights and The Wide, Wide World—before putting the latter into the middle of her night rail. Tonight was not the night for moody Heathcliff.

  Before she finished reading aloud the last page of The Dragon’s Teeth, she noticed all the children were breathing with the slow sibilance of slumber. She set aside the Tanglewood Tales for Girls and Boys and picked up her novel. Less than a chapter in, she felt her eyelids grow heavy and set down the book next to her remedy bag. After blowing out the lantern, she stretched full-length upon her mattress, grateful for the cooler air on the porch.

  Her fingers floated above the piano keys as she played a Bach concerto on a magnificent grand piano on gas lit stage in a big hall. A shove on her shoulder jostled her, and Fantine groaned, flopping onto her side.

  “Miss Fantine, I’m itchy.”

  The whiny voice had no place in her dream. The gown she wore for the performance was like nothing she’d seen. Rows of pink organza rippled from her waist like—

  Another shove.

  “Miss Fantine.”

  The whispered name blew warm air into her ear, and Fantine stirred. “What is it?” She wrenched open her eyes to the pale moonlight lighting the yard and looked toward where the children slept.

  Five heads were up off the mattresses with gazes trained in her direction. “We need more medicine.” Each child pulled at a neckline or scratched at some part of his or her body.

  Biting back a sigh, she rubbed both hands over her face and tossed the long braid over her shoulder. “Put on your shoes. We’re going for a dip.”

  “We are?” Ander jumped to his feet.

  “Yes, but only if you are as quiet as the sneakiest mice.” She pulled on her moccasins, checked to make sure her jackknife was inside, and ducked into the orphanage to grab her walking stick. No need to take chances on an unfortunate encounter with a slithering reptile. The night air still held a hint of warmth, and she figured this diversion would help tire the children before she reapplied the paste.

  No one complained as they took their late-night hike. In fact, a couple of the kids looked quite revived, while Fantine’s steps dragged.

  Quiet was not exactly how they acted as they splashed one another. But Fantine figured the creek was far enough away from the orphanage that the children’s giggles and snorts would not be heard. What a delightful sound. Fantine couldn’t help but grin at their carefree antics. Although she wasn’t sure how understanding the sisters would be about this unusual method of treatment. The children’s cotton night clothes should dry readily enough on the return walk and as they waited for their dose of oatmeal paste. Good thing she’d made a pint jarful.

  Faint clicks of crickets and the rhythmic belches of a bullfrog filled the surrounding area. Leaning back her head, Fantine gazed at the sight above. The night sky burst with pinprick lights. She took a deep breath and let it out.

  “Is that the sunrise?”

  She heard that Julian had spoken but let his words roll off her thoughts. Dawn was hours away. Instead, she searched for one of the constellations Père had taught her so many years ago. Ah, Corona Borealis, the seven stars shaped like a crown and interpreted by many as what Dionysus gave Minos’s daughter, Ariadne. Fantine preferred the Shawnee people’s belief of the Heavenly Sisters who descended from the sky every night to dance on Earth. She loved to—

  “Miss!”

  The urgent tone brought her head whipping around toward Ander. “What is it?”

  The boy stood ramrod stiff, pointing back the way they’d come. “Look.”

  Fantine glanced over her shoulder, and then slowly rose, her gut clenching as the flickering orange light came into focus. Fire. The orphanage was ablaze. “Shoes on, quickly. Oldest children must help the little ones, and do not let go of their hands. Julian, come here.” She bent to grab her stick and then clasped the eight-year-old boy’s hand. Maybe only a small portion of the roof was affected. The nuns were probably already at the water pump, filling pots and buckets. Surely, someone had gone to town and sounded the alarm for the fire brigade. But why hadn’t she heard it? Her throat tightened.

  As she raced across the prairie, hampered by the shorter-legged boy’s pace, she reviewed what to do. Erin and Ander might help with water buckets, but the little ones needed to be out of harm’s way. She angled toward the stable, heading toward the farm wagon parked along the back wall. “This way, children. Put the young ones inside.” After hoisting Julian into the rectangular wagon bed, she stooped and helped lift Kittie and Nara inside. Pointing a stern finger, she scanned their wide-eyed, frightened faces. “You stay here until I come get you. Do you understand? I will come back.”

  “Danby, I want Danby.” Kittie stood and held out her pudgy arms toward the building.

  Fantine’s heart sank. Kittie’s older brother was inside, sleeping in the upstairs dormitory. “Julian, you’re in charge. You make sure both girls stay right here.” Knowing she couldn’t spare another second, Fantine spun, grabbed handfuls of her night clothes, and ran toward the building. “Ander, get the horses from the stable and tie them to the tongue of the wagon. Erin, open the corral gate and shoo out the goats. They won’t go far.”

  As she got closer to the orphanage, she heard panicked screams from the second floor. The awful cries stayed her feet but only for a moment. Spitting sounds came from the roof as the roaring flames consumed the dry cedar shingles. Fantine ran around the side of the building, looking to see if the sisters had gathered near one of the windows and lowered an escape rope made from tied bedsheets. Nothing. No one.

  Biting back a cry, she charged up the front steps and reached for the doorknob but the radiant heat kept her from grabbing it. “Sisters, where are you?” She turned toward the town that lay at least a furlong away. No time remained for her to run in that direction. “Help! Fire! The orphanage is on fire!” Through the front window, she saw the staircase was fully engulfed and sobbed at the devastation she witnessed. The fire must have started on the first floor and climbed.

  A form sprawled at the edge of the classroom, a book and candlestick lying n
earby. Flames ate at the blonde woman’s clothing.

  Oh, Sister Philippa. Fantine pressed a hand over her mouth at the horrifying sight.

  On the kitchen side of the house, an upstairs window slammed upward. “Fantine! We’re trapped.”

  Trapped? What was the sister saying? Fantine scrambled over the porch railing and jumped into the flower beds before running along the wall. “I’m here.”

  Coughing, Sister Catherine leaned over the ledge and tossed down a metal box. “Take the records.” With jerky moves, she wrestled a ribbon from around her neck. “And the key.”

  Fantine caught the scratched box and set it on the ground, then reached up and snagged the loop of ribbon. Remembering the flaming staircase, she searched her mind for another escape. No outside stairs had ever been built. A big mistake. Her heart lodged in her throat. “No, you must find a way.”

  “We’ve tried. Staircase is gone.” Sister Catherine pressed the crook of her arm to her face.

  “I saw, but you could tie the sheets together.” Tears burned her eyes. Everything was happening so fast. She couldn’t think straight. She paced, craning her neck to keep Sister Catherine in sight. Smoke surrounded the sister’s head and crept along the wall toward the roof. “Or dangle the children from the window, so I can catch them.” Fantine stopped and held out her arms like a cradle.

  “Smoke is too thick. Many already dead.” She glanced toward the room and pulled the neckline of her nightgown over her mouth. “Go to Virginia City…to Sister Lourdes.”

  “No, Sister.” Fantine stood, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Hang from the window ledge and drop. Please, save yourself.”

  “Promise…take children…to other orphanage.” She bent over in a fit of coughing.

  Don’t give up. “All right, I promise to deliver them to safety.” She stretched her arms high, waiting for the sister to reappear, but her vigil was in vain. Long minutes passed.