Montana Sky_Love's Target

  Text copyright ©2018 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-1890s “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.

  Love’s Target, book 7 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 an adult Richelle Quaid (younger sister to Torin Quaid, hero of book 2 who appears in a cameo) and cousin to Lettie, Doyle, and Ronan of this story. 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. Baling Wire Promises, book 4 in the “Entertainers of the West” series, features Fantine Pomeroy and Petya Andrusha. Hearts in Rhythm, book 5 in the “Entertainers of the West” series, features Savina Lombard and Estefan del Vado. In His Corner, book 6 in the “Entertainers of the West” series, features Viktor Andrusha and Odette Hildebrand.

  I hope you enjoy reading Love’s Target.

  Debra Holland

  Montana Territory, August 1887

  Chapter One

  Vanora Deverell crept down the rickety Main Street boardwalk, cringing at each dark alleyway she passed. She sucked in a breath before stepping down to the dirt and scurrying ahead. Virginia City was a rough town, more unlawful than any where she and her papa had stayed in. The boom town’s origin in the gold rush days two decades earlier showed in the makeshift wooden buildings and uneven rooflines.

  Piano music floated on the evening air from just about every saloon where she paused and peered through the dirty front window. The scrape of Papa’s boot on a rock outside her tent had awakened her only twenty minutes earlier. A sound she knew all too well from the other times she’d had to track down her father and urge him away from the faro table. They’d struck camp within sight of the outskirts of town so she hadn’t needed to walk too far in the dark.

  Coming from the opposite direction, a rider steered his horse down the street in a crooked walk. His body swayed in the saddle.

  Please don’t notice me. Tugging the front of her jacket tighter, Vanora dipped her chin and slipped a hand into the right-side pocket. Her fingers brushed cool metal and a smooth handle, and the single touch boosted her confidence. In order to stop her father before he lost too much money, she hadn’t taken the time to bind her breasts before leaving her tent. Hopefully, her denim overalls and sack-like jacket would hide her curves. She headed north toward the Lucky Nugget Saloon, where she’d found him two nights earlier. A place where he swore he’d not return.

  At the next alley, she paused and wrinkled her nose. The acrid scent of tobacco smoke hung strong in the air.

  From the darkness came a woman’s throaty laugh that rose to a squeal. Then a man rasped out breathy deep-voiced grunts to the accompaniment of creaking boards.

  Vanora tensed, debating about crossing to the opposite side of the street. But she figured the couple to be too involved in their clandestine activity to notice a solitary pedestrian. Her need to get to Papa overrode her fear of discovery. She rushed down the steps and ran up the next ones, grateful for the freedom provided by the trousers. Only two more streets.

  Squaring her shoulders to quell her nerves that danced like fat on a skillet, she eased through the batwing doors and slid into the saloon. A myriad of scents hit her nose—dusty floors, yeasty beer, and unwashed bodies underlain by the tension of desperation. She sidestepped to the left, away from the light cast by the overhead oil lanterns.

  A blue haze of tobacco smoke hung low from the ceiling like a portent from on high about the wicked vice on display at the gaming tables. Vanora remembered fire-and-brimstone sermons at the Rapid City church where her family attended in her youth. Obviously, Papa hadn’t retained lessons from those sermons. But worse was the greed of men operating such businesses that stole food from the families of those afflicted souls who entered. As she scanned the room for her papa’s familiar worn-shiny gray vest and his battered felt hat, she slowly released each finger.

  There. Along the far wall stood the faro table, ringed by several men. Papa’s irresistible vice. In the middle of one long side stood Papa with his back toward the room. From his stiff posture, she knew betting was in progress. If she was to have any luck in pulling him away, the timing had to be right. On past occasions, the desired moment occurred after the current deck was run through and the dealer stopped to shuffle. Now the question was, did she dare move closer to be at hand when that pause occurred, or was she safer from discovery here in the shadows?

  More than once, she’d asked Papa about the allure of betting on the card game. He swore that each new strategy would be the winning one, and they could finally rent a house somewhere. Vanora didn’t care where. Since her mother’s death five years earlier, she’d accompanied Papa as he drove the wagon through the western frontier seeking farrier work. When they were stationed on an outlying farm, away from the temptation of multiple saloons, Papa focused on his work and earned a decent living. He had a special way with horses, learned mostly from following in the family business back in Wales.

  A shout went up from the far corner of the room, and players clinked glasses.

  Instinct told her to move now, because the game must be reaching the exposure of the last few cards in the box. After tugging down her hat farther over her hair that she hadn’t pinned up, she stepped into the dim light. She kept her chin down so her hat brim shaded her face and moved between the tables at an even pace so as not to draw attention. Even with her care, she could be exposed at any moment. A woman who walked into a saloon left herself open to unwanted attentions from strangers and drunks. Her heart pounded a rhythm in her ears, dulling the buzz of conversations and the plinking of “Oh Susanna” coming from near the long bar.

  “Damn deal.” A poker player rocked back in his chair and smashed into her left hip.

  “Hey, watch out.” She purposefully lowered her voice and elbowed his shoulder in the way she figured any man would have. Then she scurried ahead before the player felt the need to apologize face-to-face. The table was only a few steps away, and she stopped a couple of feet behind her father. Watching the dealer, she waited until he settled the bets. “Papa.”

  The rotund man to her father’s left glanced over his shoulder then shrugged before turning back to the game.

  Vanora widened her stance and grabbed the front placards of her jacket
, as she’d seen several men do on occasion. Speaking with a deeper tone and adding volume was a strain on her voice. “Papa.”

  Owain Deverell stiffened then half-turned in her direction. “Vano—eh, Van. What are you doing here?” His reddish brows wrinkled over his nose then his green-eyed gaze skittered around the immediate area.

  “Come to fetch you.” She hoped he wouldn’t resist, because she had nothing but a daughter’s appeal on her side. He outweighed her by sixty or seventy pounds and towered eight inches taller than her five-foot-two height.

  “I can’t leave yet.” Shaking his head, he waved a hand toward the table then stepped close. “You get on back to camp right now.”

  His breath smelled of whiskey. She tilted her head as far back as she dared and narrowed her eyes. “Not when you’re gambling away our hard-earned money.”

  “I have to finish this deal.” He cleared his throat and looked away. “Got copper markers on the table.”

  Only by sheer will did she keep from jamming both hands on her hips. “Now you’re betting what we don’t have?” She wanted to grab the front of his shirt and haul him outside to talk some sense into his addled mind. Last week, the food supplies were so low she’d had to shoot squirrels for the stewpot.

  “Deverell, what’s the problem here?”

  The gruff voice must belong to the man with the shiny boots who stood at the edge of her peripheral vision.

  “Nothing, Mister Stanwick.”

  Even while looking downward, Vanora could tell her father had straightened to attention at the newcomer’s voice. Papa’s tone was subservient, like when he wheedled for a job, and the tone raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

  “Is this boy bothering you?” The high-quality boots with intricate stitching in the shape of a spade moved closer. Dark trousers draped over the leather arch a half inch from the stitching.

  “No, sir. My, er, son is just watching.”

  Vanora hated the ruse she had to adopt each time she chased down Papa. But she’d heard enough lectures about never going into a saloon unless she wanted to be faced with more trouble than she could handle.

  Again, a cheer went up around the faro table.

  Papa sidestepped back to the perimeter of the table.

  Two men jumped back and raised their hands over their heads in celebration.

  One bumped her hat and before she could grab for it, the hat fell to the floor. Her long brown hair tumbled down. She bit back a gasp.

  “Well, look at who we have here. Not a son, but quite a lovely daughter.”

  Dread ate at her stomach as she leaned forward to reclaim her hat. Then she angled upward, meeting the avid stare of a man dressed in a three-piece black suit with a gold watch chain across his vest. She watched his gaze slide along her length as if her ill-fitting clothes offered no barrier whatsoever to viewing her curves. A shudder scuttled through her body, and she fought against allowing her revulsion to show. No matter her dislike, she had to appear congenial until she knew why Papa reacted to this man’s presence as he had.

  “Come here, Vanora, until I’m done.” Papa glared at a spot on the stained floor near his side.

  Not bothering to wind up her hair, she settled the hat over her head and tugged on the brim until the fit tightened. Hands shoved in her overalls pockets, she followed her father’s instruction. Players still slanted looks in her direction, their gazes speculative. Without her disguise, she felt both exposed and vulnerable. Heat rose in her cheeks, and once again, she cursed her father’s affliction for ruling their lives. She picked a spot on the opposite wall and stared at a painting of a foxhunt with mounted riders and milling hounds. The subjects were depicted as living a life of leisure—nothing like her own.

  Moments passed, and the players returned their focus to their diversions.

  “Tell me, Miss Vanora, where does Deverell hide such a lovely young woman like yourself?”

  Her mouth dried at Mister Stanwick’s too-silky tone, but she didn’t look toward the right where he stood too close to her side. “I don’t hide, sir. I work as my father’s assistant.”

  “Assistant, you say? Well, well.” He braced his hands on his hips. “I suppose the man must have a way to earn the money he tosses down on my tables.”

  Vanora watched Papa’s shoulders hunch, but he didn’t turn. Away from the saloon owner’s sight, she drew her hands into fists. Gads, how she hated saloons and gaming tables. Again, she stared at the painting, contemplating what dog breeds were favored for a hunt. Years ago, she and Preece begged for a dog of their own—a fluffy puppy for her to carry in a woven basket and, when it got older, Preece wanted to teach it tricks. But Papa said Old Red, a wiry terrier/bull dog mix who guarded the barn and corral, was the only pet the family could afford.

  “You would look lovely in a silk dress, Miss Vanora.” His footsteps circled behind where she stood. “Royal blue or perhaps emerald green, depending on the color of your eyes. And with your pretty brown hair flowing down your back.”

  A tug on her scalp signified the man had the audacity to touch her hair. She stiffened then swept her long tresses away from her right side and hung them over her left shoulder. “Just waiting on my papa, sir. Not here to keep you from what must be very important duties.”

  He gave a chuckle and waved an arm to indicate the nearby tables. “My duties are to see to the pleasures of my customers.”

  Too much of a woody aromatic scent hit her nose. “I’m only an observer.”

  “I wish to make happy everyone who steps over my establishment’s threshold.”

  Vanora bit her lip to hold in her retort. How could a person who has frittered away money that loved ones counted on be happy? Did this pompous man think people were so stupid they thought they were having fun while spending time in anticipatory diversion? She notched her chin an inch higher. Maybe if she ignored him, he would go away. This time, she focused on the rolling green hills and the darker trees of the painting’s English countryside. A peaceful scene for all but the poor fox they’d soon track. Among the riders were a few women, evidenced by flowing skirts covering horses’ sides. As she imagined how their lives compared to hers, she strained for the sounds of the deal ending at the faro table.

  All Vanora wanted was to return to the safety of her familiar space. Stiff canvas walls of her small camp tent cocooned her meager belongings and comprised that safety. But the structure was made only of cloth. At least, the ties gave her the illusion of keeping out unwanted visitors.

  The cries “calling the turn’ and “cat hop” clued her to the last three cards waiting to be exposed. Her heartbeat kicked faster. She dropped her gaze to the playing table where men placed chips next to favored cards painted on the green felt surface. Unable to stop herself, she crossed the first two fingers on both hands. As childish as the gestures were, Papa needed all the possible luck to be aimed his way.

  Some of the men cheered while others groaned. The only thing that mattered was how Papa gripped the edge of the table, his knuckles turning a ghostly white. For a moment, she closed her eyes, uncertain if she wanted to know the sum of his losses. Their wagon held only the barest of supplies—anything of value had been sold months or years ago. Boots scuffing the wooden floors brought her back to the present.

  When he turned, Papa hung his head downward, his shoulders hunched forward.

  “Deverell, join me in my office.”

  Papa’s body stiffened, and his head popped up. “Sure, Mister Stanwick.” He stepped close, his face tight. “Get back to camp. Hurry.”

  What’s happening? She tensed and readied to dart toward the back door.

  “And please bring along your lovely daughter, too.”

  “No need, sir. You and I can chat in private.” Papa held his arm at his side and waved his hand in a backward motion.

  Was this meeting normal for when Papa gambled? Is that a signal? She didn’t know what he meant for her to do. Vanora shook her head, looking wide-eyed at her fat
her. A hand clamped her elbow and levered her forward.

  “I insist.” The saloon owner’s boots rang with strident steps across the plank flooring toward the back of the room.

  Repulsed at his touch, she pulled against his grip. “Kindly unhand me, sir. I can walk unaided.” Unfortunately, the man’s grip didn’t loosen, and the thick ring he wore on his pinky finger pinched through the jacket sleeve. Fear prickled down her spine.

  “Wouldn’t want you to go astray and end up in a room where less-than-gentlemanly manners rule.” Mister Stanwick stopped in front of a fine-grained door with curved molding and the word Private painted in fancy gold lettering.

  Over her shoulder, Vanora shot her father a panicked look. Her pulse raced.

  Shaking his head, Papa mouthed, I’m sorry.

  The door opened into an office where an overhead chandelier cast light over the furnishings.

  “Oo, Corny, you’re finally here. I’ve been waiting for-ever.” A woman with fire-red hair sprawled on a settee, her short ruffled skirt revealing white legs above her lace-up boots. Then her eyes narrowed, and she sat upright. “Who’s that?”

  Mister Stanwick jerked his chin. “Out, Jasmine. I’ll find you later.” He moved to one of the two chairs opposite his desk and released his hold. “Take a seat, Deverell.”

  Behind her footsteps retreated, and Vanora sat. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of rubbing her throbbing arm. By the burn on her skin, she knew she’d have bruises tomorrow.

  Papa dropped into the chair and gripped the wooden arms.

  Mister Stanwick walked behind the dark-wood desk to a counter that held a cut-crystal decanter and several glasses. He poured amber liquid into three and brought them to the desk.

  Probably a decade ago, some women might have thought the saloon owner a handsome man. His features were balanced and regular. He wore stylish clothes, his goatee trimmed and his hair at a length above his collar. No dirt showed under his buffed fingernails, but his eyes held a darkness that reminded Vanora of the flat gaze of a snake.