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  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.

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  HEARTS IN RHYTHM

  Book 5, Entertainers of the West series

  A Montana Sky Kindle Worlds novella

  By

  Linda Carroll-Bradd

  Injured ballerina Savina Lombard seeks refuge on her cousin’s ranch outside Morgan’s Crossing, Montana Territory until her foot heals. A dashing horse breeder/trainer arrives for his annual summer visit. Estefan del Vado comes from a family who raised championship trotters and his goal is to prove to his father the value of his cross-breeds. To accomplish that, he needs to win one of the season’s pacer harness races. On the Rolling M Ranch to train, he’s distracted by the delicate beauty who is determined that trick riding will be her new career. Using her dancing skills atop galloping horses is sure to win her a spot in Buffalo Bill’s Wild West exhibition.

  For a few glorious weeks, they share an enjoyment of the horses and getting acquainted. But when the time comes to pursue their separate goals, Savina and Estefan are split apart, geographically and emotionally. How will they discover a path they both can walk?

  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.

  Hearts in Rhythm, book 5 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. Baling Wire Promises, book 4 in the “Entertainers of the West” series, features Fantine Pomeroy and Petya Andrusha.

  I hope you enjoy reading Hearts in Rhythm.

  Debra Holland

  Early Summer, 1887

  Chapter One

  To the sweet sound of thunderous applause, the heavy velvet curtains of the Ming Opera House swung closed. Act one of The Old Curiosity Shop starring Miss Katie Putnam had ended. Watching from her spot in the wings stage left, Savina Lombard straightened, responding with a smile to the noisy accolades. As the clapping dwindled, conversations buzzed among the nine-hundred patrons filling the red leather chairs in the Helena, Montana Territory theater.

  Lead ballerina Savina waited for the cue to move center stage. Her body buzzed with anticipation like before every performance, but also because she might have a new job. Nearby, two costumers flitted among the dancers, doing final-checks to accent ribbons and tucking tendrils under tight buns with hairpins.

  Hidden from tonight’s audience, burly workers strained to move wooden set pieces into the wings. Other production helpers re-arranged border lights to put them in the marked places to highlight the upcoming performance.

  A painted tapestry displaying a pastoral scene and a cloud-dotted sky lowered from above until the hem rested on the polished mahogany floor. In an instant, the backdrop went from the inside of a London shop filled with odds and ends on its overflowing shelves to a peaceful country setting.

  At the nod from stage manager Peterson, Savina hurried the ladies forward and pantomimed their starting positions. The ballet troupe—seven young women dressed alike in stiff, calf-length tulle skirts, short-sleeved gauzy blouses edged in lace, and satin shoes tied with ribbons—moved with a hushed whisper of rustling fabric. The troupe’s three-minute performance, a vignette she’d composed of various steps, provided a brief but essential diversion for the audience while the actors changed costumes for the next act. But she always hoped a few people who attended the show put on by the Hazenbright Dramatic Company were truly interested in watching the dance numbers. Especially since she worked out the overall arranged composition and the ladies spent hours practicing the intricate steps.

  Tonight so much was at stake. During warm-ups, Mister Hazenbright pulled her aside and indicated Miss Putnam was looking to add a dance act to her famous traveling show. He hinted the dance arranger would be chosen from among the current troupe. Excitement bubbled through her body, and she bounced on her toes. Imagine traveling throughout the American states and territories, Canada, the British Isles, and Australia. Savina read in the Great Falls Tribune Miss Putnam’s last tour was hosted in major cities of South America. To a woman raised in the central plains of Missouri, such a lifestyle sounded wonderfully exotic. Receiving this honor might change her parents’ minds about the validity of her chosen profession over the life they wished she’d accept.

  At the quick vibrato notes from a single violin, Savina inhaled to steady her racing pulse. From her place at the apex of the V-shaped line, she arched her right foot and set it next to her left in closed fourth position, lifting both arms into a perfect oval above her head.

  The curtains parted, and the orchestra music swelled.

  Blinking at the gas lights, Savina skipped forward, dipped, and arched, letting the entreating notes of the weeping violins and the lilting flutes guide her through the movements of glissade to demi-plié to piqué en avant. Throughout the footwork, her arms remained light and flowing, stretching to match the music’s rhythm. In her mind, she duplicated the movements of a tall-stalked flower in a grass-filled meadow on a breezy day. Sway, straighten, sway.

  Four demi-pliés into straight-kneed kicks with the right arm thrown above the head moved the dancers several feet to the right. After a change in foot and arm positions, four more ballonnés moved them to the left.

  Taking a deep breath, Savina launched into a pirouette to the right then the left, followed by a lift en pointe, a hop on the ends of her hard-tipped shoes, and a flutter kick to change foot positions. Returning to flat soles, she executed a slow graceful bend to rest her forehead on the knee of her extended leg with arms straight over her head. Her heart pounded, and she sucked in a couple of quick breaths.

  A chorus of applause released her from her bow. After a final curtsy with a flourish of her hand overhead, she scurried to stage right, stepping on the balls of her feet until the closing curtain hid her from view. Then she dropped flat-footed and glanced over her shoulder to see if Miss Putnam might be watching from the wings. This number might have been Savina’s audition. Spotting only the stage crew changing the backdrops, she turned and noticed six faces focused her way, eyes bright with questions. She swallowed hard. “Wonderful p-performance, ladies.”

  �
��I wasn’t too late on the last set of jetés?” Willowy Bernice, the newest member of the troupe, crimped her lips tight and glanced wide-eyed around the small circle.

  “Uh-uh.” Shaking her head, Savina clapped her hands and pointed backstage. “G-go rest. Twenty minutes to next line-up.”

  Giggles and laughs accompanied the troupe down the crowded hallway while they hurried to the small shared dressing room at the back of the theater. Savina glanced around for Mister Hazenbright but didn’t see his spiffy suit and the black bowler he always wore. No matter, she’d speak with him after the final curtain dropped.

  Two hours later, Savina stood outside the promoter’s office and knocked. Her stomach rumbled like a busy beehive in the height of summer blooms.

  “Come in.”

  After turning the knob, she entered and squinted against the bluish cloud of cigarette smoke. She pressed her lips tight and tightened her throat. Waving a hand in front of her face to dispel the acrid smell would be rude.

  “Ah, Miss Lombard. Good show tonight.” The balding man with a paunch straining the buttons on his plaid vest sat on a settee with his shoes resting atop a low table. He lifted the cigarette to his mouth, making the ember glow red.

  Too nervous to risk the appearance of her stutter, she just smiled and waited for him to broach the subject that had her so flustered.

  “Miss Putnam is very impressed with the look of the arrangements your group performed tonight. Enough so that she wants to schedule a proper interview for tomorrow at three o’clock.”

  The word “interview” spiked her pulse, and she lowered to the nearest chair with a plop. What she liked so much about dancing was that she didn’t need words to interpret intricate movements and demonstrate her emotional response to the music. How would someone whose profession involved oration react to her halting speech? Savina sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. “D-do you think I have the job?”

  Nodding, Mister Hazenbright exhaled another plume of smoke. “I certainly got that impression.”

  Biting back a happy gasp, Savina clasped her hands under her chin. She opened her mouth but her throat tightened, and the words were trapped. Be calm. As she planned what to say, she licked her lips. “This is exciting news. I’ve appreciated my time here.”

  The next day, Savina arrived at the opera house a few minutes before her appointment. She entered through the stage back door and hurried to the dressing room to double-check her appearance. The muslin dress with flowered edging on the puffed sleeves and scooped neckline hugged her slim figure and accented her eyes. She hoped her new outfit helped her make a good impression. After smoothing a hand down the front, she dashed along the hallway, intent on finding Miss Putnam. Today was her first step to a new future.

  From center stage came Miss Putnam’s voice as she consulted with Mister Madison about the lighting set-up for tonight’s performance. The striking woman with dark hair piled atop her head gestured with big hand movements.

  Thuds came from deeper backstage as the crew shifted the backdrops. Guttural voices murmured as the workers discussed placement.

  Savina stopped in the wings stage right, barely able to hold her position on the perimeter until the conversation ended.

  Mister Peterson jotted notes onto the writing tablet in his hands, and then raised his arm and waved her forward. He moved off stage out of sight.

  Nodding and keeping her gaze on Miss Putnam, she stepped out from the shadowy corner.

  “Watch out, lady.”

  Solid muscles shoved her aside followed by a loud crash. “Oww.” Pain like she’d never felt stabbed her left foot. She collapsed, breaking her fall with her elbows and landing hard on the floorboards. Tears burned her eyes, and she grabbed for her injured foot trapped under the crosspiece of the scenery mural. “G-get it off!” Pain pulsed through her toes.

  “Sorry.” A pair of burly men lifted the set piece and walked past.

  Miss Putnam rushed up, her brows drawn tight. “Oh, my dear, what a tragic accident.”

  Biting her lip so she wouldn’t sob, Savina could only nod. Already the top of her foot was darkening under her white stocking, and her heartbeat throbbed down to her toes. This injury was worse than any sprain or twist she’d ever had. Flexing her toes upward shot fiery pains up her leg, wringing a whimper from her tight lips. “C-call Madison, p-please.”

  Frowning, Miss Putnam leaned over to study Savina’s foot. “That looks like a nasty break, Miss Lombard. You won’t be dancing for weeks. So sorry.” Eyes wide, Miss Putnam gathered the folds of her full skirt and headed offstage. “Mister Madison, you’re needed center stage.”

  Chest tight with dread, Savina flopped onto her back, hearing the actress’s departing footsteps grow fainter until they disappeared. Just like her chance at the big time faded into the mist.

  ~**~

  Early Summer 1887

  Northern New Mexico Territory

  Estefan circled the center of the corral, shoulders back, his gaze focused on his favorite stallion. He held his body squared off with the horse trotting along the wooden rail. Flicks of a leather strap toward the stallion’s back feet kept Tronar moving. Snap. Watching for the smooth change in gaits, he switched hands and snapped again, sending Tronar in the opposite direction along the perimeter. Although the six year old had been broken and schooled years ago, sporadic training was always needed to keep the animal’s responses quick and fresh.

  At the same moment Estefan opened his hand to let the strap fall to the dirt, he angled his body to point his outward hip toward the railing.

  Tronar stopped and turned to the center, taking short steps forward.

  Sí, andale. Estefan focused on the horse’s hooves until the stallion moved close enough for its hot breath to brush the back of his hand. Only then did he reach out and scratch the place along Tronar’s whiskery jaw he knew the horse liked. The earthy smell of his horse’s damp reddish-gold coat filled his nostrils. “Bien, bien.”

  “Señor del Vado.”

  Estefan leaned around the horse’s head, checking if the speaker meant him or one of his brothers. The last time he saw Neron and Anton they were headed to the foaling barn.

  One of the stable boys climbed the railing to see over the top and circled a hand above his head. “Su padre. He waits.”

  Easing his fingers under the halter strap, Estefan clicked his tongue and urged Tronar to follow him to the railing. “Where is he?” Only after he clipped the lead rope to the halter and handed off the horse did he turn his attention to the boy. Jose, if he recalled right.

  The boy tilted his head and a strand of black hair flopped onto his forehead. “The room with all the books.”

  “Li-brar-y.” Some of the workers on the ranch struggled with English. But Estefan knew they’d need to learn because more settlers arrived from the East each year. He walked to the corral gate, slid out the restraining bar, pulled the gate inward, and waited for Jose to guide the horse through the opening.

  “Sí, that one.” The kid grinned, displaying oversized teeth.

  “Don’t brush him. I’ll do it.” His grip tightened on the wooden bar. Papa had reviewed the established schedule for the day only a couple hours ago. Why does he interrupt my training time? He forced a smile at the young boy. “Give him a scoop of feed. And make sure his water bucket is full.”

  “Sí, señor.” Jose bobbed his head then continued talking in Spanish to the horse as they walked the dusty path toward the barn.

  A slight breeze tickled Estefan’s neck, and he lifted off his hat to allow his damp hair to receive the full benefit. His cotton shirt clung to his stomach. Pinching fabric near the buttons, he flapped it away from his body a couple of times. No clouds blocked the sun’s rays today. He turned east and looked toward the Sangre de Cristo mountain range jutting into the pale blue sky. No relief in the form of a rain shower would come from that direction.

  “Estefan, mi hijo. Andale.”

  At his mother’s urging, he
turned, settling his hat back on his head, and spotted her on the porch. People often lauded his father as the man who scraped Rancho del Cielo from the rocky soil and the mesquite bushes into the prosperous ranch it became. The rancho may have been settled by his ancestors, but his father made the land and the animals profitable. But Estefan was convinced at least an equal amount of praise was due his mamá—the round woman with the dancing black eyes and the wide friendly smile. He trotted over to the veranda, vaulted the steps, and swung her into a brisk two-step across the weathered boards, humming a lyrical beat. “I’m here, Mamá. On such a fine morning.”

  Consuela laughed and then waved the towel she carried. “Off with you now. Your father has news, muy importante news. And you”—she jabbed a finger in his chest—“must listen to everything before giving your answer.”

  Very important news, huh? For the sake of ranch business, she tried to speak English but lapsed into Spanish when flustered. Wonder what she knows? He weighed the possibility of cajoling it from her then decided he didn’t want to put her in that position. Instead, he cupped both hands on Mamá’s soft cheeks, bent over to the short woman, and planted a smacking kiss in the middle of her forehead. “Don’t I always?”

  Shaking her head, she shooed her towel in his direction. “Apurote. I’ll soon bring in tea.”

  “I’ll hurry.” With a laugh, he swung open the screened door and ambled down the polished hardwood floors dotted with woven tapestry rugs. Inside the library doorway, he broke stride to toss his hat on a set of antlers and then dropped into an upholstered cowhide chair in front of his father’s massive desk.

  Roldan del Vado shuffled through papers that littered his desk, grabbed one, and then leaned back in his chair with its wraparound padded armrests. Only a few strands of gray marred his jet-black hair, but the crinkles in the corners of his eyes told of many, many hours spent in the southwestern sunlight.