Montana Sky_Love's Target Page 2

  After lifting a cigar from a silver, footed case on the corner of his desk, he made a show of clipping the ends with miniature scissors before lighting it. Billows of bluish-white smoke surrounded his head, and he waved a hand to dissipate it then leaned back in his padded chair. “Well, Deverell, what were your losses tonight?”

  The man’s indulgent tone didn’t fit the topic. Vanora turned so she could view her father’s expression.

  His lips pressed into a thin line, and he stared straight ahead. “A sawbuck and a bit. But you know that number can change lickety-split.”

  Ten dollars? She inhaled quickly but didn’t say a word. Where had Papa gotten that much for gambling? Why hadn’t she checked the Arbuckles tin before she left camp?

  “If I’m not mistaken, I saw you had several markers in play, as well.”

  “Only for a couple hands.” Papa sat forward to brace elbows on his thighs, his clasped hands hanging between his knees.

  Mister Stanwick turned his attention her way. “Sadly, Miss Vanora, your father isn’t the luckiest faro player I’ve met.” He cocked back his head and puffed out three perfect smoke rings. Without breaking eye contact, he slid out a drawer and then tossed a scrap of wrinkled paper onto the desk. “In addition to tonight’s losses, I’m holding an IOU for thirty-two dollars and seventy cents.”

  “What?” She scooted forward and grabbed the paper, her hand shaking as she inspected it. Her body melted like butter on a hot day at the familiar scrawl under the amount. “Oh, Papa.”

  “Now, Vanora, don’t take that tone.” Her father puffed out his chest. “I’ll cover that chit. I always have.”

  “What if I made this IOU disappear, Deverell?” He rolled the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “I have an idea. I hope we’ll come to a mutual agreement.”

  She had a sinking feeling whatever came out of the man’s mouth next would not be to her family’s advantage. Stiffening, she grabbed the chair’s arms and glared across the desktop.

  A smile spread Stanwick’s lips. “I quite enjoy a bit of sass in my women, Vanora. Your stare is having the opposite effect you hoped for.”

  Her breath caught in her throat at the man’s rude remark. When her papa didn’t rise to her defense, she gave him a sideways glance and her stomach tightened. Everything about his slumped posture displayed he’d given up and surrendered to what this pompous man would dish out.

  “What’s your deal, Mister Stanwick?” Papa slowly lifted his head.

  “My saloon could most definitely use a bit of refinement. The idea came to me the moment I met your beautiful daughter.” He waved a hand in her direction. “Having her here for all my customers to see would class-up the place.”

  He meant for her to work in the saloon? Her stomach pitched, and she pressed a hand to her middle. Almost against her will, she kept her gaze linked with Mister Stanwick’s. Afraid if she looked away he’d strike like a cobra.

  “My dear, do you play the piano?” He leaned forward, eyebrows raised. His gaze dropped to the neckline of her shirt.

  “No.” Her knuckles ached from gripping the chair so tightly.

  Stanwick puffed on the cigar then blew out a stream of smoke. “Perhaps you sing?”

  “Badly.” The acrid smoke hung in front of her face, so she exhaled through her nose. She would not give him the satisfaction of participating in whatever game he played.

  “A pity. I had hoped for a justifiable reason to keep you upon the stage. At a short, but safe, distance from the activities on the main floor.” Leaning back in the chair, he took several puffs on the cigar. “So, I suppose you can work off your father’s debt by offering dances to the patrons.”

  “I will not. I won’t work in your saloon.” Clamping her teeth tight, she sucked in breaths though her nose and crossed her arms over her chest. The protection was all she could muster, but the gesture helped tamper her panic. Why wasn’t Papa echoing her denial? He should be just as angry as Stanwick’s proposal.

  “But Vanora, not even if my debt is zeroed out?” Papa turned in his chair, leaned across the space, and placed a hand on hers. His blue eyes stared into hers. His shoulders lifted then dropped. “What’re a few dances?”

  Pain stabbed her chest. Fathers were supposed to protect their daughters, not plead with them to offer themselves as sacrifices. “Papa, how could you suggest such a thing?”

  “Now, now, let’s not quibble.” Mister Stanwick stood, walked to the front of his desk, and perched on the edge. “Another option comes to mind.”

  His body was only inches away. As much as Vanora wanted to, she didn’t scoot back the chair. Black spots danced across her vision, and she prayed she wouldn’t faint. The man’s supercilious tone clued her that she had to stay alert. Instead, she wiped any expression from her face and lifted her chin. Then she remained mute.

  Huffing out a breath, Papa withdrew his hand. “What would that be, Mister Stanwick?”

  “Miss Vanora can do me the honor of becoming my bride.”

  Chapter Two

  A breeze blew from the north, dissipating the late summer heat. Trent Melbyrne pulled off his hat and dashed a handkerchief over his sweaty forehead. Under this copse of trees seemed the best place to view the upcoming horse race. He rode up the small rise and hobbled his pinto, Buck. At his side, his ranch hand, Ford Dunham, replicated the motions with his mount, Blackie. Other observers sat atop the corral rails, stood alongside the corral, or perched in buggies and surreys nearby.

  Over the past months, Trent had followed the successes of Duke, a three-year-old stallion. Owner of Paradise Valley Ranch, Stanley Tale announced at the Spring Rancher’s Association meeting he would sell several of his horses. Back then, Trent set his sights on obtaining Duke—a prime stallion to launch a breeding program on the Rolling M. The races today would showcase several of Tale’s horses, and about a hundred people were in attendance.

  Trent glanced below, watching the horses milling around at one end of a long open field. “Do you see the black being ridden by the guy wearing a light-colored shirt? What do you think, Ford?” He turned to the man who’d worked for his family the longest on the Rolling M Ranch near Morgan’s Crossing.

  “Adequate piece of horse flesh.”

  Sucking in a breath, Trent did a double take. “Adequate?” He shifted his stance and crossed both arms over his chest. “I say he’s a beaut.”

  Ford scraped a hand over his bristly chin. “Got nothing against the stud’s looks. The price tag is what gives me pause.”

  Trent clenched his jaw but didn’t switch his gaze from the horses. Ford Dunham always had been a conservative man. Maybe the riding accident that left him with a permanent limp tempered any spirit of wager or adventure. Ever since the annual visit by his friend, Estefan del Vado, who brought his stallions to stud at the Rolling M, Trent had been itching to procure his own. Not that Estefan’s Tronar didn’t spawn colts with great lines—Trent had no complaint about the results. Over the past five years, his and Estefan’s association had produced several dozen horses the Army was anxious to buy at top dollar.

  But Trent had a need to be more active in the breeding process, and he wanted to test his acumen about the intricacies of equine conformation. He swept an arm toward the group of horses, his gaze fixating on the best looking of the bunch. “Where have you seen a prouder neck or a finer set of haunches? The animal’s carriage and musculature can’t be beat. I tell you, Duke will be today’s winner. The prize money, added to what he’s won earlier this year at the Harrison Ranch and up in Missoula, will only increase his value.”

  Ford squinted his hazel eyes and shook his head. “You’ll pay dearly for that win.”

  “True, but I’m looking toward the future. Duke’s winnings will allow a higher charge for his stud fees.” Taking Duke to outlying ranches in Montana, Wyoming, or even Idaho Territories where his services were needed would allow Trent to see a bit of the world. Since his father moved to North Platte, Nebraska,
to work on Frank North’s ranch, Trent had been tied to the family’s two-hundred acres. At first, he enjoyed finally being in charge and making changes he thought the operation needed. Now, the repetitiveness of the seasonal chores wore on him. “That horse loves to run. Who wouldn’t pay more for a winning racer?” His blood pumped fast in anticipation of what was to come.

  “You brought me along for my experience.” Ford shifted his stance, angling his left boot to rest on its heel.

  “I did. Of all the Rolling M cowhands, you have the best eye for spotting a horse’s potential.” He thought of the three-day ride southward they took to arrive at this location near Bozeman in Montana Territory. The new sights and trails lifted his spirits. Watching his cousin, Savina, and Estefan fall in love while working together as she reconstructed her dance career this summer was hard enough. But to know they would soon head back east to pursue their goals—she to audition for Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show, and he as a harness-track racer—convinced Trent he needed to widen his own horizons.

  “Well, in my experience, I’ve seen great horses who, when retired from racing, wouldn’t settle enough to be put to stud.” He set his hands on his hips, a frown wrinkling his brow. “Or when they did, they only produced a couple of stellar mares. But no stallions. Not what you need for a successful breeding program.”

  A shout rose into the air from below, and the horses bolted into action amid excited shouts.

  Trent stiffened and swung his gaze to the galloping horses. Duke had to win.

  Within a dozen strides, Duke emerged half a length ahead. His neck stretched forward, and his legs were a blur of action.

  Trent pumped his fist in the air and yelled encouragement. His enterprise had worth, and he’d prove the fact.

  An hour later, Trent finished his business deal by signing a bank raft for Duke’s five-hundred-dollar purchase. After that triumph, the other races hadn’t held his attention. Ford disappeared into the barn, stating he wanted to talk to the animal handlers. The smell of roasting meat drew Trent toward the area in back of the ranch house where tables laden with food waited. He heaped on servings of barbecued meat, baked beans, a roasted ear of corn, and a fluffy biscuit. Juggling the plate and a glass of lemonade, he searched for a shady spot to eat. After studying the angle of the sun, he moved toward the back of the oversized barn. He’d wait for Ford’s report of how many stalls were inside and a rundown on the horse breeds.

  As soon as he rounded the corner of the red-painted wall, he spotted a line of several bales of hay. A white cloth with a red circle in the middle decorated each bale. His interest piqued. Was a shooting contest on the agenda? Might be fun. Admitting he was a decent shot wasn’t too boastful.

  Trent set to satisfying his growling stomach. The food was tasty, and soon he scraped the last bit of biscuit over the sweet sauce from the beans.

  A chestnut horse with two white socks trotted close. Steve Talbot, Tale’s foreman, doffed his hat. “Five minutes until the shooting contest. Fifty-dollar prize split two ways. You interested in entering, Mister Melbyrne?”

  Rising to his feet, Trent brushed a hand over the rear of his denims. He was always interested in a game that tested his skills. “Might be. What’s the entry fee?”

  “A dollar.”

  “Certainly affordable.” He reached into his pants’ front pocket, grabbed several coins, and selected the correct ones. “I’m assuming pistols.”

  “The fee covers both contests for pistols and rifles. You bring along your own?”

  “Always.” After a nod, Trent gathered his plate and glass to return to the food table. As a kid, he could hold his own with his older brother, Ranford, at shooting old tin cans off fence posts. Years had passed since he’d done much more than take a general vicinity shot at coyotes or wolves when they pestered the herd or when scouting for mustangs in the high country. A contest might be interesting. Trent headed toward the corral where Buck mingled with the other horses so he could collect his rifle and check his ammunition.

  Moments later, he shook hands with a couple of ranchers he knew and joined in the good-natured bragging about who would claim the title of best shooter. This sense of challenge was what he missed while working on the ranch ten miles from the closest population. Even so, Morgan’s Crossing was a small mining town of less than a hundred people. The biggest excitement had happened the previous fall when a vaudeville troupe got stranded by their manager. The performers stayed long enough to put on several performances. The miners were up in arms because the manager advertised the women as potential brides…unfortunately without the ladies’ permission. As far as Trent knew, the only man who ended up with a bride was the leather craftsman, Nic Andrusha.

  “Howdy, folks.” Stanley Tale, a barrel-chested man with grey accenting the hair over his ears, jumped onto a wooden stump and waved his hat over his head. Tale had settled the valley back in the 1860s, fended off Indian raids, and built a respectable cattle ranch.

  Catcalls and whistles greeted him.

  “Nothing like a good, old-fashioned shooting match to round out a day of racing. Pistols will be shot first. Form yourselves into lines opposite one of the four sets of hay bales.” He swung his hat to the left. “The missus and my daughters painted plenty of cloth targets so don’t be shy. Speaking of my ladies, why don’t y’all give them a big round of applause for the delicious food?”

  Clapping sounded, and Trent looked around to see if he could spot which ladies were receiving the acclaim. Although, he wasn’t sure why he bothered. The distance from the Rolling M was too great to consider courting, but he appreciated a pretty lady same as the next man. His attention snagged on a short figure at the perimeter of the crowd. A slouch hat half-hid the boy’s face. But the eyes peeking from under the brim were an unusual pale blue color. The boy and he both stared. Then the gaze narrowed and a pointed chin notched upward. A moment later, the crowd shifted, and the connection was lost. What’s a youth doing in this group of adults?

  Like he’d supervised a time or two before, Stanley kept the contest moving, calling out the start and stop times, and weapons down when the targets were retrieved.

  Two young women—one blonde dressed in blue calico and one brunette wearing a green dress—nailed the used targets in groups on the barn wall. Must be the daughters Tale mentioned. From the left, the square cloths with the most bulls-eyes were displayed. Once Trent verified his target, displaying five shots scattered within the red circle and the sixth in the white, hung in that prime group, he moved to the side. Pretty good placement for not having recent practice.

  The final group advanced to the firing line. At the far end stood the short figure in the slouch hat, checking the barrel of his pistol. Even in the heat of the day, the boy wore a jacket that hung from thin shoulders.

  Why Trent was concerned he couldn’t say. Still, he felt an irresistible urge to move into position about ten feet behind the shooter. He did not know many boys who put themselves in competition with adults. The kid must be fairly capable and confident of his abilities.

  Tale lifted his hat. “Commence firing when ready.”

  To Trent’s surprise, he spotted the boy lifting his left hand until the arm was parallel to the ground. He’d not seen many left-handers in contests. With only a breath between each, six shots rang out. His eyes widened with each successive shot. From where he stood, the target looked like a black hole was cut out in the center of the red circle. Who was that accurate? He fidgeted until the “weapons down” call came, and then he strode to the barn to see the target, and more importantly, the name of the shooter written at the top.

  Stanley stood in front of the target where the barn wall showed through the hole, nodding. “And the winner is Van Dodson with some mighty fine shooting.” After reaching into a back pocket, he pulled out a folded envelope and waved it. “Come on up and get your winnings.”

  An older man with reddish-brown hair and a bristly chin stepped forward. “Mister Tale, I’m Owai
n Dodson. My son’s real shy and sent me up here to collect.”

  A frown bunched Stanley’s bushy eyebrows as he looked around. “Well, I don’t know, Mister Dodson.”

  “It’s all right, sir. He’s my pa.” A gruff voice came from the back of the crowd.

  Trent glanced over his shoulder but couldn’t see where the boy stood. Odd. He figured if the youth beat out all these adults, he’d want to crow a bit. Leastways, Trent wanted to get a good look at the kid who beat him, but his curiosity wasn’t to be assuaged.

  The call came to set up for the rifle contest. The targets had been moved to the far end of the field. This time, the contestants stood about three hundred feet distant.

  He hesitated over adding himself to a line, hoping to be positioned opposite the boy if he entered this contest. Finally, he stepped up to the mark for the farthermost target, settled his Winchester 1873’s stock against the cup of his shoulder, pulled up the graduated rear sight, and lined up the fixed sight. Trees at the edge of the forested area showed only slight movement. Good. Not much compensation needed for wind drift. He lowered the rifle barrel until it pointed at the ground and waited for the signal to shoot.

  At the last moment, the boy shuffled to the mark to Trent’s left, cradling a Spencer carbine rifle, head cast downward.

  Under the ruse of looking down the line toward Stanley, he gave sideways glances at the figure to his left. The repeating rifle was at least twenty years old but looked well cared for. Possibly, the father’s weapon from his military service. The boy’s clothes were baggy enough to almost look like a disguise. But why would that be? Dirt marked the side of the boy’s face, swiped along a cheek that appeared rounded and soft. How old was this boy? The streaks weren’t unusual for a hot summer’s day when kids were playing. But Trent hadn’t seen him anywhere on the ranch except in the area of the contest.

  “All right, commence firing.”

  The boy glanced just once at Trent and frowned. Then he angled his body and raised the rifle to shooting position.