Montana Sky_In His Corner Read online

  “Hmm.” The woman reached under the counter for a feather duster and brushed it over the well-worn surface. “Oh, Miss Hildebrand, don’t forget your letter.”

  Dread slowed her steps. I wish I could forget about the dratted thing. Cheeks flushing, she turned, wondering what the store owner thought of her behavior.

  “I’ll get it.” Lettie skipped across the floor and scooped up the envelope.

  When she accepted it from her cousin, Odette slipped it deep inside the net shopping bag, delaying the moment she’d have to read the contents. As she opened the door, Odette heard a clock somewhere chime twice. “We have to hurry, Lettie. The ladies will arrive in thirty minutes. Your mother will expect us to have things ready for her first sewing circle.” By the time she returned to the house and stowed the supplies, she barely had time to check her appearance, pump water into the kettle before setting it to heat, and collect the plates of finger sandwiches from the icebox.

  In her most polite voice, Lettie greeted the guests and settled them in the front room with her mother.

  Odette breezed into the room. “Welcome, ladies. Good to see you again.” Three voices called out greetings. She glanced around to see the doctor’s wife, Alice Cameron, occupying the second armchair, and Missus Odom and her daughter, Betty, sitting on the settee. The remaining upright wooden chairs from the dining room were for her and Lettie. “Tea will be ready in a few minutes.” She settled on the edge of the chair nearest the kitchen. “How is everyone this fine day?”

  “Fine?” Missus Odon shook her head, wobbling her double chin in a series of ripples. “I find the air is quite brisk. My knees ache something fierce in the cold.”

  Arthritis? Or rheumatism? Case wort or bay laurel? Odette glanced over the woman’s form that stretched the seams of her hunter green plaid dress. Not a wise pattern for a plump woman. What Missus Odom needed was a brisk daily walk to help develop her leg muscles and drop some weight to relieve the strain on her joints. At Sunday Services, the mother and daughter had looked lost standing by themselves, and Aunt Iola insisted on making them welcome. The Odom ladies were boarding at Widow Murphy’s while Mister Odom conducted business with John Carter on his ranch.

  Conversation continued while Odette excused herself to prepare the tea, and she only half listened. Keeping track of the goings-on of the townspeople was more important for her aunt. Waving a hand, she indicated Lettie should go ahead with the plates of cucumber and watercress finger sandwiches and lemon cookies. With care, Odette entered the sitting room holding the Wetley Rose bone china tea set—her aunt’s pride-and-joy possession. Odette poured and served while the ladies commented on the green scalloped cups with a single rose painted on the inside.

  “The set was a wedding gift from my parents, and I treasure it.” Aunt Iola accepted the compliments with a happy smile. After a few minutes, she set down her cup. “I hate to point fingers, but I can’t help but believe my older sister, Agate, has been woefully remiss in not piecing a quilt for Odette’s trousseau.”

  What? Odette straightened as all gazes swung in her direction. This sewing circle was for her benefit? Her stomach jumped like she’d swallowed an entire glass of bicarbonate of soda. “Mother is very busy with chairing the hospital fundraising committee and tending her elaborate flower garden.”

  “No matter. You’re of the age, niece, when you should be thinking of items you’ll need in your own home.” Nodding, Aunt Iola glanced around the room.

  Another person pushing to marry me off. Her throat tightened against the injustice of no one giving her plans credit. On the long journey across country, she’d discussed her wishes to attend college as soon as she earned the tuition money. Unable to produce even the fakest of smiles, Odette hid as best she could behind the raised tea cup, pretending to sip.

  “Oh, yes, I agree with Iola.” Missus Odom reached for yet another cookie and smiled at her daughter. “My Betty has two quilts in her trousseau. Of course, not the one for the marriage bed. Doing so before she’s engaged would be bad luck.”

  Dark-haired Betty nodded as she munched on a sandwich, her cheeks bulging.

  Odette had never heard of that particular superstition—although she knew of several others connected to weddings and marriage.

  “Lettie, gather the fabric from the trunk in your room and bring it here.” Aunt Iola waved a hand toward the stairs, her eyes shining.

  Eager to escape, Odette stood. “I’ll help.” She followed, tamping down the sense of building panic. A quilt was a utilitarian item and could be used by anyone—married or single.

  Lettie knelt on the rag rug in front of the wooden trunk and passed a lingering hand over the lengths of cotton material.

  Odette glanced between the light green one with faint white flowers, a pale rose solid, and a dark pink floral. “The fabrics are lovely together.” She noticed her cousin’s wistful look, and her breath caught. “Oh no, Lettie, were they promised to you?”

  A shrug bounced her blonde curls. “Sometimes, I like to open the trunk just to look at them. I squint my eyes and imagine the quilt sewn together for when I’m married and putting the bedcovering onto the mattress for me and my husband.” Sighing, she squared her shoulders. “Mama says the time will come to buy more when I’m older and have a beau.” Then she bent over and gathered the lengths into her arms. “Do you have a beau?”

  My parents and the Villettes think I do. “No, not yet. But because I’m almost twenty-three, everyone thinks I should be yearning for marriage.” She looked into Lettie’s puzzled gaze and stepped close to rest a hand on her thin shoulder. “Don’t let people tell you what you should want. Fight for what you want.”

  “Lettie, dear, what’s taking so long?” Aunt Iola’s faint voice came from downstairs.

  Blue eyes rounded. “Mama only calls me dear when I’m about to get in trouble. Better get downstairs.”

  Odette lifted the top fabric length from the stack, draped it over her arm, and slowly walked to the stairs. Did she truly believe the advice she’d just given? If she did, then she needed to come up with the right argument to sway her father.

  The next half hour was a buzz of activity as the women followed Iola’s instructions on the number of squares and half-square triangles to cut from which fabrics. Thankfully, the women brought their own scissors, and the task went quickly. Although the Rocky Road pattern was a nine-patch variation, having some squares made up of four smaller ones and the triangles created more cutting.

  From her chair near the window, Aunt Iola gave a demonstration on the piecing then divided the duties of sewing squares and triangles among the women.

  Silence ensued as each one bent to her task. Odette hadn’t sewn fabric for years. Instead, she’d perfected her technique from studying medical texts, and her father often assigned her the job of stitching wounds and gashes. Father often praised her on her neat work.

  “Did you ladies know that quilts serve a purpose larger than warming people at night?” Aunt Iola poised her needle over the pieces held together with straight pins.

  “Sounds verra interesting.” Alice Cameron brushed a curl from her forehead. “Tell us, Iola.”

  Odette looked up from the squares she counted, enjoying the slight burr to the woman’s speech. Probably Scottish like her husband’s. Odette noticed it when Aunt Iola had her medical examination in his office.

  “Quilts hung on clotheslines in certain locations and at various angles helped guide travelers along the Underground Railroad before and during the War to Preserve the Union.”

  From her spot at the end of the settee, Missus Odom straightened and shook her needle in the air. “You mean that odious war named the War of Northern Aggression. My family lost all our land holdings.”

  Wincing, because she knew how spun up her aunt could get on the topic, Odette fought to keep censure from her tone. “Ladies, two decades have passed. Please, let’s speak of less controversial subjects.” For several tense moments, she scrambled for a n
ew topic. “I saw a handbill advertising an exhibition boxing match coming soon to Sweetwater Springs. The first Saturday next month, I believe.”

  Missus Cameron shook her head, setting her mop of sandy-colored curls in motion. She dropped her hands into her lap, eyes wide. “Here, in our town?”

  Nodding, Betty leaned forward. “Father took me to a couple of matches, and the fighters can be quite athletic.” Her blue eyes shone.

  “He didn’t.” Missus Odom sucked in a breath. “So unladylike.”

  Odette shared a smile with Betty, who’d clamped her mouth closed after her mother’s scolding outburst. Then she bent her head and focused on stitching a straight seam one-quarter inch from the edge of the cut triangles.

  Aunt Iola scoffed and shook her head. “What’s athletic about standing in one place and slugging one another? Savage is what it is.”

  “Oh, Aunt, that’s the old style.” Odette gazed at the triangles in her hands and concentrated on making neat stitches “More modern is to use one’s feet as much as the hands. And padded gloves are required to reduce the injuries.”

  “You’ve been to a match?” Lettie’s voice squeaked.

  “Back home, I saw lots of women in the audience.” At her aunt’s disapproving sniff, she scrambled for a comment to ease the tension. “But I haven’t attended in years.” Although the more she thought about the exhibition poster, the more her interest was piqued. Maybe I can convince Uncle Karl to take me.

  Chapter Three

  Easing downward to avoid jarring his battered body, Viktor settled himself on a fallen log, propped up his long case, and leaned against a sturdy tree trunk. He pulled the cork from the bottle hanging over his shoulder by a leather strap and sipped. The exhibition fight two nights ago in Missoula had turned as vicious as a championship title bout when his opponent varied from their usual routine. Shane O’Leary groused about the number of “wins” assigned to Viktor and how they overshadowed his chances at pulling good money for a real match. As the better-known boxer, logic said Viktor should have more.

  Overhead, cottonwoods and aspens created a canopy, sheltering him from the direct sunlight. Water burbling over rocks in a nearby creek and the cries of a meadowlark were the only sounds filling the air. So soothing. Closing his eyes, he breathed the clean air deep into his lungs, wincing at the painful pinch in his side. O’Leary would pay a penalty to Fyodor if one of Viktor’s ribs was cracked. Seconds passed as he listened until the creatures who’d gone into hiding at his approach resumed their activities. Opening his least swollen eye, he watched a chipmunk sitting on a low branch as it nibbled on a leaf. A woodpecker rat-a-tatted on another tree.

  After unlatching the clasps on the worn leather case, Viktor flipped open the lid, lifted out his gudok, and settled the round-backed lyre on his thighs. The instrument was the only item of value he’d ever received from his father, who claimed it had been passed down within the Andrusha family for uncounted generations. Flexing his fingers several times, he hoped to ease a bit of the constant ache. Viktor drew the deeply arched bow across the three taut strings, enjoying the rich, warm tone. He pressed the fingers of his left hand against the strings at the neck to vary the sounds. Without much contemplation, he let nature inspire the notes. Moments later, he added words to reflect the experience of this wondrous setting. A poem in his native language rolled off his tongue, coming from deep within his Russian soul.

  From behind, a twig cracked. Giving a warning chirp, the chipmunk dove into the underbrush.

  Stiffening, Viktor tilted his head, rested a hand on the gudok strings, and listened. When he’d first sought out this place, he hadn’t noticed any nearby houses or cabins along the way.

  Leaves rustled underfoot in cadence with approaching footsteps. “Pardon the interruption, sir.”

  A sweet female voice reached his ears, and he pressed a hand on the log to lever himself upright.

  “Oh, don’t get up. I so enjoyed the music I wanted to come closer to hear better. Then I stepped on that stupid twig.”

  Pain throbbed in his side, and Viktor eased back onto his seat, his free hand pressed against his ribs.

  “The tune was lovely, but the musical notes were unfamiliar.” The movement of cloth against the dry leaves swished louder. “And I, oh—”

  Coming into view from his left about ten feet away walked a petite woman with long, wavy blonde hair. A dark cloak covered all but the hem of a plain brown skirt. Her wide-eyed expression reminded him of how his face appeared with its multiple bruises and cuts. “Ma’am, don’t be alarmed.” Normally, he remained in seclusion for the first three or four days following a fight. But something about Sweetwater Springs and the surrounding prairie made him itch to get outdoors.

  Eyebrows drawn together in a frown, she closed the distance to crouch in front of him. A woven basket on her arm dropped to the ground at her side. “However did you receive such a beating, sir?” A pale hand lifted toward his face but paused in mid air. “No matter the cause. What have you used for treatment?”

  This woman didn’t cringe from the sight of his injuries. Up close, he saw her eyes were a green-brown shade with flecks of gold. Her gaze moved over his face with such intensity he imagined her touching his skin. When was the last time anyone, especially a total stranger, expressed concern? “Ice, when I have it.”

  A tsking sounded as she shook her head. “That will never do.” She glanced down at the greenery spilling over the edge of the basket’s rim and selected an elongated leaf then crushed it in her fist. “This herb has properties that will help with the bruising.” She lifted it toward his face. “Although earlier application would have been better.”

  Without thought, he jerked away, fighting a wince at the renewed throbbing in his side. “Who are you?” He pointed. “And what is that?”

  Her hand stilled. “Of course.” The blonde blinked fast then shook her head and smiled. “I’m sorry, sir. My name is Odette Hildebrand, and I’m a trained nurse.” Eyebrows lifted, she swept a hand toward the log. “May I sit?”

  Spellbound by the bright smile aimed in his direction, he could only nod. Odette—a no-nonsense name fitting this practical woman. “Viktor Andrusha.”

  After sitting and arranging her skirts, she turned. “So, Mister Andrusha, was that Russian I heard you speaking?”

  “You know русский?”

  “Only a word or two to communicate with the people who came to my father’s clinic in New York City.” She tilted her head, and her eyes flashed when she smiled again. “Actually, I think I can ask ‘what hurts?’ in five languages.” She held up her palm with the crumpled leaf. “This plant is called heart-of-the-earth, or wound wort, and shouldn’t hurt when applied. Tilt back your head, please.”

  Viktor followed her instruction then closed his eyes when a sheet of green approached. A cool leaf draped from his right eyebrow to his jaw line. Fingers pressed gently at the edges. A slight sting ran along the tiny cut in his eyebrow but was nothing he couldn’t handle. He’d endure much worse to be tended with such a delicate touch.

  “Um, maybe you should lie down on the log so we won’t be adding a crick in your neck to your injuries.”

  A rustle of clothing indicated she’d stood. Viktor held the leaf in place while he eased his butt along the log until he could straddle it and lie backward, planting both boots into the soft dirt. Then he laced his fingers together and rested his clasped hands over his belt buckle.

  “Good, that’s better.” A tug shifted the leaf to the edge of his nose. “The leaves should stay in place for ten minutes.” She clicked her tongue. “I do wish I had seen them earlier.”

  Her murmur was barely audible, but he guessed she still spoke of his injuries. “What’s that?”

  “Well, I don’t mean to chide. but immediate attention could have lessened the discoloration. Which must be at least two days old.” She drew in a quick breath. “Hmm.”

  Her guess was spot on, verifying her abilities. He cracked
open his good eye. “Hmm what?”

  “Mind if I experiment?” She stood with hands braced near her waist but bent close, and her gaze flicked side to side.

  “On my face?” He never thought of himself as especially handsome, even before he’d chosen a profession where his face was used as a target. But this was his face she wanted to experiment with. And he had a public persona to maintain. Maybe his initial impression was wrong, and this woman wasn’t of sound mind.

  “By using a different herb. Since the injuries must have been sustained about the same time…” She cocked an eyebrow.

  Her statement sounded rational enough, and her tone indicated she waited for an answer. “They were. Boxing.”

  “Uh huh.” Frowning, she tapped a finger on her chin. “By treating the sides of your face with different herbs, I can gauge which is more effective. Oh, drat, I really should carry something to write with in my basket.” Her eyes widened, and she swung her gaze to his, fingertips pressed against her lips.

  “Worried a lady speaking an oath will bother me?” He snorted. “I hear much worse every day.” Offering an apology took her out of the dangerous category and into a well-mannered one. “Look in the leather case.” He listened as she unclasped the closures and then paper crinkled. Over the next couple of minutes, all he heard were the crunch of leaves as she moved and the scritch of pencil on paper. Once he thought he felt the warmth of her breath on the shell of his ear—a sensation that sped gooseflesh over his skin. The graze of her fingertips as she lifted away the leaf tickled. A slight essence of violets surrounded him.

  “Sorry, but I didn’t see this cut in your eyebrow before applying the herb.” Fingers pressed above and below his right brow. “Did the leaf sting?”

  “Неt.” The word croaked from a dry throat. He wasn’t sure he could take much more of this treatment. Being under such close scrutiny was unnerving. Inwardly, he scoffed at himself. His job was to face down two-hundred-pound opponents. How could this slip of a woman make him quake? The leaf resettled over his right cheek, and he let out a deep breath through barely open lips. Was he dreaming or under a spell being cast by Mapeнa, the goddess of death and rebirth? A leaf with tiny hairs covered the left side of his face, and she pressed into place with light touches. More than providing a cooling sensation, the leaves loosened the skin stretched tight by underlying swelling.