Montana Sky_An Unlikely Marriage Read online

  “Don’t you have a story that goes along with a situation like this?” She stretched a ply away from the remaining length. “When we were in Morgan’s Crossing, you always had lots of stories to share.”

  Torin clenched his jaw. Her gentle, precise movements reminded him of how his mother unwrapped a present at her birthday or Christmas. Favoring the strip-and-shred method, he’d never understood slow and savoring. He shifted his boots in the thick grass. Somehow, as Nic’s houseguest, he’d felt like he had to earn his keep by being especially congenial. No better way to make light of his stupid mistake in handling the wild stallion that caused his injury than to make fun of himself. “Nope. Never had to repair a wagon before.”

  “Huh.” Her nose crinkled as she concentrated on peeling the rope.

  Needing to feel like he contributed to this repair, he dug out the chain loop from his pocket and held it up.

  Nola aimed the end toward it, but the strand was too wide. “Aren’t all ranchers supposed to know how to do those types of chores?”

  The slander of his profession didn’t sit any better than the sting against his pride. He unclenched his jaw before responding. “Not when several men split duties on a ranch. Each has his own specialty.”

  For a moment, her hazel eyes widened and she sucked in a breath. Returning her concentration to her task, she went silent.

  Being terse toward your new bride on the first full day of your marriage was probably not the wisest act. Torin slipped his good hand into his back pocket and walked a few paces away, tipping up his head to study the wintery sky. Grayish-white clouds bunched together like tufts of cotton formed a puffy bank toward the north. He needed to keep an eye out in case they grew any darker.

  Today being Sunday meant the blacksmith shop wouldn’t be open for business for them to get an estimate. Add another day for the work to be completed—but only if their job was put to the front of the line. An “if” they couldn’t count on. Torin had no idea how much work blacksmiths had on a daily basis. In his hometown of Meadowlark, smoke always curled from the chimney of Dolinski’s shop, and multiple horses were tied to the hitching rail at most hours of the working day. So their little caravan wouldn’t be on the trail north for at least two more days.

  “The width goes through the loop now. What do I do next?”

  At Nola’s question, he turned and forced a smile. She watched him with a hesitant tilt to her head. No need to let on about his concerns. They would tackle one problem at a time. “Looks good.” He stepped back toward the wagon, squatted low, and scooped up the whippletree. “I’ll hold this so you can feed the rope through the loop and the end of the chain.” He observed her movements, nodding at each step. Actually, so far, she was being a good sport about this broken equipment. “That’s right, now make several knots.” What he wouldn’t give for a length of baling wire and a set of pliers to clamp those knots rigid.

  “I hope these are tight enough.” She frowned at the stack of three knots.

  “Let me help with the last one.” Torin grabbed one loose end while she still held the other and gave the rope a tug.

  “Oh.” Nola’s eyes shot wide and, pulled off-balance, she stumbled forward.

  Angling away to protect his injury, he took her weight on his right side. “Can’t get enough of me, now can you, darlin’?” Slipping an arm around her waist, he smiled into her still-surprised gaze. Today, her hazel eyes were more golden than brown—maybe because of the surrounding prairie grasses.

  “Torin, be serious.” She struggled a bit before stepping away.

  Her voice might say she wasn’t affected by his charm, but he’d seen how her eyes sparkled and the color in her cheeks deepened. “Never, my dear. Now, let’s see if our combined efforts will get us back to town.” He laid the wooden bar in the grass, careful to keep the chain quiet to avoid startling his stallion.

  The drive back to Sweetwater Springs was paced at a slow walk to reduce the strain. This time the wagon led the procession. They had to stop only once to replace the strip of rope in the fitting. From yesterday’s quick jaunt through Sweetwater Springs, Torin knew the blacksmith shop was situated on the opposite end of town from the mercantile, past the train depot. The string of mustangs would have to be driven through the center of town. As soon as Torin saw people milling in the street at the front of the church, he groaned. “Whoa, Aengus and Banan.” He pulled back on the reins and held up a hand to signal a halt.

  “Hey, we made it back.” Nola walked up on his left and urged Captain to halt. “Why are you stopping here?”

  After a glance her way, he waved his good hand toward the town. “Looks like church services have just ended. The streets are too crowded to be driving a herd of untrained mustangs through. I don’t want them to startle at a sudden noise and trample you in a stampede.”

  “All right, we’ll wait a few minutes for the people to head on home.” She leaned forward and rested an arm on the pommel.

  At the far side of town, a big man atop a dapple gray Percheron trotted into sight from the prairie beyond. He walked the horse in their direction and then pulled up in front of what looked to be the blacksmith shop.

  Torin bit back a curse. Nothing for it but to push them across town. “That’s the blacksmith ahead, tending his horse. Gotta go now before he disappears.” He squinted at the townspeople standing together in small groups or strolling along the storefronts and wished for another five minutes for the pedestrians to clear. Turning, he flashed an encouraging smile and hoped she proved to be the horsewoman he thought she was. “Stay to the right-hand side of the street but keep an arm’s length from the storefronts. You remember the livery from yesterday, right?” He waited for her acknowledging nod. “Past that is a train depot, brown building with faded yellow shutters. A couple more rods down the street and on the left you’ll find the blacksmith shop. Has a long hitching rail out front.” He clicked his tongue and snapped the reins, steering the team into the town’s main street. By guiding the team to the left of center, he created what he hoped would be a buffer and keep opposing traffic from getting too close to Nola and the string of horses.

  Children laughed and pointed at the colorful wagon. Women gawked then shook their heads. Men on horseback shot him wide grins. Torin realized these responses where what Nola faced at all of the stops the troupe had made. Exactly why that thought bothered him he didn’t know. To distract himself from the unwanted attention, he leaned forward to check the rope and saw that only one knot still held the chain. Only a few more yards.

  The hefty man wearing a black flat-topped hat looked up from running a brush over the backbone of his horse and frowned.

  Torin halted the wagon parallel to the shop wall and set the brake. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Nola easing the mustangs toward the rail. No trouble there. “Good day, sir. Are you the blacksmith?”

  “I’m Reinhart.”

  A glance at the painted wooden sign over the open blacksmith shop door confirmed the terse man was the owner. Wincing at the dull throb in his arm, Torin scrambled down as fast as he could and walked toward the broad-chested, muscled horse. “Beautiful animal you have.” Using his teeth to strip off his glove, he held out his right hand. “I’m Torin Quaid, sir, and I am in need of your services.”

  The man returned the handshake and shook then resumed his task of grooming the tall horse. “Don’t work Sundays.”

  A strong grip was to be expected from a man of his profession, but wow. Easing his hand behind his hip, Torin flexed his fingers. “I understand, being the Lord’s Day and all.” Torin knew getting what he needed would take a bit of his charm. “Well, sir, my wife here…Nola, dear, come on over and meet the town’s blacksmith, Mr. Reinhart.” Seeing she had the horses tied off, he waved her over. “Actually, she’s my bride, married not even one whole day yet.”

  The man grunted and kept the brush moving in long strokes.

  “Nice to meet you, sir.” Nola dipped a curtsey toward the man�
�s broad back.

  Massive shoulders heaved upward and then dropped before Reinhart turned to lift his hat far enough off his head to display his bald pate. “Missus Quaid.”

  Taking advantage of the man’s distraction from his task, Torin stepped into the blacksmith’s line of sight. “Mr. Reinhart, my wife and I have a long journey ahead to get these mustangs back to my ranch. Not too far north of town this morning, the chain on the whippletree broke, and we’ve had to use rope as a repair.”

  He scoffed and shook his head. “Rope won’t hold.” He set the brush on top of the hitching rail and started a slow walk around the wagon. A beefy hand tugged on the front wheel, ran over each wooden spoke, and circled the hub, checking the cotter pin in the center. Then he lifted his gaze to take in the length of the wagon. “Huh. Never seen such a thing.”

  “Oh, what a shame. The troupe was here—”

  Torin wrapped an arm around Nola’s shoulders and squeezed. “I hadn’t either, sir, until just this week.” Dipping his head, he whispered out of the side of his mouth, “Let’s keep him focused on our bad attempt at a repair and fixing the wagon.”

  “Come back in thirty minutes. I’ll figure charges.” He lifted the leader bars on the harness, checked the chain lengths, circled in front of the team, and stopped with a hand on the far wheel. “Don’t like people watching me work.”

  With a shake of her head, Nola stepped forward, pulling from under his arm. “But you won’t be working. We’re only asking for you to look at the repair and provide an estimate.”

  Scowling, he shook his head and shot sharp looks over his shoulder before he disappeared around the far side. After reaching the back, he stepped onto the metal porch and tested the railing. “Huh.”

  Inside, the dogs barked at the sudden tipping of the wagon.

  Next, the blacksmith tromped past them and disappeared into the darkened shop. A moment later he came out, carrying a square of cloth that he tossed under the wagon.

  For a big man, Reinhart was agile and had disappeared from sight before Torin realized what he intended. He rested an elbow on his knee and leaned sideways to look underneath. “No, sir, the chain is broken at the whippletree in the front.”

  “Saw that. Got a loose rim on the left back wheel. I’m checking the underside.”

  Glancing over his shoulder, Torin got a look at Nola’s crossed arms and frown and then turned back to the wagon to wait for the big man’s next statement.

  Reinhart hauled himself to his feet and brushed his hands over the back of his pants. “The bracket holding the tongue to the undercarriage is about to give way. Will need to make a new one. Special dimensions.” He turned toward the shop.

  Nola stepped close. “What if he’s just looking for more things that need fixing?”

  The big man’s shoulders hitched, but he kept moving with long strides.

  Torin cringed at the blacksmith’s reaction. Her tone had been loud enough to carry. The memory of Nola’s stiff back and haughty gaze when she’d taken offense at one of his jokes flashed through his mind. Right, his lady did have a temper. With a hand on her elbow, he walked her backward several feet. “I think the man is a thorough worker and doesn’t want us to suffer a breakdown far away from any possible help.”

  Reinhart walked from the shop carrying a folding measuring stick, a notepad, and a lead pencil. Again, he levered his big body to the space between the wheels and crawled under the wagon.

  Torin imagined him using the stick to obtain the exact measurements. He seemed to be a conscientious worker.

  Moments later, Reinhart scooted out from under the wagon again and set the notepad on the wall of his shop. He scribbled for a moment or two before turning. “Quote for a new tongue bracket and repairs to two chains and replacement of one loop totals four dollars and ninety cents. The shim on the wheel is no charge.”

  “What?” Nola’s mouth dropped open, and she planted both hands on her hips. “Four dollars and ninety cents? That’s outrageous.”

  The dogs’ barking rose to match the pitch of their mistress’s voice.

  A glance at Reinhart showed the man, standing with feet braced and arms crossed, looked as formidable as a brick wall—solid and hard. Torin sucked in a breath and knew what he had to do—get these two people far away from one other. He cupped her elbow and steered her toward the rear of the wagon. “Nola, darlin’, let me handle this, please. I’ll bet your dogs would appreciate the chance to stretch their little legs. Don’t you agree?”

  For the count of three, she stood her ground, shooting him a narrow-eyed glare. Then she stomped over the trampled weeds along the shop wall to the back of the wagon.

  He jerked at the slam of the back door then inhaled a deep breath. “I apologize, sir. Until this week, my wife has led a somewhat sheltered life. Traveling with the vaudeville company, as it were.” He hoped she couldn’t hear his lame explanation. Or he’d have more apologizing to do. “Can you show me the damaged parts?” Over the next few minutes, he nodded at the explanation the blacksmith gave, seeing the worn spots and loose fittings for himself. Each one ratcheted the knot in his stomach tighter.

  Reinhart thumbed the front brim of his hat to tilt it back an inch or so. “The work here will take the better part of a day and a half of my time, plus the metal stock. My estimate is a fair one.”

  To ensure their safety, Torin hadn’t seen one trouble spot the blacksmith pointed out that could be left in its current state. The repairs, all of them, must be done. Nola’s outburst had threatened the goodwill of this tradesman. Something they couldn’t afford—even if they would never travel to this town again. “I understand. Could you start work tomorrow?”

  The big man relaxed and scratched a hand over his chin. “Maybe. With a down payment of half, I could start at noon.”

  Half? Internally, he cringed. That sum might be a problem, and he wasn’t sure how much money Nola had. But, he forced a wide smile and again held out his hand. “Thank you for your time. Let me discuss this with my wife.”

  After the handshake, Reinhart untied his horse from the rail and led it into the darkened shop. “Good luck with that.”

  Truer words had not been spoken.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Slamming the wagon door did little to dampen Nola’s irritation. If she thought she could explain her action, she’d do it again.

  However, the sharp noise did subdue the dogs’ barking.

  Her chest still felt tight, and she struggled to draw in a full breath. The blacksmith’s fee was too high. Although she couldn’t deny a craftsman’s work probably came at a dear price, she wouldn’t part with an amount so essential to her goal. Nola walked to the end of the wagon’s aisle and pivoted. Ever since she and Cinnia were kids, she’d been the one to hold onto their money. Not that Cinnia was frivolous, but since being orphaned, Nola had made the decisions for both sisters. She was good at being in charge and since she’d aged out of the orphanage, she steered the sisters mostly in the right direction.

  Unbuttoning her coat, she walked toward the door and made a sharp turn. Keeping the money secure went along with being the older sister. Over the past couple of years, she’d enjoyed watching the savings pouch plump. At the sleeping alcove, she pulled her arms through the coat sleeves and then tossed the outer garment onto the mattress. Until she’d had to divide that nice nest egg and give Cinnia her portion before they went their separate ways.

  She sucked in a breath and wrapped her arms around her middle. Had that tearful goodbye occurred only this morning? Because she was unsure of her new role and didn’t know what to expect next, the time seemed so much longer. To keep them from quivering, she pinched her lips tight.

  Four dollars and ninety cents amounted to one-fifth of the savings in her much-flatter pouch. The help she was giving Torin with the horses would supply her train ticket, but she’d need money for food while traveling to New York City, and lodging once she arrived. After releasing a long exhalation of breath, she dro
pped to her knees and unlatched the hooks on the dog crates. “Hello, my girlie-girls.”

  Yipping wildly, Gigi and Queenie bounded through the openings, jumping and hopping to gain the prized position of her lap.

  “Yes, my lovelies. I missed you, too.” Smiling, Nola stripped off her gloves and tossed them on the settee. “Now, shush. Quiet yourselves.” She gathered the excited dogs close, avoiding the warm lapping tongues as best she could, and nuzzled her cheeks along the tops of their furry heads while stroking her hands down their backs. Beside her sister and their roommate, Dorrie, these little animals were probably the best friends she’d ever had. She’d raised them from puppyhood—first playing fun games to train them to mind her voice, and then working several hours a day to coach them on the show tricks. The three had been a solid team for the past five years.

  At least Torin had been right about something. Her dogs needed her attention, or had he said that she needed theirs? Already, her pulse had stopped racing and approached a normal beat. Both good. And she knew just the trick to fully settle her spirit. Stretching to the side, she slid open a drawer and reached inside to pull out a sheaf of posters and programs. The advertisements that displayed her dream job. Buffalo Bill’s Wild West.

  With gentle nudges, she moved the dogs from her lap so she could rise and scoot onto the built-in padded settee. Shuffling the papers, she selected her favorite and put that one on top of the stack. Almost on their own, her fingers moved to outline the elements of the images. The scene filled with wild action depicted a burning log cabin with Indians attacking from the back and mounted men galloping in the foreground to vanquish the natives. The artist rendering of the horses showed vigor and excitement, the horsemen bold and upright in the saddle. The woman at the window of the burning structure wasn’t beseeching rescue or bemoaning her impending capture. Instead, she stood tall and drew a bead on the enemy with a rifle of her own.

  Every time Nola gazed at the image of the Wild West’s grand finale, she grew awestruck. The creator of the show, William F. Cody, had been a participant in most of the frontiersman events that were now highlighted in the performances that were dubbed “America’s National Entertainment.” How would she make the portrayal of the settler’s wife trapped in the burning cabin different and memorable? Or maybe she’d practice at the end of each day to perfect riding while standing on a galloping horse? So far, she’d only managed to rise to a kneeling pose—