Debra Holland - [Montana Sky 02] (3 page)

Wyatt could feel angry words fighting to escape past his teeth. He clamped down on the phrases he wanted to spit out. One didn’t speak that way to the minister. But the effort to contain his feelings almost choked him.

A reprieve arrived in the clatter of children’s boots on the wooden schoolhouse stairs. A chorus of voices greeted them.

“Pa!” Christine called as if she’d been separated from him for days instead of hours, rushing into his arms.

From long habit he swung her up, her blue skirts fanning out around her gray stockings and black-buttoned boots. By the time he set her down, he’d regained his composure.

She grinned up at him, her mother’s sweet smile laced with Christine’s own hint of mischief.

Wyatt’s heart turned over, and he patted his golden-haired daughter on the head. “Run and saddle up your pony. Chores awaitin’.”

“Yes, Pa.” She shoved the satchel containing her books and slate into his hands, then headed for the livery stable.

Reverend Norton cleared his throat. “Then I can count on you to welcome Mrs. Rodriguez to Sweetwater Springs?”

Wyatt nodded.

“Good. I’ll see you at Sunday service.” The minister turned and flapped off toward the church.

Wyatt hoisted himself back into the saddle, his mind busy formulating new plans. He wasn’t about to give up on that ranch. It wasn’t right for a woman alone to undertake the backbreaking work of running a decrepit spread. She deserved the easier life she’d have if she sold to him. He’d just have to convince her of that.

“Sweetwater Springs.” The conductor moved down the aisle of the swaying train, his voice preceding him as he announced the next stop. “Sweetwater Springs.”

Beside Samantha, Daniel bounced up and down on the leather seat. “We’re here, Mama. We’re here.”

Samantha closed her book, tucking it into the floral tapestry carpetbag at her feet. “And none too soon,” she said, feeling as if the grime of traveling had ground into her skin.

“Can I go to the horse car?”

“No, dear, wait until the train stops.” Samantha smoothed back the hair from his eager young face, straightened the thin black tie at his throat, and brushed at the dust on his black suit. “Then you can help Manuel unload the horses.”

With a hiss of steam, the train slowed to a stop.

Samantha glimpsed what looked to be two-story wooden buildings lining a wide dirt street. From what she’d seen of other western towns, these buildings probably had false fronts to make them appear more imposing.

Beside her, Daniel bounded out of his seat and sprinted up the aisle for the door.

“Daniel, come back here and take this.” She held up the shabby black carryall once belonging to her father and reached down for her own carpetbag.

Daniel snatched the carryall and scooted back down the aisle, carpetbag bumping against the high-backed seats. She
sighed and hurried after him, sending apologetic smiles to the passengers disturbed by her son’s passage. It hadn’t been easy keeping a high-spirited boy amused during the long train ride.

Thank goodness he’d spent most of his time with the horses, in the company of Manuel Sanchez and his wife, Maria, who’d insisted on traveling in the stock car. Samantha had known they’d keep Daniel safe.

Stepping from the train to the depot platform, Samantha inhaled the spring air. Crisp and cool. Not like the humid heat of Argentina. The ground still rocked under her feet, the rhythm of the train wheels echoing in her memory. She stiffened her weak knees, hoping the numbness in her posterior would soon wear off. She shook out the wrinkled folds of her black skirt and straightened her bonnet, running her fingers over the crown, checking to see that the dyed black
nandu
feathers hadn’t bent.

Beside her, Daniel danced with impatience. “The horses?”

A short, stocky young man dressed in faded tan work clothes trotted up the steps to the platform. With his round brown face, dark hair and eyes, he could have fit right in on her father-in-law’s estancia. He stopped a few yards from her, brown eyes downcast. “Señora Rodriguez?”

She nodded.
“Sí,
yes
.”

“I’m Pepe from the livery stable, ma’am.” He spoke with a Spanish accent. “Señor Thompson wanted me to help you with your baggage and bring the horses to the stable, until he could be here.”

“Mr. Thompson?”

“Sí,
señora
.”
The dark eyes glanced up before lowering. “He said to leave your things here at the depot.” He jerked his head to indicate the only brick building in sight. “He thought you might like to buy supplies.”

“Does Mr. Thompson own the livery stable?”

“No, the ranch next to Señor Sawyer’s.”

A glow of warmth suffused Samantha. Her neighbor. How kind of him to help. A good beginning to their new life.

She glanced down at her son. “Daniel, leave your bag here and take Pepe to the baggage car and point out our trunks, then go to the stock car and introduce him to Manuel and Maria.” She pointed to the brick building. “After you’ve settled the horses at the stable, meet me there, please.”

“Yes, Mama.” He dropped the carpetbag at his feet and scampered off.

Pepe picked up the bag and placed it next to a bench. “I’ll get your trunks.” Then, with a quick upward glance and a shy smile, he followed Daniel.

Supplies. Samantha set her carpetbag next to Daniel’s and walked down the steps, mentally ticking off a list of what they’d need for the next few days. Flour, beans, rice. She had it all written down, but didn’t want to forget anything.

She held up her black coat and skirt to avoid the spongy ground, picking her way around mud puddles. She took her time, enjoying walking on terra firma after so many weeks traveling by sea and train, even if terra firma still didn’t feel very firm.

She gazed around her new town with interest, noting several saloons, a bank, and other businesses. The white-framed church with a cross on its steeple caught her attention. In order to marry Juan Carlos, she’d had to convert to Catholicism. For so long she’d worshiped in an ornate stone cathedral, reciting Mass in Latin, and hearing the sermon in Spanish. One of the pleasures of her new life would be attending a simple Protestant service, and she looked forward to Sunday.

A faded sign next to the door of a rickety wooden building advertised hot baths and clean laundry. She sighed at the thought.
A chance to bathe would be heavenly. Tonight, she promised herself. Surely Ezra’s ranch house would have a tub.

She paused at the wooden steps to the brick store. Black letters on the glass window announced Cobbs’ Mercantile. Peeking in, she noticed a jumble of goods. A dress form wore a pink flower-sprigged shirtwaist, a pair of high-buttoned black boots sat side by side with three sets of cowboy boots, a gray hat with a four-cornered crown lay near a basket with several jars of jam, and a rake and shovel stood propped in the corner.

Her eyes lingered on the pink shirtwaist.
Color.
Her father-in-law had forced her to wear black for the last several years, and she could hardly wait to discard her widow’s garb.

With a deep breath, Samantha summoned up her courage and strode up the stairs. She would be making new acquaintances, people she’d associate with for the rest of her life. The unknown Mr. Thompson and Pepe seemed kind. She hoped the others she’d meet would be the same.

On Tuesday afternoon, Wyatt reined in by the front of the livery stable, mentally consigning Reverend Norton and his good causes to the devil. Not that he had any fear the minister would actually be facing Old Nick. It was just that Wyatt had better things to do with his time than play cowboy to a bunch of fancy Spanish horses belonging to the woman who’d taken over Ezra’s ranch—like dealing with the horses and cattle on his
own
ranch. But he’d given the preacher his word.

He slid off Bill, looping the reins over the rail. He pushed open the barn doors, then stalked inside, peering through the gloom. Although he wouldn’t admit it to a soul, the idea of these
South American horses had tantalized him. Maybe they’d be of high enough quality to add to his breeding stock.

A kitten skittered across the dirt floor, and he did a dance step to avoid tramping on it. “Hey, little fella. Watch where you’re goin’.” He reached down, scooped the kitten up, and cradled the furry body against his chest. Running a finger over the tiny gray head, he remembered his daughter chattering about the litter of kittens she played with whenever she stabled her pony before school. Maybe he should talk to Mack about taking this one home to her.

Still holding the kitten, he looked up. A quick scan showed familiar horses: Cobb’s bay, Banker Livingston’s team, Doc Cameron’s roan, the Appaloosa Nick Sanders rode to town, and a few of the horses Mack Taylor, the livery stable owner, rented out. No South American horses hung their sleek heads over the doors of the stalls.

With a grunt of annoyance, Wyatt set the kitten on the nearest bale of hay, turned on his heel and strode outside, rounding the corner toward the stable office. “Mack!” he bellowed, charging through the door.

Mack Taylor half rose from behind a table, where the remains of a meal rested, and wiped his gray-bearded mouth with his stained brown sleeve. Pepe, lounging against a wall, straightened.

Wyatt didn’t give him a chance to speak. “Where are those Falabellas? Did they arrive?”

Mack and Pepe exchanged glances. Mack straightened, amusement wrinkling his narrow broken-nosed face. He ran a hand through his grizzled shoulder-length hair. “Arrived right on time. No problem et all.”

“Then where are they?”

“In the stable where they belong.”

“No, they’re not. I’ve just come from there.” He took two strides into the room. “If you’ve gone and lost that widow-woman’s horses, the ones I took responsibility for—”

Mack raised a placating hand. “Now, Thompson. I ain’t never lost me a horse in my life. Never even had one stolen. Let’s just mosey out to the stable and have us another look. Perhaps you didn’t see ’em.”

“You sayin’ I’m blind? Those Falabellas aren’t there. I recognized every horse in the place.”

“Let’s us go look-see.” Mack stepped out from behind the table, yellowed green eyes squinting in amusement.

Pepe followed. Although the young man kept his eyes downcast, Wyatt could tell by the set of his shoulders, he, too, found the situation humorous.

Wyatt let them pass, then fell in behind, puzzlement creeping into his anger. Were they playing a joke on him? The top of his ears burned at the thought. While Mack enjoyed a laugh as much as any man, he wasn’t known for being a prankster.

He followed the two men through the doors of the barn. Sunlight filtered through the entrance and an open window above the hayloft—more than enough to illuminate the dim interior. He glanced down the row of stalls, again assessing and dismissing each curious occupant.

Just as he thought, no South American horses. With one part of his mind, he took stubborn satisfaction in being right. With another, he started worrying—a gut-churning feeling of concern. Regardless of what he’d felt about the Spanish widow’s acquisition of Ezra’s ranch, he’d taken responsibility for her horses, and Wyatt Thompson took his responsibilities seriously.

He couldn’t even report them stolen. Nobody to take the report. With the retirement of Rand Mather six months before,
Sweetwater Springs no longer had a sheriff. Wyatt would have to track the thieves down himself. And how could he explain this to Reverend Norton, much less to the widow?

Mack leaned over the nearest empty stall. “There ya are, little fella. Thompson here worried ya done gone and disappeared on us.”

What the…?
Wyatt stepped beside him. It must be a foal, he thought, assessing the tiny brown animal with the black mane and tail. But his experienced eye dismissed that thought almost as soon as it came. This compact miniature horse didn’t possess the unfinished, stick-legged look of a foal.

Mack glanced at Wyatt’s stunned face and cackled. Pepe’s soft laughter joined his.

“Midgets?”

“Yep, midget horses. Damned strangest thing I ever did see. Cute little critters, though. Look at the rest.”

Wyatt strode down the aisle, peering over the top of the stalls. Black, chestnut, brown, dappled gray, and a cream-colored one with black legs, mane, and tail—none of them stood higher than his hips.

The burning sensation spread from his ears, across his forehead, and into his cheeks. Why hadn’t that widow woman mentioned midget horses? He ground his teeth. Not a good way to begin relations with his new neighbor.