Debra Holland - [Montana Sky 02] (17 page)

If she’d only listened to him, he would have taken care of everything. How, he didn’t know. But he’d have come up with his own solution to the Indian youth. He just needed some thinking time. Samantha hadn’t given him any.

What would you have done?
His conscience whispered.

Something,
he snarled at it, annoyed by the question.

What?

The words niggled at him. It was enough to be arguing with a redheaded witch, but when a man started debating with himself, something was definitely wrong.

All right.
He checked off his possibilities. He would have brought the boy home. Kept an eye on him, while Mrs. Toffels fed him and clothed him.

Then what?

Couldn’t keep him, not around Christine.

Ah! Would have taken him to his people on the reservation. Surely there was an orphanage there, or a school or something. Hadn’t he heard that? But he’d also heard stories about the Indian agent who ran the place. Didn’t like what he’d heard.

Couldn’t take him to Reverend Norton. The boy would have ended up with Samantha anyway.

He cast his thoughts around for other ideas.

Red Charlie. That was the answer. He’d have taken him to Red Charlie. The blacksmith didn’t have an apprentice yet. Wyatt’s scars burned in remembrance of the abuse he’d suffered at the hands of a cruel master, and he rubbed his side. But he knew Red Charlie would be fair to the boy. If necessary, Wyatt would have paid something for his room and board.

See
. Triumph rose in him. He’d have figured out the perfect solution. He almost turned Bill around, heading back for another round of arguments with Samantha.

This time he’d win.

Then he remembered their last exchange, his banishment from her ranch, and the triumphant feeling drained away, leaving him tired. He couldn’t go. He’d sworn not to.

Wyatt winced, thinking about Christine. She wasn’t going to be happy about being exiled from the midget horses and from Daniel. She’d probably put up quite a fuss. All along, he hadn’t
been comfortable with her around the twins. He’d acquiesced, as always, for he found it difficult to deny his daughter what she wanted. Now, at least, he didn’t have to worry about her being led into trouble by those twins.

He clenched his hands around the reins. He hoped she wouldn’t cry. Christine was a resilient child who seldom shed tears. But when she did, it twisted his heart tighter than Mrs. Toffels’s wrung out her laundry. Usually tears welling up in those big blue eyes rendered him powerless, and he’d do anything he could to make them stop. But now he’d need to stand firm. This time his daughter would obey him.

Samantha stopped on her way to the barn. Her stomach tightened. She smelled smoke.
That’s odd.
With one hand, she shaded her eyes from the late May sunshine, turning, trying to sight or sniff the source. Her gaze swept the corral, the outside of the barn, and the nearby haystacks piled to its left. Her eyes narrowed, searching; no sign of wispy gray trails.

Usually this time in the late afternoon, the boys played with the Falabellas. The little horses continued to work their magic, gentling the roughness of the twins and tethering Little Feather to the ranch. The Indian had arrived a week ago, and he still vanished much of the time, returning only to eat and sleep. Samantha let him be. You couldn’t cage an eagle, but she still had hopes of taming this one.

Voices coming from behind the farthest haystack pulled her in that direction. Rounding the last pile, she saw her four boys seated, backs against the barn wall. Little Feather, his black hair neatly braided into two tails, wore Wyatt’s shirt, which he’d
refused to part with. Raising a pipe to his mouth, he inhaled. He tried not to cough and passed it to Jack.

Immediately angry, Samantha opened her mouth to yell at them, but abruptly closed it again, remembering her own childhood try with that pipe.
Her father’s.
She’d always loved the smell when he smoked it and had memorized his ritual for lighting up.

One morning she and her friend Günter had stolen the pipe from her father’s study and snuck outside. Lighting up and smoking had not been what she’d expected. Both of them had gotten nauseated from the nasty taste, and they’d never tried again.

She’d bank her anger, wait until her boys received the same lesson.

Tim inhaled, his cheeks puffing out. His eyes rolled, and he choked. Samantha clapped her hand over her mouth to avoid laughing.

Her amusement faded when her son took the pipe. She bit her lip to keep from calling out. He needed to experience his own consequences, but later they’d have to have a talk about his not following the older boys into trouble. She sighed. She doubted it would do much good.

Little Feather leaned over, correcting the angle of the pipe. Daniel sucked on the pipe, his mouth puckering with the effort. He held his breath. Samantha restrained herself from running to him. Then he released the pent-up air in a fit of coughing.

Samantha let out the breath she’d been holding. While she waited for Jack’s turn, she thought through her next moves. Somewhere along the line, she’d lost her anger, realizing that the boys were finally becoming friends—something she’d been wishing for. And their mischief would have its own punishment. The nausea would hit soon. She’d send them all straight to
bed without supper—not that they’d want anything to eat. And they’d hate to be in bed while it was still light out.

Actually, it might be good to have the boys in bed early. Tomorrow Elizabeth Sanders and Pamela Carter and her children would come to tea after church. Samantha had a lot of preparing to do before then. She wanted everything to be perfect.

Jack finished, covering his mouth with one hand to quiet his coughing. By now they should all be a little green about the gills. Time for discovery.

Samantha advanced on them. Jack saw her first and jumped up, with one hand behind his back. The other boys followed, trying to look innocent, but not quite succeeding.

Without a word, she stopped in front of Jack and held out her hand, palm up. His green eyes shifted away from her. She waited. Slowly he brought his arm around, placing the pipe in her palm.

“Whose idea was this?”

Jack looked down at his feet. “Mine, ma’am. Little Feather was tellin’ us about how the braves in his tribe pass around the pipe.”

“I see.” She raised an eyebrow at Little Feather.

The Blackfoot boy nodded in agreement.

“So you thought you’d emulate the braves?”

Jack crinkled his brow. “Immulate?”

“Do like they do—copy their behavior.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Little Feather uncurled his clenched fingers until his wrist cocked his hand upward.

Samantha tried to understand his silent communication. Supplication? Stop the questioning?

His hand raised a few inches. “Peace pipe. Tradition of my people.”

Two sentences. A lengthy conversation for Little Feather.

At least they had a good reason for committing mischief. “Sharing peace sounds like a good idea, boys. However, smoking near a haystack is dangerous. You could have started a fire.”

Jack screwed up his face, discomfort crinkling his eyes.

“How are you feeling now?”

Jack placed a hand on his stomach. “Not too well.”

“I believe you boys will be needing to lie down. I suggest you all go take your baths and go straight to bed.”

Daniel jerked up his head in protest, but the look she sent him froze anything he wanted to say.

Silently, the four started toward the barn. She watched them go, hiding a smile in case one of them looked back. A successful lesson. Would that all of them could be handled so easily.

Who knew what mischief those children would get into next?

Perched on the edge of the worn green velvet wingchair in her parlor, Samantha lifted the white teapot decorated with violets off the engraved silver tray. She poured a tiny stream of fragrant Earl Grey tea into a matching violet-dotted teacup. She assumed Pamela Carter and Elizabeth Sanders, sitting on the sofa to her right, would be watching her performance.

While her hands busied themselves with the tea ritual, Samantha tried to calm her nervousness. Every detail of the afternoon must be perfect. Her mother’s tea service, the plates of cookies and small sandwiches looked enticing enough. And in her black cashmere dress, Samantha presented a respectable appearance.

She so wanted Pamela and Elizabeth to like her. Would they make unfavorable judgments based on the dilapidation of her home? She knew they both came from wealthy Boston backgrounds and were comfortably situated in their marriages.

Surely they would notice how the sunshine streaming through the bare windows revealed peels in the sage-green patterned William Morris wallpaper. Although Samantha attempted to paste back the loose strips, some of the edges had crumbled, leaving crooked, pine-exposed gaps.

At least they couldn’t see the mouse holes in the furniture. Crocheted doilies made by her mother covered the hollow spots in the sofa and chairs, and lent a feminine touch to the table in
front of them. When she’d arrived, she’d given one of the friendlier barn cats the run of the house, and her mice infestation had ended.

“Sugar?” Samantha inquired.

“No, thank you.” Pamela shook her head. A wispy tendril of hair, escaping the neatly coiled brown knot covering her neck, brushed across her cheek. She absently tucked it behind her ear, before accepting the cup and saucer Samantha handed her.

The small gesture evoked a quick nostalgic memory. Samantha’s mother had had the same fine hair, which always slipped from its pins.

Pamela’s kind smile lightened her plain, hook-nosed face. She took a sip before setting the cup and saucer on the table, then settled back on the sofa, fingering the garnet brooch pinned to her coffee-colored velvet shirtwaist.

Samantha glanced up at her guests. “It’s been so long since I’ve done this.”

Pamela’s brown eyes warmed with interest. “Do they not serve tea in Argentina?”

Samantha shook her head. “Not quite.” She poured tea for Elizabeth Sanders, sitting to the other side of Pamela. “Sugar, Mrs. Sanders?”

“Please, and remember, I’ve asked that you call me Elizabeth.” A dimple appeared in her smile. “Although the novelty of being called Mrs. Sanders has not yet worn off.”

Pamela chuckled. “I’m glad I don’t have to call you Mrs. Sanders. After knowing you all my life as Elizabeth Hamilton, I’m glad I can just call you Beth.” She glanced over to Samantha. “Please call me Pamela.”

“Certainly, if you’ll call me Samantha.”

Elizabeth leaned forward. Her blue lace dress matched the color of her eyes. Pearl drops hanging from her ears bobbed with each turn of her head. “Tell us about your country?”

“Oh, Argentina’s not my country, really. I’m American. My father worked for the diplomatic corps. I’ve lived in Germany, Spain, and Argentina. I met my late husband while he was attending school in Buenos Aires. We married after he finished his studies.”

“Did you continue to live in Buenos Aires?”

“In a little town on the outskirts of the city. My husband wanted enough land for his Falabellas.”

“Ah, the famous little horses.”

They all laughed, settling into conversation and sharing stories of their backgrounds. As they spoke, Samantha could feel the friendship bonds weaving between them—delicate as a spiderweb, but strengthening as they chatted. Pamela’s caring personality grew more evident, while to Samantha’s surprise, elegant Elizabeth had a quick sense of humor. Samantha relaxed, feeling confident that all was going well.

Her guests had been kind enough to bring welcoming gifts. Elizabeth Sanders had brought a framed watercolor of a mountain stream, translucent green water rushing over stones, pine trees shadowing the surface. Samantha planned to hang the beautiful picture over the worst cracks in the wallpaper. Pamela Carter’s flower-embroidered pillow already graced the sofa next to her. Touched by the thoughtfulness of the two women, Samantha hoped by the time the visit was over they’d truly be friends.

Then a slight movement out of the corner of her eye caught Samantha’s attention. She stiffened. Oh please,
no.
A quick sideways flick of her gaze verified her suspicion.

A mouse.

Peeking out from a hole in the arm of the sofa to the left of Pamela, the lace edge of a doily capped its head like a veil. That wretched barn cat had obviously let one get away.

Please go back,
she willed the creature. She didn’t dare look at it. The other women might follow her gaze and see it.

The mouse ignored her mental plea, creeping out of the hole and down the leg of the sofa. Samantha strove to look interested in the conversation, but the mouse skittering under the sofa held her attention. The vermin resurfaced, trailing around the hem of Pamela’s dress, which had pooled at her feet. It peered into a fold. Samantha held her breath.

The heat of mortification crept into her cheeks.
Go away.

She held herself rigid, as if the stiffness of her body were a conductor’s baton by which she could direct the mouse. But it was no use, the tiny body wiggled deeper into the fold.