Mystic Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 6) (5 page)

Her mouth full, she could only wrinkle her nose before she finished her bite. “Oh, I hope not.”

Caleb couldn’t imagine why. He shot her a puzzled look.

She rubbed her cheek. “Because they make me look different.”

“You are a lovely woman, Magdalena Petra. Your looks are more out of the ordinary than most women around here—not that we don’t have some attractive ladies in our town. I think that only makes you more interesting.” He thought of Delia Bellaire. “Reverend Joshua’s betrothed also possesses exotic beauty, so you won’t be the only peacock among the chickens and swans of Sweetwater Springs. The Bellaires are to return to town today. They’ve been staying at a hotel in Crenshaw.”

“Reverend Joshua has spoken of her. His face always lights up when he does so. I know the Morgans and some others from Morgan’s Crossing plan to attend the wedding.”

Caleb tried not to think of his ambivalent feelings toward the Bellaires, who hadn’t been honest with him about Delia’s illegitimacy and Negro blood, although the wedding was good business for his hotel. . . .

He held the baby in front of him and focused on her, making a playful face. “Charlotte will be lucky if she’s blessed with her mother’s looks. Right, sweetheart? Although perhaps I shouldn’t say so, I wouldn’t want you to have your head turned by all my compliments.”

Maggie chuckled. “Well, I guess a few are all right.”

“Glad I can get away with some.” Seeing she’d finished eating, he gave Charlotte one last look. “Ready to return to Mama?” he asked the baby.

Maggie set her plate and silverware on the ground and held out her hands.

Carefully, Caleb deposited Charlotte in her arms. “You two rest for a while.”

“We will. But you need to eat.”

He grinned at her bossy tone. “Yes, ma’am.” Caleb saluted and sauntered over to the fire to dish up the corned beef hash and peas. He spooned out the food, poured some water into a cup from the pack he’d brought with him, added a slab of bread and cheese, and returned to her. But he saw she’d fallen asleep, and the baby with her. Keeping an eye on mother and child, he gobbled down the meal, aware Oswald needed a burial—as rotten a chore as he’d ever undertaken.

Only when he’d finished eating and set the bowl on his lap did Caleb realize he still wore the apron. With a wry shake of his head, he took off the garment and folded it. He sat for a bit, weary, but with a deep sense of peace.

Charlotte made a sound.

“Do you think she’s hungry already?”

“We’ll see.” Murmuring soft endearments, Maggie unbuttoned the slit in the bodice of her nightgown and brought the baby to her breast.

Honoring the mother-baby moment, he glanced away, but the image lingered as beautiful and awe-inspiring as a medieval painting of the Madonna and the Christ-child painted by one of the masters.

“Caleb,” Maggie chided. “After all we’ve been through, I think we can cast modesty to the winds.”

With a feeling that he might be casting more than modesty to the winds, Caleb Livingston, staid banker that he was, brought his gaze back to mother and child and looked his fill.

Maggie hurt all over, and yet she’d never felt happier, or more content. Lying on the bedding, which Caleb had changed, with her head and shoulders propped on pillows, Charlotte in her arms, she watched the man move around the campsite. He’d cleaned her up and soaked the soiled clothes in the washtub. He built up the fire and taken care of both teams of horses. He’d followed her directions and found the Mason jar with liniment under the bed—luckily unbroken—and rubbed the ointment on Pet’s strained leg.

He unloaded the
vardo
, setting her scanty possessions in piles, and brought a bedroll from his surrey and spread it out a few feet from Maggie’s. Then he’d taken Oswald’s shovel and the basin with the afterbirth and disappeared.

Without Caleb saying so, she knew he’d gone to bury her husband.

For the first time, Maggie thought of Oswald with a pang of grief, not so much for missing him, but for what he was missing—their sweet baby. She remembered how he’d appeared during their courtship—handsome and strong, offering a shoulder to lean on when she was grieving the death of her grandmother, her last living relative. He’d swept her into a marriage while she’d been vulnerable and without giving her time to form an opinion of his character.

No, I did that to myself. I could have put my foot down, not let my fears of being alone sway me into thinking I was in love.

What a foolish girl I was!

The baby stirred in her arms.

Maggie glanced down at her daughter, swaddled in faded plaid flannel. She’d cut down an old shirt of Oswald’s to make the small blanket. Love swelled her heart until she thought her chest couldn’t contain the emotion. “But then I wouldn’t have you, my darling Charlotte,” she murmured to her daughter. “I’d go through everything twice over to have you.” Exhausted, she laid her head down on the pillow and drifted off.

A squeaky wail startled her awake. Dusk had fallen, casting a purple-gray haze over their surroundings. The flannel cloth wrapping the baby was wet.
I need to change her.
Maggie struggled to sit up, gasping as her abused muscles protested.

“Let me.” Suddenly Caleb was at her side, supporting her back.

“Charlotte needs a diaper and a soaker. We didn’t put one of those on her before.”

“Don’t move.” He ordered. “I’ll take care of everything.”

Maggie smiled at his tone, doubting he’d ever changed a baby.
Well, I haven’t, either.
She’d had no younger siblings, only some older cousins.
But Caleb did well enough earlier when he put on Charlotte’s first diaper.
She pointed to the pile. “We’ll first pin one of the diapers on her. Then come the soakers—the knitted pants—over it.” All the soakers she’d knitted were stacked together. “Find the tiniest pair.”

He rummaged through the pile, and then held up a miniscule multicolored one for her to approve.

Maggie had knitted the soakers from leftover pieces of yarn, careful to keep the knots on the outside so they wouldn’t rub against the baby’s tender skin. Embarrassed, she realized the little panties conveyed the poverty she’d lived in, the shifts she’d made to economize when Oswald drank up too much of his wages.
Maybe Caleb won’t notice how rag-tag they appear. He’s probably never seen soakers before. For all he knows, that’s how they’re supposed to look.
She almost snorted at her own wishful thinking.

Caleb’s brows pulled together in a frown. “We need to clean her.”

“There’s a bottle of oil in the basket.”

Caleb glanced at the sky, and his mouth firmed. He looked down at her. “We’ll be camping here tonight. I don’t like it, but we don’t have a choice. I don’t want to move you, and that horse of yours needs to recover more. At least the sky is clear and, hopefully, will stay that way. I’ll keep the fire going and stand watch.”

“Is that necessary?”

“Birth and death happened here, Maggie. Both involved blood, which will attract animals. I dragged Oswald’s body some distance, but I didn’t want to be away from you two for long, so I only dug a shallow grave.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“When we return home, I’ll have Oswald’s remains dug up and transported to Sweetwater Springs.”

Even if she’d loved Oswald and wanted him nearby, buried with all the trappings of a funeral, she wouldn’t wish on anyone the job of digging up a body that was several days old. “No. I want him left here.”

He looked taken aback. “Are you sure?”

The question fired her up. “I’ll not pretend to be a grieving wife—tending Oswald’s gravesite, leaving flowers. No,” Maggie said sharply, knowing she was going against convention, and Caleb struck her as a very conventional man. “I don’t want Charlotte to visit his grave, either, thinking she can talk to her father. I’d rather she not think about the man who sired her.”

“That’s not something a child forgets, Maggie,” he said in a patient tone. “Charlotte will know she had a father. She’ll ask questions. What will you tell her?”

“I don’t know.” Maggie looked away. “But I have plenty of years to figure it out.”

Caleb sighed. “All right. I’ll honor your wishes.” Suddenly looking weary, he rubbed his forehead. “Truth be told, I understand your stance.”

The fight went out of her. “Thank you.” Maggie glanced at the fire, at the dead wood he’d dragged nearby to dry, and decided to change the subject. “Why don’t you build a second fire, and we can sleep between them? You can’t stay awake all night.”

“I’ll do whatever I need to guard you and Charlotte.”

His protectiveness made a thrill shoot through her. But still, Maggie couldn’t allow herself to lean on this man, whom she’d known only for a few hours—no matter what they’d gone through together or how close she felt to him. “We can take turns keeping watch. There’s a rifle in the
vardo
, under the seat.”

“I have one, too.”

“Good. We’ll both be prepared. I’ll have you know I’m a crack shot.”

He gave her a smile of admiration. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

At his words, a glow spread through her. “Oswald didn’t appreciate how I could out-shoot him.”

Caleb threw back his head and laughed. “I don’t doubt it. Any other time, I wouldn’t appreciate it, either. Not that I’m much of a shot with the rifle anyway. I’m a banker, remember? I’ve no need or interest in hunting. But the Colt is a different matter.” He patted his hip where the pistol would rest if he were still wearing his gun belt. “You can’t live in a Western frontier town, be responsible for a great deal of money, and not know how to use a gun.”

Maggie sensed he wasn’t a man given to unrestrained laughter, and the fact that he’d done so over her ability to shoot—a topic that had infuriated Oswald—made her feel a warm connection with him.

Caleb patted her shoulder. “After your ordeal, you’ll need your sleep.” He raised a hand to still the protest she was about to make. “I’ll build a second fire as you suggested. You can keep your rifle next to you. I’ll wake you if there’s a reason.”

She smiled at him. “Thank you for everything.”

He gazed at her with an intense look in his eyes. “Sleep, Maggie. I promise, I’ll keep you both safe.”

Maggie allowed herself to relax. But even as she drifted into slumber, she told herself not to become too dependent on Caleb Livingston’s protection.

CHAPTER FOUR

D
espite lying between two campfires, Caleb slept fitfully, a hand near his rifle. Even in his sleep, he was conscious of an instinctive need to guard the woman and child entrusted by the Almighty to his care.

During the night, Charlotte had awoken several times, letting out a hungry cry, which startled him awake. Maggie awkwardly changed Charlotte’s diaper, her movements indicating the pain and stiffness of her body.

In the glow of the fire, he watched Maggie nurse the baby, conscious of the rare opportunity for an unmarried man to gaze his fill at the age-old maternal act of a woman giving sustenance from her body. He wondered if all fathers felt the same awe at the sight. Then he marveled that he felt like a father to the child.

Once in the predawn dark, they’d left the baby bundled up on the bed, while he carried Maggie to use the privy. Afterward, she snuggled with her daughter, and both dropped back to sleep.

Each time, he lingered in wakefulness, watching the flickering firelight play over her features until sheer exhaustion carried him under. But even then, nightmares disturbed his sleep—replaying the events of the day, increasing all his helplessness and guilt.

Something startled him awake. Heart thumping, Caleb grabbed his Winchester and surged to his feet, raising the rifle. With a swift glance to make sure Maggie and Charlotte slept, he surveyed his surroundings.

Gray dawn light filtered through the trees. He strained to hear any sound, but the blood beating in his ears muffled his hearing. Slowly he pivoted, not seeing or sensing any danger. For the first time, Caleb regretted not spending time learning woodsman skills.

A bird chirped in a nearby tree, breaking the stillness of the early morning.
Surely the bird would be silent if danger threatened.
He lowered the rifle, realizing his arms, shoulders, and back ached from carrying Maggie around, as well as the other unaccustomed labor he’d done the previous day.

This time Caleb took a longer look at the sleeping woman. When his gaze dropped to Charlotte, he was surprised to see the baby’s eyes were open. He moved closer and crouched to gently brush the back of his finger across her cheek. He’d never felt anything so soft.

Her lips moving, Charlotte turned her face toward his finger.

Obeying a mad impulse, he slid his hands under the infant’s head and bottom, scooping her from her mother’s arms, making sure to bundle the blanket around her. He brought the baby to his chest, marveling at how tiny she was, and tucked his coat around her to shield her from the chill breeze.

She made a cooing noise.

Fearing the baby might wake Maggie when she needed healing sleep, Caleb carried Charlotte with him, climbing up the hill to the road, careful of his footing in the dim light. He walked toward his surrey, the wind at his back, from time-to-time glancing down at the baby to see how she fared.

Charlotte didn’t seem to mind being taken away from her mother, for she stared at him with wide eyes.

When he reached the surrey, Caleb climbed into the seat and settled the baby on his lap. The air was warmer inside, for the back of the surrey blocked the breeze. “Yesterday, you didn’t exist in the world, little one, except as a dream of your mother’s,” he told her in a low intimate tone.

Her blue eyes tracked the sound of his voice. She turned her head.

It seemed to him that Charlotte already displayed character and personality.
She’s her own little person. What had I expected? Probably something more larvalike.
The thought made him laugh.

Caleb continued the conversation that didn’t feel at all one-sided. “If all had gone as planned yesterday, by now, I’d be in Morgan’s Crossing. I would have passed your family’s wagon—barely giving your parents a nod and wondering about the outlandishness of a Gypsy caravan in the wilderness of Montana—before they traveled out of sight. Even if they’d settled in Sweetwater Springs, I might never have met your parents—that is, not to actually converse with. By your mama’s account, your father wasn’t a man I’d care to be around. I might have seen them in church or done business with them at the bank. But probably, they would never have had enough money to use the bank.”

Caleb fell silent, marveling at all that had taken place in the last twenty-four hours.
That saying—that life can turn on a five-cent piece has just happened to me. To Maggie and Charlotte, as well.

A tiny hand thrust out from the blanket.

Caleb started to fold the baby’s arm back inside the warmth of the blanket, but Charlotte grasped his finger. He paused, marveling at the strength in her grip, and studied the tiny fingers and delicate shell fingernails. Lowering his head, he kissed her hand before tucking it back inside the blanket.

I’m transformed.
Caleb wasn’t sure in what way—just that he was different because of this precious child in his arms. Nor did he quite know what that meant for the future.

Charlotte’s not yours
.
Don’t become attached.

Too late.
He became conscious of a sense of elation, of a wave of intense emotion washing over him, deepening his bond with this child.
Love?
Tears sheened his eyes. Could a father feel more intensely for his daughter than what Caleb felt for Charlotte? He couldn’t imagine loving his own baby more.
Charlotte feels like she belongs to me.

He gazed over the valley in front of him, framed by distant peaks. Pink and orange streaked across the blue-gray dawn sky, washed with shades of purple. Mauve clouds with jagged edges floated over the low golden light of the rising sun.

“῾I will lift up mine eyes to the hills, from whence cometh my help.’” Caleb quoted the psalm, realizing with a mystical sense of gratitude that the Lord had, indeed, answered his frantic prayers for the safety of mother and child. “Thank you,” he said to the heavens. He usually confined his praying to church services, but now he could understand why the ancient prophets and Jesus had traveled into the wilderness to commune with God.
There is something about the vast celestial beauty that seems to reflect the presence of the Divine.

He glanced down at Charlotte. “If David had lived in Montana instead of Israel, he would have written, I will lift up mine eyes to the skies.”

The baby moved her head to the side, and her mouth fastened on his wrist, as if searching for a nipple. “You must be getting hungry, little one.”

Although reluctant to leave the peacefulness of this spot, the last thing Caleb wanted was for a hungry baby to start squalling and wake up Maggie, who’d probably be frantic when she couldn’t see her child nor move to find them. She’d probably never again trust him with the baby. “We’d best be getting you back to your mama,” he told Charlotte. “We have quite a day ahead of us. You’re about to experience your first drive.”

Caleb climbed out of the surrey and walked back the way he’d come, glad to see Maggie still sleeping.

She lay curled on her side, one hand tucked under her chin.

He hated to wake her, but with Charlotte starting to squirm, he didn’t have much choice. The baby needed her mama. Best give Maggie a gentle nudge instead of being startled awake by Charlotte crying.

Caleb crouched next to her, the baby in his arms. He called her name softly to pull Maggie out of her exhausted slumber.

She blinked open sleepy eyes that took several seconds to focus. “Oh! I was having a nightmare.” She tried to sit up and stopped, wincing.

He held a hand to stop her. “Just lay back. I’ll give you Charlotte so you can nurse her. While you do so, I’ll see to the horses and make breakfast.” He grimaced. “We finished the last of the bread and cheese last night. I’ll see whatever cans are in my emergency supplies.”

“I have cornmeal. You can boil it for mush. Just stir it well to avoid the lumps. There’s some molasses left for a sweetener.”

His frown deepened.

Maggie chuckled. “Not used to cornmeal mush for breakfast, eh?” She took her daughter from him. “Good morning, sweetness.” She rained gentle kisses over the baby’s face, before moving to hitch up her nightgown.

Caleb turned and headed toward the horses. First he stopped to check on the injured gelding, Maggie had called Pete. When he ran his palm down the animal’s leg, he could still feel some heat and swelling, but not nearly as bad as yesterday.
That liniment must be very effective.
He wondered if it would work for people. If so, Maggie could use the ointment on herself.

An image of rubbing the liniment on her body flashed in his mind, making him uncomfortable with his sexual thoughts. After last night, he’d been as intimate with her as a man could be with a woman without having physical relations.
Do I still have that role with Maggie—doctor/midwife? Do I continue to help her in ways that are improper but necessary for her comfort?

As he went about the business of taking care of the horses, watering them and dispensing the last of the grain, and then fixed breakfast, Caleb pondered the puzzle of his relationship with Maggie Baxter. While he doubted even the severest critics would impugn her reputation for being alone with him—not given all that had happened—he wondered if he now was responsible for her and Charlotte in the eyes of society. His heart stuttered at the thought, and he wasn’t sure if the reaction was from fear or excitement.

He’d wanted a wife.
Had the accident been God’s way of giving me one—and a daughter, as well?
Goose bumps shivered down his arms. Maggie certainly didn’t fit the characteristics he’d wanted in a wife.
For heaven’s sake, a woman who appeared to have a Gypsy heritage? How can I even consider marrying her?

But Caleb knew he liked Maggie and admired her courage. They now shared a bond.
Is that enough for a marriage, especially considering our differences? Would I come to regret marrying her?

With a wooden spoon, he stirred the cornmeal mush in the pot, as if shaking the thoughts out of his head.
Now’s not the time to figure out my obligations to Maggie Baxter.

Wishing he had more appetizing food than cornmeal mush and jerky, he brought a bowl over to Maggie where she sat with her back to the tree, a pillow cushioning her spine, holding the sleeping baby. He crouched at her level and held out the bowl. “Trade you food for a small girl child.”

She eyed the bowl. “I think you’ll have to raise the stakes.”

“I’ll give you a voucher, valid tomorrow. I’ll even throw in dessert.”

“Apple pie?” Maggie’s eyes lit up. She playfully licked her lips, going along with their joking.

That flick of her tongue made Caleb notice how kissable her wide mouth was.
Don’t even think such thoughts
.
A new widow, a new mother. . . .
He set the bowl on the ground and took Charlotte from her. “Eat,” he ordered, perhaps more sternly than necessary. “You need to keep up your strength.”

She wrinkled her nose. “As you command.” She picked up the bowl.

“I do.” Caleb settled into a cross-legged sitting position with the baby on his lap. He extended a finger to Charlotte, who grabbed it. “I wish I had more to offer you. My housekeeper only packed enough food for the journey to Morgan’s Crossing.”

Maggie gave him a rueful smile. “Oswald quarreled with Michael Morgan, who fired him and ordered us to leave town. Oswald refused to allow me to shop for supplies before we left, even though Mr. Morgan had given him his final wages. “Well,” she said, shrugging, “at least he didn’t have time to drink them away at the saloon.”

Caleb frowned. The more he heard about Oswald Baxter, the less he regretted the man’s death. “That reminds me. I emptied your husband’s pockets before I buried him. I have his handkerchief, watch, and money.”

Her eyes shot wide in a look of horror. “I didn’t even think of that. By the time I remembered, it would have been too late.”

“Stop, Maggie,” Caleb chided. “That didn’t happen. There’s no need to be so hard on yourself, especially given all you’ve been through.” He jiggled the baby a bit, making a funny face at her. “Right, Charlotte?” he said in a fatuous tone. “You agree with me? Your mother should rest easy.”

Her expression eased. “I guess you’re right. I do have an active imagination.”

He gestured for her to continue eating. “As much as I wish we could reach Sweetwater Springs today, neither you nor your gelding can travel that distance. But I don’t want us camping in the open, either. There’s a small way station about an hour from here, longer, of course, at the snail’s pace we’ll need to travel. But we’ll be safe indoors and can sleep in peace. The extra day will give you and your horse more time to heal.”

Maggie glanced at the caravan, her expression showing an obvious sense of reluctance. “My grandparents built that
vardo
when they came to America. We had more family back then. My great-uncle also built one—a more traditional
vardo
, a light blue color. The two families traveled together for many years.” She paused, seeming lost in memories of the past.

“Where did your family come from?”

Maggie opened her mouth to tell him, then stopped.

He glanced at the
vardo
. “Do you think to surprise me? It’s obvious there’s Gypsy blood in you somewhere. I’d heard of Gypsies living in America in the East and in the South, but not in Montana.”

“My mother fell in love with a
gajo
—an outsider, which is rare and forbidden. Mama quarreled with her family and ended up running away and marrying my father. Her parents were tinkers and traveled around a circuit of towns. My father died when I was seven, and Mama and I returned to her family. My great-uncle had never forgiven her for marrying a
gajo
, but Mama was an only child, so my grandparents took her back. There was a great quarrel over that decision, and the families split, each choosing separate directions. My great-uncle’s family headed toward Texas, and we lost touch.”