Mystic Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 6) (8 page)

The room, clad in white beadboard, awed her with its toilet, sink and mirror, and snowy cabinets; the small, white octagonal tiles covering the floor; the coiled radiator sending pleasant warmth into the room, and the rose-patterned rug lying in front of the tub. Immersing her stiff and sore body felt like the most wonderful luxury imaginable. If part of her mind didn’t linger with concern on her baby, she’d have gladly soaked until the water cooled and her skin shriveled like a prune.

Maggie couldn’t imagine a life where you could take a hot soak anytime you wanted. In this house, Saturday night baths in the winter wouldn’t be a grit-your-teeth chore where, even though the tub was close to the stove, goose bumps popped out on the body parts facing away from the fire. More than the huge space and the fancy furnishings, this bathtub was the best part of Caleb’s home.

I want a bathing room like this in my house.
The longing surprised her, for to wish for such extravagance was so unlike her.
No,
she scolded.
You want the vardo fixed and livable again.
She touched her earrings, praying that they’d fetch enough to repair her home.

She allowed herself a few minutes to relax and enjoy the warmth seeping into her sore muscles before she reached for the soap. The bar was obviously unused—smooth, white, and perfectly shaped. When she brought the soap to her nose, she inhaled the heavenly scent of roses and some kind of sweet spice.

Edith smells like this.

The woman had shown Maggie how to work the toilet, sink, and bathtub, her disapproval evident from her stiff posture and stilted tone. She’d also brought one of her own nightgowns and dressing gowns for Maggie to wear after her bath—both made of creamy pink flannel with soft lace around the neck and wrists.

Maggie picked up a thick square of terry cloth that matched the towels, with a curly
L
on the front. Although reluctant to deface the surface of the soap, she ducked the bar and the washcloth into the water and scrubbed herself from face to toes. Then she closed her eyes, slid all the way under to wet her hair, soaped the long strands, and ducked under again. She finished by rinsing with clean water from the faucet. Her hand hovered over the drain plug.
Should I leave the water for Caleb?

Then she realized he wouldn’t want to smell like flowers and spice, and the hot water was so plentiful that there was no need to share. With a shake of her head at the realization, she pulled the plug. Fascinated, she watched the water gurgle down the drain.

With her hand on each side of the tub, Maggie stood, muscles protesting the movement, although not as badly as before the soak. Even though she tried to keep her weight on her left foot, the surface was slippery, forcing her to shift for balance. A stab of pain shot through her ankle. She bit her lip to keep from crying out and took some quick breaths until the agony eased.

She twisted her long rope of hair to wring out as much water as possible before grabbing up a thick towel and drying herself. She marveled at how the tiny loops of the material easily absorbed water. When she wrapped the towel around her body, the length enveloped her from the top of her breasts to her calves.

There was no way she could just step out of the tub, so Maggie sat on the edge and shifted her legs over one at a time. Her feet rested on the rug. She paused for a minute, bracing herself to stand. As she pushed up, the rug provided a secure purchase for her feet, and she was able to keep most of her weight on her good leg. But still, the effort hurt.

Maggie hated being in pain, hated that her injured ankle made her dependent on Caleb.
How long before I can walk?
Dr. Cameron had prescribed five days of bed rest for her body to recover from her injuries and childbirth and another five of careful movement and continuing repose. The amount of time seemed endless. She resisted the idea of being beholden.

She donned Edith’s flannel nightgown. The matching quilted dressing gown went on next. Satin ribbons along the bodice tied the front securely. Both garments were too long, the hems pooling on the floor.

Using the towel, Maggie rubbed her hair as dry as possible and then finger-combed out the snarls, wishing she’d brought along her brush. The thought made her heart ache. The loss of a brush was small compared with the destruction of the
vardo
, and Caleb had promised to send Jed to pack up the remainder of her possessions.

I’ll have to borrow Caleb’s comb again.
She sighed, wishing for the wayfarer’s cabin where it had seemed simple to share their scarce food and possessions. Already she missed the privacy and intimacy. . . .

With one hand, Maggie gathered up the extra material of her garments, and with the other, she gripped the edge of the sink to brace herself. She hopped to the door and cracked it open, hoping to see Caleb and avoid Edith.
The less I have to deal with that woman, the better.

Through the opening in the doorway, she spotted Caleb holding Charlotte. He stood in front of his sister, and she could see his face.

Edith shifted to the side, giving Maggie a clear view of her expression.

The woman possessed the same striking good looks as her brother, characterized by large, dark eyes and patrician features. Her skin was fine and pale, with only a few lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth, now turned down in disapproval.

Edith narrowed her eyes at her brother in obvious suspicion. “Is Mrs. Baxter a
new
acquaintance? You didn’t know her before?”

Caleb apparently caught her drift. Obvious anger made his eyes narrow. His icy gaze sent a chill down Maggie’s spine.

“You malign Mrs. Baxter’s character, Edith,” Caleb said coldly. “And mine.”

Maggie didn’t know whether she should confront the woman, grab her baby, and leave, or step back and shut the door, pretending she hadn’t heard this conversation.

Caleb gazed down at the baby. “It is impossible to explain, even to myself. Charlotte is not my daughter by blood, but my feelings for this child are familial, indeed.”

With a bittersweet feeling of sadness, Maggie wished Charlotte had a father who loved her in the way this man did.

Edith fisted her hands on her hips. “What has come over you?” she snapped. “You never held Ben when he was a baby.”

“That was sixteen years ago, Edith. Allow me to have acquired some life experience since then.” He dropped a kiss on Charlotte’s forehead. “I wish I had held Ben when he was a baby. I didn’t know what I was missing.”

“I think that woman—” Edith’s voice trembled “—has bewitched you.”

“Perhaps she has. Or her daughter is magic. Or both.”

Was that amusement in his tone?

“But I’ll tell you this. I saved Charlotte’s life, but somehow. . . .” Here, he paused, his voice dropping low. “Edith, somehow she has changed mine.”

Edith opened her mouth, as if to scoff. She frowned and glanced at the baby.

Thinking what?
Maggie wondered. It was true her baby had marked him. She had glimpsed genuine warmth when Caleb held or even
looked
at Charlotte.

Caleb gave his sister a beseeching look. “Can I call upon you to support Mrs. Baxter during her convalescence?”

“For the convalescence, certainly. But, you can’t allow an unknown lower-class woman and baby to stay here for longer.”

“Would it have made a difference if she were fashionably dressed, Edith? You were quite eager to accept the Bellaires.”

“Yes, and look what came of that.” Edith’s words dripped disdain.

“This is my house.” Caleb obviously strove to keep his tone reasonable. “I will do whatever I wish.”

“Now you’re being autocratic. Being selfish, foisting strangers upon me. You have no idea who this woman is, and what she will demand of us?”

“I do have an idea of who she is, and I think if you give her a chance, you will like her.”

The woman pressed her lips together in a stubborn line.

“Have you no compassion, Edith? No Christian charity?”

“Of course I do. Did we not have Andre Bellaire and his daughter staying with us for months? I’ve learned not to be so trusting of strangers, taking them into your home so they can betray you.”

Maggie couldn’t help a sudden sharp intake of breath.

Both of them turned in her direction.

Edith’s eyes narrowed in censure. “Mrs. Baxter, you are in
dishabille
. That is not appropriate before my brother.”

Maggie didn’t know what
dishabille
meant, but the woman’s condemning up-and-down glance at the dressing gown was enough of an answer.

“Edith!” Caleb reprimanded. “Mrs. Baxter is our
guest
. She has been through a horribly painful experience. My seeing Mrs. Baxter in a dressing gown will do no harm. Especially if you don’t go squawking the news all over town.”

“Do not accuse me of gossip, brother,” Edith snapped, matching Caleb’s tone. “I have no idea of Mrs. Baxter’s circumstances, and I’m giving her a hint about what is and isn’t done.”

“More than a hint—a harangue.”

A wave of fatigue washed over Maggie, and she drooped.
Oh, for my dear vardo. I could crawl into bed with Charlotte and close out the world.
Suddenly the guest room seemed too far away to hobble to with her lame ankle.

“Hold the baby.” Caleb thrust Charlotte at his sister.

Eyebrows high, Edith took the infant.

Maggie was relieved to see the woman didn’t immediately drop her daughter on the floor, and she supported the baby’s head.
Well, Edith should know what to do, for she’s a mother.

Caleb took swift strides to Maggie’s side and scooped her into his arms. “We have the guest room ready for you, and I brought Ben’s cradle down from the attic for Charlotte. Do you think she’ll mind blue bedding?”

“How kind you are,” Maggie murmured in a low voice so Edith couldn’t hear. In the
vardo
, Charlotte would have slept with her for there wasn’t room for a cradle. Suddenly tired, she wished she could lay her head on his shoulder like she had a few times before when in his arms.
We can no longer indulge in such intimacies.
The thought made her heart pang, but she refused to question why.

Caleb carried her into the bedroom, dominated by a spindle four-poster bed. A puffy blue satin cover was pulled back to expose crisp white sheets.

She looked around. Blue velvet curtains were drawn back from a window to let in light. A cradle sat next to a blue velvet wing chair. A washstand ensured she wouldn’t have to use the bathing room to keep her hands and face clean. Her single dress would be lost in the big wardrobe, and the bureau was another unnecessary piece of furniture, for she had nothing to put inside. A small table held what looked like a game.

Edith entered with Charlotte.

Maggie glanced at her, expecting to see the woman frowning at being forced to carry the baby.

But as Edith bent over the cradle to lay down the child, her pinched expression softened, and a hint of a smile lingered about her mouth.

My Charlotte works her magic.
Feeling better, Maggie allowed herself to recline. Plump goose down pillows cushioned her sore back and shoulders.
Ahhh.

Without a word, Edith left the room. Her lips, once again, pressed thin.

The woman needs to hold Charlotte for several hours, so the baby’s goodness can seep into her heart.
Maggie shifted so more of her weight rested on her uninjured hip.

Not that I can spare my baby for so long. My darling is still too new and precious to give her to someone else for more than a few minutes.

Caleb came in and tucked the featherbed around her. “Are you comfortable?”

“Very.”

“I’ll be up with a tray and some ice for your ankle.”

Although she was hungry, Maggie grimaced. “I’m sorry you have to wait on me.”

Caleb’s eyebrows drew together. “We won’t go over that argument again,” he said in a stern tone.

“Why not?” she asked, unable to resist teasing him. “I’ll keep winning.”

He shook his head. “You’re a guest in my house. I
have
to let you win.”

“Oh.” Maggie chortled. “And what was your excuse when I wasn’t a guest in your house?” Laughter bubbled within her. She couldn’t remember ever having this sense of playfulness with a man. The feeling was rather intoxicating.
Am I flirting with him?
She’d never behaved in such a way before, but she’d witnessed other women flirting with handsome men.

“I think being in the midst of childbirth makes you a winner in any dispute.”

“I should have thought ahead, then, and had all our future arguments at once.”

“Oh, no! That was enough of a nightmare experience without you making it any worse.” Caleb chuckled.

The sound swelled her heart. Caleb always seemed so serious. Making him laugh gave her an odd sense of feminine power. “A little disagreement is good for the soul,” Maggie said in a smug tone.

“Says what philosopher?”

She made her smile mischievous. “The one whose name starts with M.”

“Only you, Magdalena Petra. No one else dares cross me.”

Maggie wrinkled her nose. “It’s not good for
anyone
—especially a grown man—to always get his way.” She tilted her chin as if in hauteur. “He becomes too self-important.”

Caleb’s smile died away.

Oh, dear. Did I just hurt his feelings?

A knock sounded on the doorframe. The stableman stuck his head into the room. “Ah, sir. . . .”

“I’ll be right back,” Caleb told Maggie. He walked out the door, partially closing it behind him. “What is it, Jed?”

“I went to the parsonage like you wanted, Mr. Livingston. The elder Reverend Norton wasn’t there.”

“Did you leave a message for him to call on Mrs. Baxter?”

Although Maggie tried not to eavesdrop, the rumble of the men’s low voices was loud enough to hear.

“Ah, no, sir. Reverend Joshua was there with his ma. Mrs. Norton kindly invited me in and asked me what I needed.”