Wed To The Montana Cowboy. Carol Arens
and feeble. I’m sure he needs me.”
“But Montana is so far away! How will you even get there?”
How indeed? She’d spent countless hours lying awake, or playing her violin, thinking it over.
“By paddleboat. It leaves here and goes right to Coulson. That’s not far from my grandfather in Big Timber.”
“What’s not far?”
“Only about eighty miles.” She shrugged and stared down at her violin case.
“Of wilderness!”
“It’s not as though it’s uninhabited.”
“Mama will forbid it.” Melinda tapped her finger to her lips. “Paddleboats are dangerous. It will involve months of travel. Then there’s the Morelands. Demons and that side of your family are one and the same to her.”
“Whether they are or not, that’s something I need to know for myself...before it’s too late.”
She stood up, pressing the violin case to her chest. Looking down at Melinda, she felt her heart thrum against it. Her need of this instrument went as deep as her need for food...deeper than her need for sleep.
The first time she had touched the gift from her grandfather, something shifted inside her. The instrument had belonged to her grandmother. According to Grandfather’s letter, Catherine Moreland had a talent that could only be described as a gift.
By George, she knew this to be true even though she had never met her. There were times when she felt that her late grandmother stood behind her guiding the bow across the strings.
It was a fanciful notion, but not one that she had ever been able to rid herself of...nor did she want to. If a Moreland could possess such an exquisite gift, then just maybe they were not the reprobates that Aunt Eunice painted them to be.
“Melinda, I don’t know who I am. Your mother has tried to make me into one of her own, but I just don’t fit. I’ve got to see if it’s the Moreland in me that made me kick a man in the pants.”
“You know, our Grandmother Lane would have done the same. Maybe it’s her you take after and not a Moreland.”
“I’ll never know that unless I meet my grandfather.”
Melinda sighed and shook her head. “If you’re set on this, you have my blessing. And don’t worry about Screech. I’ll take good care of him.”
“I would not ask that of a saint.” Screech was a green parrot with a pretty yellow-and-blue head. The bird, she had been assured, would outlive most men. Screech had been a point of stress to her aunt for as long as Rebecca had. They had been abandoned by her mother as a pair. “I’d live in constant fear that your mother might serve him up for dinner.”
“That might not be the worst thing ever,” Melinda declared. They laughed together. This was something that Rebecca would miss down to her bones. “We’ll tell Mama first thing in the morning. You can be on your way when the next paddleboat comes through.”
Melinda stood up. Arm in arm they walked slowly back to the house.
“I’m going to miss you dreadfully, cousin,” Rebecca said past the lump in her throat.
Maybe it was beyond foolish to leave the only person who had ever truly loved her. But she’d gone over and over it in her head. This was something she had to do.
“Not if I go with you!” Melinda’s eyes flashed up at her, sparkling blue mischief in the moonlight.
Having her cousin at her side would be wonderful. The temptation to encourage her to do so was strong...but wrong. Melinda was right about Montana being a rugged place teeming with bears, wolves and who knew what other dangers.
“You know you can’t.”
Melinda shrugged. “I might turn up one day, if Mama tries to give me to the butcher in your place. You’ll answer your door one day and there I’ll be, trailed by a wolf pack and half eaten by a bear.”
Climbing the path toward the house she watched the moon dip closer to the horizon and felt the warmth of her petite cousin beside her.
She prayed that she was not making a giant mistake in leaving the familiar for the unknown.
Coulson, Montana, June 1882
Lantree Walker listened to the full-bodied whistle of the River Queen. From where he stood on the boardwalk he watched the riverboat’s twin smokestacks blow sooty smoke into the pristine sky.
A stand of trees grew between him and the dock so he couldn’t see how many passengers were disembarking.
In his opinion, the fewer the better.
Not only did newcomers bring their bags and other possessions, they brought unintended disease. Fevers and plagues rarely announced their arrival.
Even Coulson, a place as wicked as they came, did not deserve to be decimated by disease.
To his bones, he felt Moreland Ranch calling him home, where the air was fresh and the trees tickled the sky.
This was not a town a man wanted to linger in. It had more saloons than legitimate businesses and more brothels than saloons. Wild and rowdy was the rule of the day and more so, the night. This was a town without a single church to redeem the lost souls of its inhabitants.
The sooner he loaded the supplies he had purchased into the wagon and headed back home, the happier he would be.
He figured he ought to pay a visit to the barber before heading out, since his hair hung well past his shoulders. Hell, he hadn’t shaved in days...since before he left the ranch.
What he ought to do was not what he was going to do. He could shave on the trail if his face itched.
A man stumbled across his path. He caught the fellow’s arm to keep him from landing face-first on the boardwalk. Out of long habit he studied red eyes and felt the skin under his fingers for unnatural warmth.
As he’d suspected, the man was merely drunk, so he straightened him and pointed him on his way.
Crowds had not always made him uneasy. In his former life, before fever had decimated Amberville, he hadn’t minded them...he’d even enjoyed the hustle and bustle of town.
Not anymore. Ghosts haunted crowds.
Not the vaporous departed...but there was always the flash of a stranger’s smile that reminded him of a neighbor who had died while Lantree had wiped his brow. Or the high-pitched laugh of a woman sounding like Abigail Steen, who had fought for her last breath while she gripped his hand.
He shook his head, took a long, slow breath of air. He filled his lungs with the fresh, muddy scent of the Yellowstone River.
As soon as he deposited his wages he would load the wagon and be on his way.
It was no accident that the bank was located only a few doors down from Sheriff Johnson’s office. The sheriff was a giant of a man with a mean reputation. A thief, or a drunk, would think twice before robbing the bank.
He strolled past the sheriff’s office with a nonchalant stride, but he was anything but relaxed.
A fresh set of wanted posters decorated the lawman’s front door. He needed to look at them, but he hell and damn did not want to. The closer he got, the harder his heart beat, the more damp his armpits felt.
He slowed his pace and scanned the broadsheets. Relief eased his heart back to its normal rhythm...one more trip to town without seeing his “likeness” staring back at him.
He dreaded the day that he would see his twin brother’s face staring back at him.
In