Mystic Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 6) (18 page)

Caleb shook his head. “I should have known you’d be an expert in that tongue, Mrs. Walker. Probably French and Spanish and Italian, as well. How about German?”

Mrs. Walker laughed. “I don’t do so well with German. I’m far more fluent with the Romance languages.

Hearing them banter about foreign languages made Maggie feel ignorant. Her schooling hadn’t included such study, and she doubted Romany would count. But she did know about bathhouses. There was one in Morgan’s Crossing, containing a ladies’ room with two bathtubs and a gentlemen’s section that held four in one room and another four in a second. Before the Morgan’s party, when everyone in town wanted to avail themselves of the place, she’d traded work for a bath for her and Oswald, helping the proprietor clean out the tubs between the miners’ eager usage.

With a sudden burst of enthusiasm, Maggie realized this opportunity might be the answer to her prayers for employment to support herself and her daughter.
I can take over the bathhouse and run the place!

Maggie almost blurted out the request, but she caught herself.
This isn’t the right time. He’s already angry about the bathhouse.
She glanced at Caleb, immersed in a language discussion with the Walkers.

I need to figure out a business proposition and present my plan when he’s alone, and I think he’ll be most open to hearing it.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

T
he dinner to celebrate Charlotte’s christening was an overwhelming experience for Maggie, and she could only feel grateful for the abbreviated guest list, which still felt like far too many people for her comfort. Although everyone was kind and friendly, she wasn’t used to being the center of attention, especially in such elevated society, and she felt awkward and out of place.

If I can only get through this dinner without embarrassing Caleb and Edith.

Seventeen people, not including Maggie, sat in the dining room around a long table that was bigger than the interior of her
vardo
. Caleb presided at the head and had seated her to his right.

Just being in the dining room impressed her. Aside from the first day when Caleb had carried her upstairs to the bedroom, and today, when he’d carried her downstairs for church, she hadn’t seen much of his house or been in any position to notice more than vague details on her journeys to and fro in his arms.

A snowy damask tablecloth covered the surface of the table, laden with silver place settings and cut-glass goblets. Two silver candelabras flanked a centerpiece of crocuses and greenery in a silver bowl, and saltcellars were placed between every two settings. Maggie had never seen so much silverware, and she wasn’t sure why each person needed three forks of varying sizes and two knives.

The seven children ate in the kitchen, except for two babies sleeping in cradles near their parents. The Camerons had brought their cradle for Craig, and Caleb had carried Charlotte’s down and set it on the floor between them.

Maggie checked on Charlotte. Her daughter still wore the christening gown and bonnet and looked like a sleeping angel. A wave of gratitude surged through her. She glanced at Caleb and saw him gaze at the baby, a tender look on his face. Her throat tightened. To avoid focusing on him, she looked away, deliberately taking note of those around the table who’d come to celebrate Charlotte’s christening.

Sheriff K.C. Granger sat across the table from her. Although Maggie knew the sheriff wore men’s clothes, the sight of the woman in a mannish dark suit aroused Maggie’s curiosity. The sheriff’s dark hair was braided in a long plait down her back, and her watchful gray eyes studied those around her.

Even in Morgan’s Crossing, Maggie had heard of K.C. Granger: After saving a young girl, the sheriff had arrived in town with a dangerous criminal in custody; the competent manner with which she’d handled the recent thieving of the Indians went a long way toward easing hostilities; and anyone who bet against her in a poker game because she was a woman inevitably ended up pushing a pile of chips across the table. The sheriff was also said to donate much of her winnings to the church.

The couple she’d seen on the way to church sat next to Miss Granger. Ant Gordon towered over his petite wife Harriet on the other side of him.

To the left of schoolteacher Mrs. Gordon sat the Salters, who appeared as uncomfortable in the elevated social situation as Maggie did. She’d met Amos Salter in Morgan’s Crossing when he’d worked as a miner before abruptly leaving before Christmas. Their fine apparel—Amos in a suit and Mariah in a rose silk dress—contrasted with their careworn faces and work-roughened hands.

From time to time, Mariah made quiet conversation with Peter Rockwell, who was seated next to her. The pleasant-faced man with the honey-brown eyes was Mariah’s boss at the hotel.

Mary and Reverend Norton were on the other side of the Salters. The couple had become familiar and beloved to Maggie.

From her place at the foot of the table, Edith was the image of the perfect hostess, graciously guiding the conversation, which must have been heavy going, considering she was situated between the silent Salters and Gideon Walker, who seemed content to let his wife Darcy, on his left, do the talking for both of them.

Next on Maggie’s side of the table came the Camerons, and then the Bellaires and Reverend Joshua who sat next to Maggie. The two men were both solicitous of her comfort, helping her to relax, although she kept a sharp eye on everyone’s manners, knowing she’d need to figure out which of her many forks and knives to use.

The conversation lagged as Mrs. Graves and Jed, both wearing their Sunday best, carried in heaping platters until the center of the table disappeared under a feast of food—golden fried chicken, roast beef with all the trimmings, mashed potatoes and gravy, baked sweet potatoes, corn, green beans with pork rinds, glazed carrots, applesauce, sweet and sour pickles, and several types of rolls with butter. Tantalizing smells wafted into the air—no doubt setting stomachs to grumbling.

Jed set a pitcher of water and another of cold tea at each corner of the table. The desserts were arrayed on the sideboard—pies with decorative crusts of leaves and flowers, several towering cakes, custard, a fruit trifle, and a dish of sugarplums from the sweet shop.

The food alone was intimidating. Maggie reflected on the plain fare she’d been able to afford after Oswald had purchased his whiskey—beans, corn, flour, potatoes, eggs, and salt pork.

From where she sat, Maggie had a view of the fireplace on the other side of the room, the coal fire sending warmth around the diners. She couldn’t help but compare the details of this event to her former simple life.

The mantelpiece and surrounding shelves held decorative plates and other do-dads. A painting of a couple, the woman wearing a wide dress over a hoopskirt, hung over the mantle and reminded her of happy memories from her childhood.

As a girl, Maggie had loved playing dress-up with the old-fashioned gowns, stored in a trunk in the attic of her grandparents’ home. One afternoon, her grandmother had taken out a hoopskirt from a trunk and demonstrated how to wear one, strapping the contraption around her waist. Then Grandma had donned her pink silk wedding dress, draping the skirt over the hoop and leaving the back unbuttoned, for she no longer had the tiny waist of a bride.

Even with the material wrinkled in fold lines, the ruffles flat, the fit loose, to Maggie the dress had seemed a magical creation, and she imbued the gown with romantic fantasies. When Maggie grew older and was invited to attend a barn dance, Grandma had altered the pink dress to fit her, gathering the extra material from the full skirt to flow over a bustle.

Wearing the dress that night had made Maggie feel elegant, and many men at the party seemed to agree, for she’d been danced off her feet. She’d enjoyed the attention but at the time had no plans to settle down. That came later, when everyone she loved had passed on, and she was left alone.

Maggie had planned to wear that same dress for her wedding, but Oswald had insisted on buying her a white gown—his last generous act and the one that convinced her to go forward with the marriage, even after she’d begun to doubt the wisdom of her choice.

Oh, no.
Maggie bit her lip, remembering her grandmother’s dress was packed away in the
vardo
. She’d hidden the treasured possession in a cedar-lined storage box underneath the bed to keep Oswald from damaging it. She glanced at Caleb, who was talking with the sheriff.
I need to ask him if there’s a way to obtain my dress.

Realizing she hadn’t been eating or paying attention to the conversation, Maggie took a bite of mashed potatoes, a favorite of hers. While potatoes had been a staple of their diet, she didn’t often have the extra funds for butter and milk. Since coming to Caleb Livingston’s, she’d eaten the food several times, and each time, she savored the way the potatoes melted in her mouth.

Ant Gordon looked down at the woman next to him. “Sheriff, can you tell us about your trip to the reservation?” he asked in a deep, gravelly voice, and then directed a crooked smile Edith’s way. “I won’t go so far as to take out my notebook and pencil at the table to scribble notes for my article.”

His wife chuckled. “No, but he might secretly set his notebook on his knee and write
underneath
the table.”

Everyone laughed before turning their attention to K.C. Granger.

The sheriff’s gray eyes saddened. “As most of you know. . . .” She glanced at Maggie. “I went with Red Charlie to check on the tribe to see how they fared through the winter.” Her jaw tightened.

Everyone waited for her to continue.

“Most made it through. Barely. Still, they lost babes and a few of their elderly.” She grimaced. “But not in the same amounts they would have if we hadn’t driven the cattle out to them and brought along other supplies.”

Ant Gordon leaned forward, his gaze intense, as if filing mental notes. “What about their attitude toward us?”

“Probably ’bout what you’d expect. A combination of grateful and angry.” The sheriff picked up her goblet of tea and drank.

Maggie tilted her head in askance. “Why angry?”

Sheriff Granger set down the glass. “Well. . .if some foreign government and its people had driven you from your ancestral lands, forced you to live within a certain area, hunted one of your main sources of food to almost extinction, promised to take care of you, and then reneged on that promise, wouldn’t you be angry?”

Maggie understood all too well the pain of promises broken when, in all trust, you leaned your life on them. “Betrayed, hurt, incredulous, resentful.” She spoke from bitter experience.

The sheriff gave Maggie an approving look. “There you have it.”

Mrs. Norton set down her fork. “We are lucky Mrs. Muth was acquainted with those braves. Who knows what else might have happened? God was certainly watching over us.”

The sheriff cut some pieces of roast beef. “The wagonload of supplies we brought out to the reservation won’t last long. We’ll need to organize a group to travel there. When I mentioned help with planting food crops, they actually seemed interested.”

Amos Salter cleared his throat. “I’ll go.” With all eyes on him, the color deepened in his ruddy skin. “I know the despair and helplessness of seeing your family starving before your eyes. . . .” He dipped his chin in Caleb’s direction, his blue eyes bleak. “Then through the goodness of God, to have a helping hand extended. . . .”

Moved by the simple passion and gratitude in the man’s tone, Maggie glanced at Caleb, wondering why Mr. Salter aimed his words at the banker, and saw Caleb looking uncomfortable—in a good way. She’d had enough familiarity with him to know, and she wondered what he’d done to help the Salters.

He’s such a generous man.

Mariah Salter patted her husband’s arm with a gentle hand. Tears glistened in her brown eyes, but she gazed at Amos with a luminous expression of love and pride that made her haggard face almost appear beautiful.

Envy stabbed through Maggie. She’d never looked at Oswald that way—had never even considered the importance of picking a man who would make her proud to be his wife.

Mariah squeezed her husband’s arm. “This time, I won’t worry when you’re gone to the Indian camp like when you were in the mine. Well, not worry as much, for you will be in good company.” She leaned forward to direct a shy smile the sheriff’s way.

Amos looked from Mr. Rockwell to Caleb. “I suppose I should check to see if I can be spared.”

Mr. Rockwell sent the man an approving smile. “We’ll miss what you bring in from your hunts, but we can go a few weeks without serving game.”

Caleb nodded in agreement.

Reverend Joshua cocked his wrist and flicked two fingers in a volunteering motion. “I’m not much of a gardener. But I can wield a shovel.”

His father shot him a look of pride. “And the Bible.”

“But
not
at the same time,” Reverend Joshua quipped.

Everyone laughed.

“I’ll be a newlywed, though. . . .” The young minister glanced at Delia. “I have to learn to start thinking like a married man and consult my wife about such decisions.” He glanced at Delia.

His betrothed lifted her chin. “I’m proud of you for offering. In fact, if you’ll allow womenfolk along. . . .” She sent a questioning look toward the sheriff. “Other women, that is. I’d like to go, too.”

In silence, everyone waited for Reverend Joshua’s answer. “Forgive me, my dear. I was so taken aback by your offer, so
moved
by your willingness to help the native people that I needed a moment to gather the words of gratitude.” He quirked an eyebrow at K.C. Granger. “However, I will defer the decision to the sheriff’s greater knowledge of the situation.”

As if tapping a pencil, Ant Gordon drummed on the edge of the table with a long finger. “I think I should come along.”

Caleb blinked in apparent surprise, and then his eyes narrowed, and he frowned. Watching him, Maggie wondered at his reaction.

Mr. Gordon’s right eyebrow peaked in an upside down
V
that matched his wry smile. “Like our good reverend, here, my gardening knowledge is minimal. Thank goodness when Abe McGuire sold me his place, he left behind a well-stocked garden and cultivated land that our hired man can handle.” He glanced at his wife. “But, for the sake of starving natives, we can put my—” he slapped a hand that seemed as big as a dinner plate behind his shoulder “—
back
to use. And I’d also like to write an article, both for our newspaper and to submit to my former editor in New York for a larger audience. Maybe stir some public sympathy, which would in turn put pressure on the politicians.”

Doctor Cameron let out a loud sigh. “I’d be a goin’ with you, for I’m sure there is need for my services,” he said, his Scottish burr strong. “But that would mean a leavin’ the people here without a doctor.” He huffed in apparent exasperation. “If only that young brother of mine would hurry himself to get out here. I’ve been expecting him for over a year. But he wanted some extra experience first. In the slums of London, of all places.”

Sheriff Granger looked at the doctor. “There is need, certainly. But if something happened while you were gone. . . .” She shook her head. “This is one of those times when you wish there were two of you.”

Mrs. Cameron’s glance at her husband was loving. “Or more. I need one to stay home with me and the baby.”