Debra Holland

STORMY MONTANA SKY

BOOK THREE

OF THE MONTANA SKY SERIES

By Debra Holland

Copyright © 2012 by Debra Holland

Amazon Kindle Edition

All rights reserved by the author. The reproduction or other use of any part of this publication without the prior written consent of the rights holder is an infringement of the copyright law.

Prologue

SWEETWATER SPRINGS, MONTANA, 1893

Through the sheen of tears blurring her vision, Harriet Stanton watched the man she loved marry another woman. The amber rays of the late October sun gleamed through the plain glass windows of the church, gilding the pearl-studded lace veil covering Elizabeth Hamilton’s blond hair. The light glistened over the lace and silk of her wedding dress, glittered the diamonds dangling from her ears and around her throat, and played over the bouquet of white roses and autumn leaves she carried. But even the sunshine couldn’t best the radiant look on the Boston beauty’s face as she gazed at her adoring bridegroom, Nick Sanders.

The moisture in Harriet’s eyes beaded up, threatening to spill over. Pain squeezed her heart into a tight little ball. She lifted her chin to keep the betraying drops contained and clenched her fists until her nails dug crescents into her palms. No one must guess her secret pain. She wanted no pitying glances, no gossip to trail after her like a train of dust, smudging shame across her life.
 

Reverend Norton, in his rusty-black frock coat, stood in front of the couple and intoned the words of the marriage service. The minister’s blue eyes beamed with obvious approval for the couple before him, softening the usual austerity of his white-bearded face.

Nick faced Elizabeth, hand-in-hand in front of an altar draped in white linen. His brown hair waved to the shoulders of the new navy-blue suit that had come from an expensive men’s emporium in the East—a present from his bride. Even in profile, his obvious joy shone in his green eyes, and he smiled at Elizabeth without a trace of his usual shyness. Harriet had never seen him look so handsome...or so proud.

To Harriet’s mortification, one tear welled out of her control, racing down her cheek. She made a furtive dab at her face with a lace-edged handkerchief, refusing to allow another to fall. Hopefully, anyone who noticed attributed the emotion to normal wedding sentimentality. Pride alone stiffened Harriet’s back, kept the rest of the tears restrained, for if anyone here knew the heaviness of her heart, she would sink with embarrassment.

Beside her in the pew, the shopkeeper, Mrs. Cobb, nudged Harriet with one thick elbow. “Sinful waste of money, that dress. Ordered from Paris. Worth, a Frenchie designer.” The woman sniffed, and the stuffed finch perched on her black bonnet bobbed forward. “Could have bought a dress from our mercantile. But no. The likes of us wasn’t good enough for Miss Elizabeth Hamilton.”

Harriet nodded that she’d heard. Luckily Mrs. Cobb didn’t expect an answer. Nor did she seem to notice Harriet’s pain. Even though Harriet boarded with the Cobbs, she wasn’t close to the couple. For them to know of her feelings for Nick would be like scrubbing sand over an open wound.

She fingered the circle of gold leaves pinned to a froth of lace at the neck of her gray cashmere dress, twisting it back and forth. Her mother’s brooch was usually a source of comfort. But not today.

Will this ceremony ever end?

Reverend Norton leaned forward, his white beard wagging. “Do you, Nicholas John Sanders, take...”

Harriet tried not to listen to the words that would rob her of her love.
 

Nick, my Nick.
 

She closed her eyes, clenching her teeth against the lie.
In truth, never mine.
Only in her heart had Nick belonged to her. She’d fallen in love with him when she’d first come to teach in Sweetwater Springs. In reality he’d never given her any encouragement. But Nick Sanders’ shyness with women was legendary around town.
 

Some of their moments together had given her hope. She still treasured the time when she’d carried a load of books too big for her and some had fallen off the pile in her arms and landed on the dirt street. Nick had been riding by and had jumped off his horse, rapidly tethered the reins to a rail, and then had scooped up the fallen books. He brushed them off and insisted on taking the rest of the books to the schoolhouse for her. They’d actually had a conversation that day, finding they had favorite books in common.

From encounters like that, Harriet had spun dreams of Nick’s green eyes glowing with love, that shy smile being directed at her. Creating a life together. Having a home. Babies.

She opened her eyes, looking anywhere but at the front of the church. Around her she could see only happy faces. The work-worn hands of husbands and wives slipped together in a shared renewal of memories. Rancher John Carter’s thin face beamed with pride in the young man he’d brought up, while his wife, Pamela, grew misty-eyed watching her girlhood friend. Dr. Cameron and his wife, easily distinguished by their red hair, exchanged a reminiscing glance. Only old Abe Maguire, his craggy face turned to stone, sat with his arms crossed in front of him. He’d buried his wife three weeks ago. Like Harriet, he grieved his loss in silence, but only Harriet mourned in secret.

Until today she’d allowed herself to hope. She’d struggled, one part of her truly wishing Nick well—wishing him marital bliss—while the other wickedly hoped the engagement would end. She’d tried to banish that thought whenever it appeared, but the idea had kept burrowing through her mind like a gopher through a bed of bulbs.

Sometimes it helped that Harriet liked Elizabeth and, under other circumstances, would have wanted her friendship. At least Nick had chosen well, no, more than well. Each time she saw how the love flowed between the couple, she wished to rejoice in their happiness instead of ache from it.

Now the ache increased, expanding from her stomach into her throat until she could barely curb all the emotion in her body. She tried to swallow her feelings down, hold her jaw rigid.

Caught up in her misery, the rest of the service dragged on. By the time Reverend Norton pronounced Nick and Elizabeth man and wife, Harriet could only feel relieved that she’d survived the ceremony, her secret still intact.

Now she had only to endure the reception...and the emptiness of the rest of her life.

CHAPTER ONE

Nine Months Later

At the burst of artillery fire, Anthony Gordon ducked behind the remains of the brick storefront. His heartbeat pounded to the staccato burst of gunfire only a few streets away. He inhaled the acrid air, his breath ragged in his chest, impatient for the shelling to cease.
 

I should have known the count would try out his new cannons, attempting to win the feud with his neighbors. People will die over a dispute concerning a few acres of land.

He swiped sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his coat. But he couldn’t do anything about the moisture trickling down his back under the fine cotton of his shirt.
 

A momentary pause propelled him out of hiding. Shoulders hunched, he tried to block out the screams of panicked people fleeing in the opposite direction. He wove through the mass of terrorized citizens, seesawing around pushcarts and family groups, skittering past the ruins of the bakery, and skirting several fires. Smoke set him coughing, but he didn’t dare stop.
 

Isabella, I must get to Isabella.
 

Several streets over, cannons pounded the buildings along the village square, raining destruction on the row of shops and taverns. Around him flying debris filled the air, blocking out the afternoon sun.

The closer Ant came to Isabella’s cottage, the heavier his fear grew. Remorse squeezed through his terror. He shouldn’t have left her alone for two days, all for what he’d thought was an important interview. He should have realized fighting could break out. Please, God, may she have broken her promise to him to stay put.

He rounded the corner of a cottage and saw the boarding house. Without slowing, he breathed a sigh of relief when he realized the pristine whitewashed exterior, complete with flowering windowboxes, sat untouched.

He burst through the wooden door. “Isabella!”

No response.

Threading through the furniture of the parlor, he pushed open the dining room door, only to halt at the devastation before him. A cannonball must have caught the back of the house, collapsing the walls. The heavy oak dining table was pushed almost to the door; the bricks and wood from the walls draped over it and piled up around the rest of the room. The roof stood open to the sky.

“Isabella!” he yelled.

A faint moan reached him.

Ducking under the table, he crawled toward the caved-in kitchen. A shard of glass cut the palm of his hand. He cursed, but didn’t slow, desperate to reach her. The wooden door was canted open. He pushed, but it refused to budge further. He squeezed himself sideways. His head and shoulders fit through, enough to see Isabella.

She lay in a crumpled heap, a heavy beam resting crossways over her body. Gray dust coated the lustrous dark tresses fanning out in tangles over the slate floor and turned her rose-colored dress a pale pink.

He angled the rest of the way into the kitchen and then crawled over to her. “Bella?”

Blood trickled out of the side of her mouth. She opened her eyes; pain blurred their brown depths. “My Antonio,” she whispered, the words barely audible.

The familiar endearment cut to his heart. Even now, in all her pain, Isabella refused to use his nickname. He kissed her forehead. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

Ant stood, reaching for the heavy beam. He could only pry it up a few inches, but it would be enough. He pushed some loose bricks under the wood with his foot, propping it up, and then dropped back to his knees.

She moaned.

Ant gathered Isabella’s limp body to him, cradling her against his chest. “Bella, love.”

Her dark eyelashes fluttered, then stilled. Her head lolled back.

A sword-thrust of agony stabbed through him. “Isabella,” he whispered, feeling his heartbeat stop with hers. “No, Bella, no.”

Pressing his ear to her soft breast, he begged to hear the familiar rhythm.

He found only a stillness so empty it echoed in his own chest cavity. His own traitorous organ thumped to life, pumping blood through his body, while his love lay dead in his arms.

The dream scene began to shift
. A boy’s plaintive voice called. “Uncle Ant. Uncle Ant.”

Ant woke with a gasp, his arms wrapped around his chest. He sat up, fighting to stem the press of emotions clogging his throat and constricting his ribs.

Bella! Will you ever leave my dreams in peace?

A gentle breeze stirred the pine branches over his head, sending their spicy scent to chase away the remembered taste of dust and smoke. The faint blue-gray light of a Montana dawn filtered through the shadows of the trees. A bird twittered in a nearby bush.

Ant pushed the red-and-gray Indian blanket off himself. He grabbed his boots and shook them before thrusting his stocking feet into the cold leather.

She’s haunted me for too long.

He ran his hand over his eyes, pushing the hair from his face. At least this time the scene with Isabella hadn’t included the bloody body of his murdered sister, Emily.

Ant poured the pail of water over the embers of his campfire. Steam hissed. Too shaken to bother with breakfast, he gathered his gear and saddled up his black horse, Shadow, determined to leave the memories of his past behind with this campsite.

 
He needed to focus his mind on the task ahead. His goal was near. Once he’d found the boy and killed the father, maybe then he’d be able to sleep in peace.