Page 1 of Beyond Montana's Sky
CHAPTER ONE
Sweetwater Springs
Autumn, 1896
Edith Grayson paused in front of Hardy’s Saloon, trepidation tightening her stomach within her already constricting corset. She glanced down at the wedding invitation on top of the others in her hand,Mr. Henton Hardywritten across the front in her perfect copperplate handwriting.Why, oh why, didn’t I have Caleb deliver his own invitation?
She’d never ventured into a saloon before and had no desire to do so now. Ladies didn’t frequent Hardy’s—only less-than-virtuous saloon girls or other low-class women. The sole exception was Sheriff K.C. Granger, a regular patron. Considering the lawwoman’s male occupation and the man’s attire she wore, Edith wasn’t sure what gender category K.C. Granger fit in.One entirely her own, that’s the truth.
Edith peeked through the flyspecked glass window. Sure enough, the sheriff sat at one of the round tables in the midst of several men, holding a fan of cards. The sight somewhat reassured her.
At least I don’t need to fear being accosted by drunken buffoons when I deliver the wedding invitation to Mr. Hardy.
With her future sister-in-law ill with a cold and tending to her baby who also had the sniffles, her brother buried in business matters, and their stable man and housemaid also coughing and sneezing, Edith volunteered to help with the wedding plans. Using Caleb’s list, she’d addressed and intended to deliver the invitations, which were already scandalously late—by Boston standards anyway. In Sweetwater Springs, word of mouth was good enough for weddings, and people just showed up.
She shuddered.How could anyone possibly plan for the correct amount of food to serve if the number of guests is unknown?
A month ago, Edith left these particular invitations at the post office in the train station to be placed in each person’s box and handed out by Jack Waite when someone came for his or her mail.
Yesterday, Jack sent word that many hadn’t yet been picked up, so, annoyed, Edith gathered them to hand deliver. She could imagine people who lived far-flung from Sweetwater Springs not picking up their mail, but some of the townsfolk? Pure laziness, in her opinion.
At least the invitations were posted to Boston in a timely manner. Edith made sure of that, for politeness’s sake—probably wasted effort—since she and Caleb thought their distinguished relatives wouldn’t deign to make the long trip out west for the nuptials of the son of Black JackLivingston, the family disgrace.
We thought wrong.
The pending arrival of four of their aristocratic relatives threw her brother into the male version of a tizzy. Caleb had the staff cleaning and polishing every square inch of the hotel, the bank, and their house, and, if he possessed god-like powers, would probably have done the same for the rest of Sweetwater Springs.
Edith glanced down the street toward the schoolhouse. Her sixteen-year-old son wouldn’t be free until this afternoon. Ben had already distributed invitations to his fellow students to take home to their parents. This afternoon, he’d ride out to the various farms and ranches on the outskirts of Sweetwater Springs. Those inhabitants didn’t tend to get into town often and thus wouldn’t pick up their mail from the post-office ticket window in the train station in time to attend the wedding. Ben wouldn’t get far before nightfall and would deliver more tomorrow after school.
I didn’t think this through. Ben could have delivered this one, too. Not that I want my son entering a saloon….
Henton Hardy.She would never have invited a saloon owner to a family wedding. But Caleb had no such qualms. As the town’s banker and hotel owner, he did business with many unsavory types and insisted all of his customers should be allowed to attend.Well, it’s his wedding, after all. But I don’t know what our Boston relatives will think of having to rub elbows with the riffraff.
Actually, I can imagine what they’d think.Edith sighed. As glad as she was to welcome Maggie and her baby Charlotte into the family, between illness, the attendance of their Boston relatives, and late invitations, what had seemed like a fairly straight-forward, albeit elaborate wedding, had turned into a logistical nightmare.
Inside the saloon, someone whooped, making Edith even more reluctant to enter.This is no place for a lady.
The sound of horses’ hooves and wagon wheels made her turn. A cowboy drove a team of black horses and a buckboard wagon her way. He pulled up in front of where she stood, set the brake, and tied off the reins.
Edith had never seen the man before. Surely, she’d remember one so handsome—with Welsh looks—black hair waving to his shoulders, and blue, blue eyes fringed in long, dark eyelashes. His face was tan, she supposed from riding the range after horses or cattle, instead of the pale skin he would have had from living in rainy Wales.
For some odd reason, Edith couldn’t stop watching him. At the sight of that lanky, muscular body climbing down from the buckboard, a slow tremble coiled through her stomach.
He flashed Edith a cocky, crooked grin.
A flutter traveled through her belly, shivering down her legs and into her feet, making her toes curl inside her high button boots. Grateful her skirt and layers of petticoats hid her reaction, she stiffened her knees and raised her chin, unwilling to allow the annoying man to see how much his notice affected her.
He was dressed informally, like every other cowboy around here—in worn denim trousers, a blue shirt, and black vest. The shirt was rolled up to the elbows, exposing sinewy tan forearms. A black jacket lay on the seat. Catching Edith watching him, the man gave her an appraising stare, then winked and tipped his black Stetson, moving closer with long strides.
Edith bestowed a frosty look upon him. But then heat rose in her face, and she had to glance away.
She couldn’t remember the last time a man shook her composure. That cool composure had seen her through the illness and death of her husband Nathaniel, the move from Boston to nowhere Montana, and living for four years in this backwater prairie town. Now on the verge of a triumphant return to Boston, losing her composure was thelastthing she could afford.
After rubbing the nose of one horse, he removed his hat and gave Edith a respectful nod, one lock of his dark hair falling over his forehead in a boyish fashion. But the admiring look in his eyes was anything but respectful and boyish.
He set the hat back on his head. “Hello, darlin’,” he drawled, reaching out a large hand toward her envelopes. “Is one of those for me?”
Edith huffed out a breath, heat crawling from her cheeks to the back of her neck. “I doubt it,” she said in a chill tone, hoping this man wasn’t another possible wedding attendee.
