Page 15 of Beyond Montana's Sky
An upright piano set against the far wooden wall drew Edith’s gaze, the keyboard left open.Who plays, I wonder?
She shouldn’t be surprised. Edith knew Westerners valued music. Several of the wealthier ranching families owned pianos. A few times, she’d performed during one of the Carters’ musical evenings. “Everything is lovely.”
He nodded toward the piano. “My mother’s. She was a schoolmarm, who also taught music.”
“My mother was a schoolteacher, too. Do you play?”
He hesitated. “A bit. My younger sister was the musical one.”
That must be the sister who died.The sadness in his eyes made her uncomfortable, and Edith headed toward the instrument. A photograph of a younger Cai and a girl of about eight hung on the wall over the piano.
She wanted to ask questions about his sister but respected his pain. She knew from experience that sometimes mourning was too difficult, too heavy to even give voice to one’s grief. She touched an ivory key, smiling to hear the note in tune.
He moved to stand next to her, looking down at the keyboard. “Do you play?”
Edith flexed her fingers, feeling lingering stiffness from holding the reins. “Not this week. Between illness in the house and wedding busyness, I haven’t had a chance.”
He smiled, the sadness leaving his eyes. “Play something for me.”
Holding up her hands, Edith fluttered her fingers. “I won’t be at my best.”
His gaze swept the parlor, lingering on the photograph of himself and his sister, until returning to her. “I’d enjoy hearing music in this room once again.”
Edith hadn’t intended to remain for long at the Driscoll ranch, but she couldn’t resist his quiet plea.And I did agree to staying for a meal.
She took a seat on the bench, arranged her skirts, and then held her fingers over the keys, thinking through the pieces she had memorized. Slowly, lowering her hands, she began to play Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata,” one of her favorite pieces.
Self-conscious in a way she usually wasn’t when performing for an audience, even if only one person, Edith’s fingers took a few minutes to become limber and the rest of her body to relax. Even though her arm muscles were tired, soon the familiar music almost lulled her into a trance.
As her fingers worked, for some reason, her memory went to a night not long after her arrival in Sweetwater Springs, when she and Caleb entertained then-widower Wyatt Thompson. At the time, Edith was determined to marry again, thinking another husband would distract her from Nathaniel’s loss. She’d been uncharacteristically bold in displaying her attraction toward the rancher.
How foolish I was.
Luckily, although initially appearing interested in Edith, Wyatt had quickly fallen head over heels for widowed Samantha Rodriguez, a woman with similar values to his. They’d married and combined their families of natural born and adopted children, and now had a daughter. Wyatt and Samantha were obviously compatible in a way he and Edith would not have been.
Thank goodness, I escaped an unhappy second marriage.
Life can unfold in the strangest ways. I’m so grateful now for a disappointment then.
Sometime in the last few years, her mourning for Nathaniel had come to an end. Not that memories didn’t sometimes stab her. Edith suspected they always would. But now she was ready for a second marriage in a way she wasn’t earlier.
She brought the music to a close and glanced over at Cai, who’d taken a seat in a worn leather chair adjacent to the piano. He’d leaned his head back, and his sad expression eased, making him look younger and heartbreakingly handsome.
Not wanting to disturb his peace, Edith let her fingers continue moving. Gently, in honor of the young girl in the photograph, she moved into Robert Schumann’s tender and nostalgic “Traumerei,” which painted a peaceful musical picture of a child’s dreams.
Cai let out a slow breath and closed his eyes. His shoulders seemed to relax against the back of the chair.
At some point, Edith heard rustles and quiet murmurs behind her, but she barely paid them any attention.
Next came the “Piano Concerto” by Clara Schumann, Robert’s wife, although the orchestral parts sounded only in Edith’s mind when she paused her hands. Lately, she’d taken to memorizing the works of female composers, knowing that few received the acknowledgment due them. Indeed, Mrs. Schumann rejected her own work, saying “A woman must not desire to compose—there has never yet been one able to do it.”How wrong she was.
Edith moved on to play several of Chopin’s etudes, starting with her favorite “Nocturne in E Flat.” When Edith reached the end, she reluctantly raised her hands, wishing she could keep playing, but knowing she must leave. Lingering too much longer would mean driving the last stretch in darkness, even if the almost-full moon shone brightly.
“Mama, that was so pretty,” piped a girlish voice. “Can the lady play more?”
Edith half-turned on the bench to see the back of the parlor packed with people—from the gnarled oldFarfarto several babes in arms—probably twenty by a rough count.
Sharon-Signe sitting cross-legged in the front, her skirt draped over her legs, waved and bounced to her feet.
