A Valentine's Choice: A Montana Sky Series Holiday Novella (The Montana Sky Series) (10 page)

Maybe he doesn’t care about me the way I thought he did.
She tried to suppress her hurt.

Patrick entered from the back and made his way over to her. He, too, had a stiffness to his walk.

“Thunder will be glad to see ye.”

“He gets antsy when he’s cooped up too long.”

“So do I,” Bridget murmured.

“Well, after the last two days, I can stand a little cooping up. I’m taking the boy for a ride. When I return I might sit by the fire. Maybe read. Unless someone wants to keep me company.”

“Maybe I will.” Especially since a certain cowboy didn’t seem to want her company. “It was kind of ye to help out with the cattle, especially since ye are a guest here.”

Patrick gave her a wry smile. “Sit on my hands while my host fights to save his herd? What kind of man would that make me?”

“I’m sure there are plenty who’d choose such.”

“Well, all I can say is, I’m glad I don’t run cattle. I’ll stick to horses!”

She glanced over at Thunder. “I entirely agree with those sentiments.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

James strode into the store and was about to head straight toward the Valentine cards when he glimpsed Widow Murphy standing in front of the counter, a basket in her arms, chatting with Mrs. Cobb, the shopkeeper. All the ranch hands, and probably every other man in Sweetwater Springs, knew to avoid the two cantankerous women.

He sidled behind one of the standing shelves and out of sight. He didn’t want to choose a card with the widow close by to see and spread gossip.

After a while, James gave up waiting for the two women to stop their chat-fest. He eased around the other side of the shelves and headed toward the bags of flour stacked near the front of the store. Mrs. Toffels wanted him to return with two.

His plan was to take them to the counter and pretend to discover the cards, casually glance over them, and select the best. Then it wouldn’t seem like he’d made the long trip into town just to buy a Valentine’s Day card. With a bag of flour in each hand, James approached the counter.

Sharp-faced Mrs. Murphy gave him a disapproving shake of her head, which made the rooster wattle under her chin quiver. But, mercifully, she moved out of his way without saying anything.

No skin off his back, she was judgmental about everyone.

Doing his best to avoid eye contact with either woman, he set the bags on the counter. “Put these on the Thompson’s account, please.” He glanced toward the end of the counter but the cards weren’t there. His body went rigid, and he scanned the entire area.

Has Mrs. Cobb moved them?
They were nowhere in sight. Forgetting his subtle approach, James blurted out, “Where are the Valentine cards?”

“We sold out on Sunday,” said Mrs. Cobb with a smug expression. “In fact, your visitor, Mr. Gallagher, bought my very last one—the most
expensive
one.”

* * *

Hours later, James rode into the Thompson’s yard, despondency weighing down his shoulders. He’d felt so sure the card would do the trick—express his sentiments, make Bridget feel special, and show her he was capable of the kind of romance women liked. Now, not only did James not have the card, but Gallagher had the fanciest one in his possession. The man had out-strategized him. Gallagher already had every advantage, and now he’d beaten James in the one area he’d thought would win Bridget’s regard.

I have to come up with another plan.

The whole ride home he’d pondered and discarded ways and means, but the thought of Gallagher loomed so large, that each of James’s ideas didn’t pass muster. Finally, he shoved the whole mess out of his mind. Maybe if he stopped twisting his brain in knots, something would come to him. He dismounted by the side door of the big house.

Deuce walked out of the barn and over to him. “I’ll take him for you.”

“Thanks, Deuce. I need to drop off the flour for Mrs. Toffels.”
And maybe a certain Irish lass will be there
. Then James remembered he had no card for her. “I’d appreciate you attending to Dusty ’til I’m back out.” He unloaded the flour sacks from his saddlebags. His mood heavy, James walked through the gate of the picket fence and up the brick walkway to the side door, where he entered the house.

He followed the smell of fresh oatmeal cookies into the kitchen.

All five children sat around the table working on a project. The red-checked tablecloth had been replaced with one of brown oilcloth. The surface was strewn with pink, red, and white paper, two pairs of scissors, some saucers of flour paste, pencils, several damp rags, and an ink well and pen.

The children looked up when he entered and greeted him, then with unusual industriousness returned to their projects.

He found Mrs. Toffels ironing, a stack of neatly pressed and folded shirts and pants on the counter next to her, a towering mound of laundry in the basket at her feet.

Have I gotten the days wrong?
He had to stop and count from Sunday’s church service to today—not easy when the mess with the cattle had made the last few days a blur. “Isn’t today Wednesday?” He hoped so, for Valentine’s Day was supposed to be tomorrow. But the housekeeper always ironed on Tuesday, not Wednesday, and her routine was set in stone.

Mrs. Toffles looked up and smiled. “The days do get away from you sometimes, don’t they? But yes, it’s midweek.”

“Then why are you ironing? I thought that chore was for Tuesdays.”

“Until the lot of you decided to wrestle with muddy cattle. Aside from your best, you’re probably standing in the last stitch of clean clothes you own, James Whitson.”

He glanced down at himself to see what he wore. As usual, Mrs. Toffels was right on the mark. “Ah…well, uh, thank you.” He eyed the massive pile of men’s clothing. “Guess I don’t have to tell you that we’re much obliged for how well you take care of us all. We consider ourselves lucky, we do.”

Her wrinkled cheeks pinked. “You’re a good man, James Whitson.” Her gaze dropped to the flour bags. “And you’ve brought just what I need to make more cookies so the children can take some to school tomorrow.”

His stomach rumbled. “Can I sneak one?”

“Of course.” She beamed at him, always happy to feed hungry men. “The children were just about to have some milk and cookies. Would you like to join them?”

“Is there tea in China?” James dropped the bags next to the flour bin, stood for a moment near the stove to absorb the warmth before taking off his coat and scarf and hanging them on the wall pegs near the doorway. The gloves went into the pockets and his hat on top of the scarf. He moved to take a seat with the children at the long table. “What are you all doing?”

Christine, her blonde hair pulled back in braids, smiled, her blue eyes alight. “We’re having a party at school tomorrow, and we’re making Valentine’s Day cards for our teacher and friends—”

“
You’re
making cards for your friends,” Daniel interrupted. He thumped his chest. “
We’re
making cards for Mrs. Gordon. Boys don’t give cards to their friends.”

“Well, Hunter’s making one for Ruthanne,” Christine pointed out.

Hunching his shoulders, the Indian boy rolled his eyes. “It’s supposed to be a secret.”

“James won’t tell,” the girl said in a chirping tone. “Will you?”

He’d frozen, staring down at the table.
Here’s my solution!
Relief swept through him. “I’ll keep the secret if you’ll keep one of mine. May I join you and make a card, too?”

Christine tilted her head in askance. “Who do you want to make a Valentine card for?”

“Who do you think?” Jack retorted with a snort. “It’s as plain as the nose on your face. Miss Bridget, of course.”

Her eyes widened.

Daniel bounced in his seat. “Oh, I like Miss Bridget.”

Christine gave an imperious wave. “Do sit down, James. I’ll help you with the card.”

“He doesn’t need help,” Tim mumbled. “He’s a grown up.”

“Thank you for your confidence in me, Tim.”

Christine handed James a piece of pink construction paper. He reached for the inkwell.
I’ll get the hardest part over with.

“You’d better use the pencil first,” Daniel warned, eying James’s movements. “If you make a mistake, you can erase it. Then you can go over the writing with ink.”

“Good idea, Danny boy.”

“What are you going to write, James?” Christine asked. “I think you should write a poem.”

He shook his head and folded the paper in half to make a card. “I don’t have time to think of a poem, even if I was inclined to make up poetry, which I’m not.”

“You can use someone else’s poem. Do you know any?”

“Of course, I do. My ma was a schoolteacher before she married my pa. But, somehow a poem seems too…flowery.” He couldn’t believe he was having this discussion with the children—that he was having the discussion at all, for that matter.

“I think you should write, ‘I love you, truly,’” Jack teased.

“How about, ‘Marry me, and I’ll love you forever?’” Christine’s brow furled, and leaning close, she gave James an anxious glance. “You
will
love Miss Bridget forever, won’t you?”

He tapped her on the nose. “Forever, I promise.”

“’Til death do us part,” Christine quoted. “That’s what Reverend Norton said when Pa and
Mamá
married.” She and her adopted brothers had taken to using the same Spanish pronunciation as Daniel to distinguish Samantha from the mothers they’d loved and lost.

Daniel put both hands on his chest, elbows out. “I think you’re the most beautiful lady in all the world,” he said in a girlish voice, then pretended to faint against the back of his chair.

Grinning at the boy’s performance, James made a stopping motion. “Enough, you little bagpipes. I can think of what to say on my own.”

With some mutters, the children returned to their work.

But, as James stared at the card, he realized those all-important words weren’t coming to him.
What is usually written in Valentine’s Day cards?
He tried to think of the time his sister had every young man around sending her cards, which she proudly displayed on a table in the parlor. He recalled making a paper airplane of one.
Be Mine.
That’s what it said.
Perfect. Simple. Honest. Not flowery, but Valentiney anyway.

Disregarding Daniel’s suggestion of the pencil, he dipped the pen into the ink well and used his best copperplate, instead of his regular scrawl.

Be Mine

With all my love,

Your Jamie

He blew on the ink to dry it, and then rummaged up a vague memory of fourth grade, when they’d made Valentine cards in school. Miss Higgins had taught them how to construct doilies from cut-outs on a paper. But first, he folded a red paper and cut out a heart. The shape ended up lopsided, and, with the scissors, he shaved off one side. It still wasn’t balanced, but when he glanced at the table, James saw he’d used up the last red sheet.
This will have to do.

Taking a white piece of paper, he cut out a circle. Carefully, he folded the shape and snipped small squares, then folded in a different place and cut out triangles. He opened the circle and checked his work. Even though James was careful, the shapes weren’t the same size and didn’t properly line up when he compared one side to the other. Doggedly, he continued, folding and snipping, folding and snipping.

A few times, he cut one shape too close to another, making an extra gap. But he figured when he glued the doily to the card, it wouldn’t show too badly. Or so he hoped. Finally, he made scalloped edges.

James opened the doily, which looked ragged, rather than elegant. He tried holding the paper at arm’s length to see if that made an improvement. It didn’t.

Perhaps when I place the heart in the middle, it will make it look better.
He glued the doily onto the pink card, and then pressed the heart on top. Carefully, he dipped the pen into the inkwell and wrote Bridget’s name in the center.

If he squinted, it sort of looked like lace surrounded the heart. But when he opened his eyes, his efforts looked worse than the children’s.

Setting down the pen, he surveyed his handiwork. The card did
not
match the picture in his mind.
Maybe I should tell Bridget to squint before I hand it to her.

The children leaned over for a closer look. For a moment, they stayed silent.

Tim shook his head. “I was wrong. You did need help.”

James sat back with a frustrated sigh, trying to hide his disappointment. He’d have to think of another plan to win Bridget’s regard.
Problem is I’m all tapped out of ideas.

“You can make another.” His eyebrows riding high—a sure sign of his distress—Daniel looked around the table, littered with leftover scraps. “I guess you can’t.”

Discouraged, James rose. “Well, it was worth a try.” Leaving the card on the table, he managed a smile for the children, trying to ease their obvious distress. “Thanks for letting me join you.”

Christine grabbed his shirtsleeve and held tight. “But aren’t you going to give your card to Miss Bridget?”

His heart heavy enough to drop into his boots, he thought of the fancy Valentine card she’d be receiving from Gallagher. His homemade effort would only serve to illuminate the differences in what the suitors had to offer.
Perhaps it’s best I just give up. Bridget would probably be happier with a handsome husband, a big house, plenty of horses….