Singing Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 7) Page 3

  Emma lifted her brows. “I have classes, Papa.”

  He frowned. “You don’t need to remind me.”

  His mournful tone made Sophia laugh. Papa, although usually one of the most modern-thinking and permissive fathers she knew, was adamantly against Emma studying nursing, believing the profession wasn’t proper for a gently-bred young lady. After two years of his youngest daughter’s cajoling, nagging, and pleading to no avail, only Emma’s threat to run away, and the intercession of Fritz, who did his own form of persuasion, made Chauncey reluctantly give in.

  “Open your present,” Emma urged with a wave. “I made it myself.”

  “Ah, a very special gift.” Sophia slipped the paper off the small box and raised the lid to see a bracelet made of braided, dark brown hair and amethyst beads. She picked it up to examine the workmanship under the glow of the nearest lamp, seeing some pale strands among the shades of brown. “Very special, indeed.”

  “My hair, Papa’s, Fritz’s, and Blythe’s. Lily sent a lock of hers and some downy fluff from baby Adeline. Oliver, that rapscallion new nephew of ours, insisted on contributing, and he also cut his father’s. Poor Tyler. Lily tells me her husband now sports a bald spot.”

  “Sweet Oliver.” Sophia hugged the bracelet to her chest. “Lily was very smart to marry his father and give us a ready-made nephew.” She leaned over to kiss Emma’s cheek. “I shall wear this with pride and love.” She slipped the bracelet around her empty wrist.

  Emma’s bright smile was reflected in her eyes.

  “Now for mine.” Papa handed her a large flat box. “You have no idea how difficult it is to buy a gift for the daughter who already has everything—all the flowers, jewels, clothing, and other fripperies she could possibly want and then some—and who can afford to buy whatever she desires. But I believe I’ve hit on the perfect idea. And it’s a selfish gift, as you will soon see.”

  Curious, Sophia tore off the paper and lifted the lid to see silver-framed photographs. She lifted the first one and saw a family portrait of her sister’s new family. The Dunns made a striking grouping. Lily, with baby Adeline in her arms, sat in front of her husband Tyler, who stood behind her. He was clad in a suit, instead of his usual cowboy attire. Oliver, in a sailor suit, stood next to Lily.

  “Ohhh, this is wonderful!” Sophia peered closer to observe the baby.

  “No need,” her father said. “Look at the next one.”

  She handed the photograph to Blythe and picked up the second one, showing only Adeline, lying in a cradle. The shot was close up, so Sophia could see each small feature. “She’s so beautiful,” she breathed, feeling a surprising sense of longing. “Adeline looks just like Lily.”

  My father’s right. I have everything—everything but a loving husband and a child.

  They’ll come in time, she told herself. When I’m ready. My career is too important now.

  “I told you Adeline is a true Maxwell,” Emma said smugly.

  Sophia wrinkled her nose at her younger sister, who was the only one of them to have seen Adeline. Emma had gone to visit before the baby’s birth. She’d assisted with the delivery and stayed for several weeks to help out.

  Her father beamed. “I sent the photographer to the ranch. She made copies for Lily, as well as ones for us.”

  “I’m sure they’re thrilled.”

  The maid came to inform them supper was ready, and the five of them moved into the dining room.

  Once dinner was served, and the maid had left the room, Sophia waited until everyone finished their fish course and started the roast beef before bringing up the subject of Warwick and his plans for the theater and the opera company. Between bites of food that she barely tasted, Sophia relayed the entire conversation, including her thoughts.

  After only a few bites of mashed potatoes, Fritz sat back in his chair and shook his head. “You’re right. If you’ll pardon my saying so, ladies…. Warwick is an ass. Arthur must be turning over in his grave.”

  “The thought crossed my mind,” Sophia murmured. “About Arthur and the type of donkey Warwick is.”

  “It could be worse,” Fritz said in a playful tone, obviously trying to lighten her spirits.

  “How?” Sophia demanded.

  “Warwick could have chosen Tosca.”

  Sophia groaned. “Not funny, Fritz.” Then seeing Emma’s puzzled look, she explained. “The role of Tosca is considered one of the most grueling for a soprano. Yes, worse than Brünnhilde.” She frowned. “Although not by much, in my opinion.”

  Her father scowled. “I don’t like the way he tried to manipulate you. That does not bode well for the future.”

  Sophia thought the same, and she had to suppress a trickle of fear swirling through her stomach.

  Emma cut her meat. “Can this man be immune to the spell of the famous Songbird? Surely you can charm him?” She cast a mischievous glance from her father to Fritz, two men who’d always adored Sophia. “He’d be a rare man to withstand you.”

  “I tried,” Sophia said wryly, with a shake of her head. “I guess that makes Warwick a rare man. Although, to be truthful, I don’t like him, which made the job harder.”

  Fritz cleared his throat. “I’ll speak to Warwick and see if I can convince him to stick to the original program. After all, I was Arthur’s best friend and am the Canfield Theater’s primary donor. In addition, I do hold a minor share in the place.”

  “Canfield-Prendergast Pavilion,” Sophia reminded him.

  Blythe rolled her eyes. “Oh, Dear Lord, how pretentious of the man.”

  Sophia sent her friend an I agree look. “Oh, and he thinks harpists are ‘a dime a dozen.’ I informed him you were quite unique and, if he failed to showcase you as you deserve, you’d be spending time in Sweetwater Springs with your beloved Peter instead of remaining in Chicago.”

  Pink tinted Blythe’s cheeks, the color enhancing her pale beauty. “That would actually be wonderful. Peter and I could plan a wedding and have a long honeymoon.”

  Sophia wagged a finger. “Don’t you dare have a ceremony that I can’t attend.”

  “Silly,” Blythe chided, but the starry look in her eyes indicated she was already dreaming of marrying her fiancé—the manager of The Livingston Hotel in Sweetwater Springs. “We’ll hold the ceremony here, so you can attend between rehearsals. Better yet, after opening night is over, and everyone has settled into their roles.”

  “Perfect,” Sophia said, delighted that at least one good thing was emerging from Warwick’s horrible plan. That thought brought her back to the unpleasant topic of Die Walküre. She glanced at Fritz. “I doubt you’ll change Warwick’s mind. He’s half-foolish and half-grandiose. There’s no room in him for sentiment or logic.”

  Fritz took a sip of wine. “Then if Warwick won’t be moved by reason, you’ll have a difficult decision to make.”

  “Brünnhilde!” Sophia said in exasperation. “I’m not a Wagnerian soprano!”

  Fritz raised his eyebrows. “At least it wasn’t Turandot.”

  Sophia wanted to roll her eyes, but good manners forbade. “Princess Turandot is another arduous soprano role,” she explained to a puzzled Emma.

  “Thank goodness for small favors,” her sister murmured, her tone ironic.

  Sophia’s frustrations burst forth. “Why couldn’t Arthur have held on for ten more years? I would have grown into the role, and he would have loved to be part of such a grand production. As Warwick reminded me, producing Wagner’s Ring Cycle was Arthur’s dream.”

  “I’m afraid we’re all too mortal.” Fritz lifted his wine glass and took a sip.

  Something about his tone and the sharp way Emma looked at him with her wrinkling brow, caught Sophia’s attention. She studied Fritz, once again noting the prominent bones of his face, the pasty, sagging skin, and pale lips. Alarm stirred.

  He nodded, set down his glass, and leaned forward to take Sophia’s hand, glancing around the table before once again settling his gaze on her. “I
wasn’t just in New York to visit my son and his family. I went to see several doctors.”

  “Doctors?” Sophia clutched Fritz’s hand with both of hers, dread seeping into her.

  “I have cancer.”

  They all made shocked sounds.

  Sophia’s chest felt hollow.

  Emma leaned forward. “What kind of cancer, dear Fritz?”

  “In my stomach.”

  “No. Oh, no.” An electrical shock went through Sophia, and she shook her head. “Surely something can be done?”

  His jaw tight, he brought her hand to his lips. “I’m sorry, my dear, my time draws nigh.” He lowered their arms.

  Sophia squeezed his hand, wishing she could anchor him to life.

  He fingered his watch fob. “My biggest regret is leaving my Adolphia. Although she no longer recognizes me, she does take comfort from my presence. Her nurse tells me my wife was quite agitated while I was gone.”

  Chauncey leaned back in his chair, sorrow draining the life from his face and suddenly making him look old.

  Fear stabbed. Her father had always seemed invincible. When Lily had suffered the accident and almost died, Papa’s strength and will—even more than the doctor’s treatment—had pulled her sister through the valley of the shadow of death and out to life on the other side.

  But Fritz was another matter. Sophia knew in her heart, her dear mentor was about to walk the final steps of his journey.

  Chauncey gestured in the direction of Fritz’s home. “Set aside your worries, my friend. We’ll make sure your wife has the best care possible,” he said, his tone heavy. “We’ll visit Adolphia often.”

  Fritz nodded. “The thought of you doing so eases my mind.”

  Sophia’s eyes filled with tears that spilled over. But she refused to release his hand to wipe them away. “Oh, Fritz, what will I do without you?”

  He glanced at the others and back to her. “You will do just fine. Your family and friends will support you. You will soar to new heights.” His tone was matter of fact, but his eyes were full of sadness. “And I regret leaving you all.” He looked around the table. “You are more than friends. You are family.”

  Silence followed.

  Fritz smiled at her father, as if trying to lighten the tension. “I’ll miss our chess games. I’ve always enjoyed trouncing you, Chauncey.”

  “Not so fast, my old friend.” Papa pointed a finger in mock admonition. “You have a few more games left in you, and I’ll play to win.”

  “A few,” Fritz agreed dryly. He turned toward Emma. “My dear little rebel. Emma, I know you’ll finish nursing school, and you’ll be a marvelous healer.”

  Emma’s eyes glistened with tears, but she flashed him a cheeky grin. “Thank you for pushing Papa into allowing me to go to nursing school. If you hadn’t, I think we’d still be arguing about it.”

  Fritz waved away her thanks. “Just like Lily was born to paint and Sophia to sing, you were born to heal. You three girls are extraordinarily talented.” He slanted a wry glance at his friend. “You certainly didn’t take after your father.”

  They all laughed.

  Papa puffed out his chest in a pretense of conceit. “They have my good looks.”

  “That they do.” Fritz’s expression sobered. “Sophia, seeing you perform has been a highlight of my old age.” He flashed a smile. “Perhaps heaven will have a special balcony—” he lightened his tone “—from which I can still watch opera.”

  Sophia gave a shaky laugh, even though she wanted to drop to her knees, place her head in his lap, and weep. “You’ll have the songs of angels in heaven, and you’ll hear the singing of the seraphim and the music of the spheres. How could a mere human match that?”

  “Sophia…” His voice turned serious. “I have one final request.”

  “Anything, my dear Fritz.”

  “Before my time here on Earth comes to an end, I would love to see Die Walküre done in Chicago.” He rested his elbows on the table and brought his hands together. “You know how I’ve dreamed of our city rivaling the best opera houses in America and Europe. I’d love nothing better than to watch you perform Brünnhilde. The anticipation will give me something to look forward to—something to live for.”

  How can I refuse his dying request? Sophia swallowed down the lump lodged in her throat and tried for a breezy tone. “Well, Fritz, I will insist you help tutor me in German just as you did with Die Zauberflöte.”

  The smile that brought color and the illusion of youth back to his face only deepened Sophia’s sorrow and made her all the more determined to grant him what he asked. Even if doing so meant giving in to Warwick Canfield-Prendergast and undertaking the most strenuous role of her career.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Sweetwater Springs, Montana

  Five Weeks before Opening Night

  Twenty-eight-year-old lumberjack Kael Kelley sat on a hard wooden bench at a long table, one of two in the mess hall of the logging camp, a day’s ride from Sweetwater Springs, a tin cup of coffee heating his hand. The room was built of clapboard and the inside lined with tarpaper. Fires in drum barrels—one on each end of the room—warmed the chill spring night. Oil lamps set every eight feet or so on the tables illuminated the immense room.

  The rest of the two logging crews—thirty men each—sprawled on benches, with his crew closest around Kael, their brawny arms braced on the tables. Sawyers, swampers, choke settlers—all looked tired from a thirteen-hour day. They were dressed in plaid woolen shirts over long johns and filthy woolen pants glazed from repeated bouts with mud.

  As usual, the men had eaten an enormous meal of beef and potatoes, finishing with pie made of dried apricots and creamed carrots. Now, as the flunkeys cleared the tables, the lumberjacks lingered over a final cup of coffee before heading back to the bunkhouse, where they’d have a few hours of respite before lights out at nine o’clock.

  They drank in silence. Lumberjacks were a taciturn bunch. Some could go all day without saying more words than they had fingers on their hands. Since a few of those hands sported missing fingers, those words tended to be mighty few. But his crew sure enjoyed Kael’s singing—maybe because he was the one doing all the work, and they only had to listen. He didn’t mind, for singing satisfied a deep part of him—the part that connected with his heritage—a familial line of bards going back to the ancient courts of Wales and Scotland.

  With a sense of possessive pride, he looked around at the lumberjacks. Although he was powerless to change the harsh existence at the logging camp, he did what he could to make life a little better for the men.

  Some watched him, others stared at the wall, as if their minds had gone elsewhere.

  They were a lean, tough, dirty, smelly, and often profane gang. But they were his men—skilled at their work and possessing incredible endurance. He’d whipped them into a tight-knit crew with his words and sometimes his fists. But his songs, more than anything else, had won them over and bound them into a gang. He was proud of their safety record—in the last year only cuts, bruises, and sometimes sprained or broken limbs occurred—but no serious wounds and, thank the Good Lord, none of his men had died. In a dangerous profession notorious for injuries and death, that fact said a lot.

  Kael searched for the three men he’d decided to single out tonight, singing their favorite songs as a reward. “Aagaard, Gundry, Atwell.”

  The three men he’d called straightened.

  Kael started by lifting his chin at Lars Aagaard, a Norwegian with the coloring and build of a Viking. “Mighty fine catch of Richards.”

  The men laughed. Some had seen Richards, a fellow lumberjack, lose his footing on the limb where he perched and tumble off. With a diving grab, Aagaard had broken the man’s fall, saving him from injury. The Norwegian was probably covered with bruises from the rescue, but he didn’t show any sign of pain.

  Aagaard’s cold blue eyes didn’t warm from Kael’s praise, but he lifted his chin.

  No one knew much
about the man beyond that his family had emigrated from Norway when he was a babe to live with an uncle in Sweetwater Springs. Aagaard hadn’t freely offered up his favorite song, seeming to hoard the knowledge until he trusted Kael.

  Even then, Kael had taken weeks to learn the Norwegian words, ‘Mellom bakkar og berg’—for he’d had to draw the foreign words from the man—sometimes only a few at a time—and then go over and over the pronunciation to get everything right. Or, as close as he could come. He began to sing.

  Mellom bakkar og berg ut med havet

  Heve nordmannen fenge sin heim

  Der han sjølv heve tuftene grave

  Og sett sjølv sine hus oppå deim

  Between hills and mountains out by the sea

  The Norseman has found his home

  Where he himself has dug the foundations

  And himself has placed his houses upon them

  After Kael finished singing, Aagaard’s hard countenance softened, and tears sheened his eyes. He nodded in thanks.

  Not for the first time, Kael marveled at the power of a song. Aagaard was the most silent of all his men. A hard worker who kept to himself. Rarely spoke and never fought. Kael couldn’t ask for a better lumberjack. To see the man moved by the song gave Kael a deep sense of rightness and appreciation for the gift God had given him, making the hard work of learning to pronounce the Norwegian words worth every bit of frustration.

  He moved on to Gundry. Gundry was short with a barrel chest and stumpy arms and legs. He was one of the rare talkers in the gang and had a biting sense of humor that either made others laugh or made them angry. He came from a family in Sweetwater Springs with over a dozen children, although as adults most had scattered hither and yon in search of work. But before they’d left, the siblings had tumbled into enough adventures to keep Gundry spinning yarns of their exploits, entertaining the men on the long, dark winter nights.