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Snowflake Tiara

By Angela Breidenbach, Valerie Comer

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Stop that!” Calista Blythe wrestled her skirts free from the insistent waif. “What are you doing?” She twisted around in a circle as she collapsed the umbrella, dodging packages as they tumbled. Calista waited for her carriage to circle back down Main Street, the newly erected Power Building’s massive stone walls seemed a good idea to keep her out of the sharp wind. But Calista hadn’t counted on a street urchin to mug her. They were getting too brazen — and desperate —with winter descending on Montana. What could she do about dozens of orphans dumped off of trains? Something had to be done for the abandoned children no one adopted when they reached the last stop on the Orphan Train route. No one did. Calista’s heart squeezed a little.

The child twisted her hands into Calista’s blue velvet coat and held on like a bedraggled kitten clawed into a tree trunk. “Please miss, don’t let ’im whip me no more,” the little girl whimpered in a heavy Irish brogue as tears ran muddy rivers on her reddened cheeks, and she trembled in the cold.

“Who?” Calista craned to see around the corner of the grayish pink battered stone of the business building that served Helena, Montana’s Last Chance Gulch. She caught sight of Albert Shanahan’s handsome, stunned face as he endured confrontation with an angry manservant. The thin switch whistled through the air and slapped against the butler’s gloved palm.

Calista’s body rattled with an involuntary shudder. “Oh my!” Calista ducked back before she drew attention as the manservant entered a nearby shop. Had the little bumpkin been whacked with that weapon? “Why are you in trouble?”

A nearby door rattled against the wind. The manservant’s growling voice carried on the sharp, cold wind from a shop doorway. “If you see the little chit, you’ll let me know immediately. Yes? She’s been nothing but trouble since Chicago Joe purchased her indenture. Stupid Irish whelp.” The bell jangled as wind mixed with a light snow forced the door closed behind him. Then his footsteps pounded on the walkway coming close.

The dirty little girl pressed against rough-cut stones of the enormous Power Block building. She hunkered down and whispered, “Please—” Her petite frame seemed like an ant against the massive structure housing multiple businesses. Helena, a city blooming with intricate pink and gray stone and brick architecture on Main Street, sprouted buildings that encompassed an entire block.

Calista pushed backward, adjusting her skirts until the child disappeared into the frills and ruffles of her blue velvet coat and day dress. From the looks of her, the material would add warmth to the quivering little body. Calista opened her reticule and pretended to search inside as the man stomped to the arced stairway.

He took a long look between the tall buildings.

She peeked between lowered lashes. Adjusting the strings and juggling the velvet purse into her overloaded basket, Calista worked to appear as one of the flustered many preparing for the festivities the next day when the president would sign Montana into the union as the 41st state.

Calista waited a few minutes before glancing after the black-suited manservant. Orphans, too long ignored and neglected, needed safety and schooling. This little one seemed to have a home, though not a safe one. Calista’s heart constricted. Why did people treat other people this way?

She couldn’t loiter on a busy street concealing an indentured servant all day. What if Mr. Shanahan saw her unexpected secret? What would she do with the little urchin then? Return her for a beating? Calista closed her eyes. Not if it was within her ability to stop it!

“Is he gone?” The little one poked her head around Calista’s skirts, sniffled, and ran her nose along a grubby sleeve.

“I think so.” She bent to meet the child’s eye-level. The girl was so small and poorly dressed for the weather in a calf-length wool work smock. A light snow melted into spattering rain. The clouds broke for an occasional glimpse of sunshine, but not enough to dry the wet, muddy gulch or warm the blue-lipped child. Not enough to keep anyone from a chill without proper protection. Calista’s heart squeezed. “Oh child! Where are your shoes? Don’t you have a shawl or coat?”

The girl’s woolen stockings stank from the wet ground. “No, miss. I didna have time for ’em.” Her Irish trill beautiful in contrast to the horror of her situation.

“You sound lovely, like a little meadowlark.” Calista lifted the heavy velvet coatskirt and pulled the little girl against her warmth. As she wrapped the tiny shoulders, she couldn’t feel more than skin and bones. “What’s your name?” Warm soup and dry clothing would help, but she still needed to know why the child ran in fear. Had she done something terrible? Could some intervention help?

“I be Lea Murphy, miss.” The heart-shaped pixie face looked up through strands of mussed brownish hair.

“Lea Murphy.” Calista smiled. “How pretty your name is, and so are you under that grime.”

Lea shivered and stared at her soaked feet, little toes crossing and rubbing. “I don’t want to be pretty, miss.”

What an unusual response. “Well, Lea, maybe you can tell me a little more about your situation.”

She shook her head, but pressed closer in a shivered spasm.

“Here comes my driver. If you’ll tell me why you think you’re in such trouble, I’ll see what I can do to help. Would you like a bowl of soup to warm up? Then we can get you home safe.”

Lea’s tears started again, and she sniffled. “I ca—,” she hiccupped. “I canna — go home.” She let out a wail that could bring back the man with the switch. As soon as the sound leapt from her throat, Lea clamped a dirty hand across her mouth.

Calista’s stomach plummeted. What if that horrible man heard? She moved onto the sidewalk and glanced in both directions as if she wondered where the sound originated. He must have gone into another shop. Only the two men, Mr. Shanahan and Mr. T. C. Power, with backs to the sudden gust, remained near the bank’s front steps. They didn’t seem to hear anything above the wind.

Thank you, Lord. A smile lit her face as she signaled to the Blythe family driver. The sun blinked behind a cloud. “Thank you, again, Lord. Your timing is perfect.”

Lea looked up at the sky. “I dinna t’ink he much listens, miss.”

Calista hugged her and smiled. “I think he just did.”

But Lea didn’t return the smile.

The carriage splashed through a puddle and pulled to a stop alongside the nearest hitching post. Calista’s driver swung down and stopped short at the sight of his mistress’ skirt bundle. “Miss Blythe?”

In that moment, Calista followed the nudge in her spirit. “We have a surprise guest for lunch, Charles. Please tuck a blanket around her and pull the curtains. She’s quite cold.”

“A lost one, huh?” The driver spun a blanket around Lea. Not a bit of the mite could be seen, but a small sigh floated back to Calista. Charles tucked the blanket end under and slid a warmed brick beneath her feet.

A tiny head poked out of the bundle from the corner of the carriage. She could be any little girl headed home for an afternoon nap. Except for the tangled hair and dirty cheeks.

Calista climbed in beside Lea and tossed a furry robe across them both. “Home, please.” What would her parents do when she brought home not only a child, but one that appeared to live in the gulch gutters?

The coach pulled away from the bank building where Mr. Shanahan’s impassioned speech held Mr. T. C. Power captivated. Maybe the conversation kept them from noticing anything — unusual. Any other day Calista would love to catch Mr. Shanahan’s eye. Many of the city’s debutantes thought him quite extraordinary husband material with his congenial personality, good looks, and excellent social connections. But today...

He looked up as the carriage passed. Mr. Shanahan’s blue eyes warmed her like a hot springs soak at the new natatorium as he smiled and tipped his top hat.

Calista’s mouth went dry. Could he read her nervousness? She smiled with a nodded recognition and slipped the window cover in place — and waited, heart thumping hard as cattle running across hard ground. No shout. No chaos in the streets. Calista heaved a sigh as she sent up a prayer of thanks the men hadn’t realized Miss Calista Blythe had just stolen someone’s child!

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