Glorious Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series) (12 page)

Joshua made a mental note to ask his parents what had happened.

The banker made a dismissing motion with his hand. “Why don’t we all meet at my home after church on Sunday?” He obviously wanted to change the subject. “We can discuss the matter of expanding the parsonage. I imagine most of those involved will attend the ice cream social tomorrow, and I can drop a word in their ears. I’ll have Mrs. Graves prepare a meal for everyone.”

“Sounds like an expedient way to handle the situation. Thank you, Mr. Livingston.”

“Caleb, call me Caleb. At least, in private.”

Joshua nodded and offered his given name.

“Do you have a plan for the expansion?”

“Somewhat. The parsonage is awkwardly configured, so it’s not that easy to figure out,” Joshua said frankly. “But I tell you, my trunks are sitting on the porch because there’s no room
in the house for them, or the belongings inside them.”

Mr. Livingston frowned. “Very inconvenient. Although I’m sure they’ll be safe there. However, if you need storage in the meantime, feel free to avail yourself of my attic.”

“Thank you. That’s a generous offer. As long as the expansion happens soon, they’ll be fine where they are.”

“You probably noticed the new construction in town. My architect is here to check on the progress of the hotel and Gordon’s office building. I can have him draw something up based on your ideas. It might be best to have an expert sketch a simple plan.”

“You’re right. My parents are so used to making do that they’d be content with the addition of a single closet. And yes, I’ll offer a few opinions, but your architect should talk with them to see what they might want.”

“Of course.”

The banker sat forward in his chair, a gleam of curiosity in his eyes. “Now, I’m sure you’d like to open an account.”

“My late wife inherited money from her family, which has now come to me. Well, mostly it’s tied up for Micah. But we have a conservative sum that provides us with a living.”

“I see. Then you’ll definitely need an account.”

The banker’s words brought into reality Joshua’s changed circumstances. It was because of his wife he even had the money for house expansions and bank accounts.

I wonder what Esther would have done with the money if she were alive.
She probably would have appreciated some of the luxuries that had been denied them for so long. A home of their own, certainly. But perhaps she also would have wanted to contribute toward the mission fields, to help others continue the work they’d begun.

Something to think about.

But right now, Joshua had to accept that he was no longer a poor missionary and to wisely shepherd his nest egg. Esther’s death had changed his life in so many ways. The future, which for years had seemed set onto a grim path, was now opening upon an uncertain but hopeful vista. A bank account right here in Sweetwater Springs was a first step into that future.

Several hours later, the dirty bunch of warriors trudged up the trail, victorious. Inga carried several squirrels by the tails, while Elsebe and Micah each toted a little girl who clung like a monkey to their backs. In his pocket nestled a toad he’d discovered on the edge of a small pond. Inga had warned him that he’d have to catch spiders, ants, and flies to feed it, but Micah knew he could do that.

When they rounded the shed and came in view of the house, they found Micah’s grandmother and Mr. Swensen sitting on the porch. Mr. Swensen bounced a blonde toddler on his leg, a child even smaller than Lottie.
That must be number six.
He couldn’t remember her name.

When his grandmother stood, Micah saw she cradled a baby in her arms. Her eyes grew wide, and she took several steps forward to the edge of the porch and stared down at them. “Oh, dear Lord,” she exclaimed.

Startled, Micah looked at the girls and saw the group through his grandmother’s eyes. Mud still covered them although also it had smudged in places, showing patches of lighter skin underneath.

Inga had stuck an eagle feather into her braid, and it dangled underneath the fox fur she wore on her head.

Mr. Swensen shot to his feet.

“Look, Pa.” Inga held up the squirrels. “Dinner. I shot two, Micah got two, and Elsebe managed to hit one, although I don’t know how cuz she squealed when she threw.”

Mr. Swensen opened and closed his mouth a few times, looking dumfounded. “What are you doing with those furs?” he demanded.

“We were careful with them, Pa,” Inga assured him. But her voice wavered.

His grandmother frowned, the first time he’d seen that expression on her face. “Micah Norton, whatever have you done?
If you’ve damaged Mr. Swensen’s furs, he won’t receive as much money when he sells them. This is a serious matter, Micah.”

I knew I was bound to make her angry,
he thought with a resigned sigh. But her tone wasn’t as sharp as his mother’s would have been, rising to a shriek that would hurt his ears. A stronger reaction was bound to come, and he braced himself, familiar with how adults often needed a few minutes to absorb his latest misdeeds, before bursting forth with a scolding and punishment.

But no matter how his grandmother or Mr. Swensen disciplined him, Micah wasn’t a bit sorry. He and the girls—who’d proved to be good companions, after all—had found themselves having an adventure. For the first time since they’d left Africa, he’d had fun without Kimu, something he thought would never happen. He didn’t think they’d harmed the furs.
Should I offer to pay for them?
Grandfather Maynard had given him money before they left Cambridge.

His face flushed with anger, Mr. Swensen stepped off the porch and circled each child, inspecting the furs.

Micah stood stock still, praying they’d done no damage.

After his inspection, Mr. Swensen nodded. “Take off and lay on porch rail.”

Relieved, Micah untied the fox pelt from his head.

“Never again play with them.” He shot a stern look at his daughters, then swept his gaze to include Micah.

“Yes, Pa,” the older girls chorused.

“Yes, sir,” Micah hurried to add as the children took off their furs.

His grandmother glanced down at the baby in her arms and gave him a little rock before looking up and narrowing her eyes at Micah. “Let me guess? You all were playing that you’re natives on a hunt.”

How did she know?
His face must have revealed his puzzlement, for his grandmother laughed.

“Your father’s letters have been very descriptive, dear boy. Oh, I wish a photographer was around to take your photograph.”

Micah couldn’t believe his ears. He gaped at her.

“Oh yes, Micah. I predict this is a story that will be told many times.” She glanced at Mr. Swensen, who still looked stunned. “Little Olaf is asleep, so let me put him down in the cradle. Good thing Anna’s napping.”

“Ja,” Mr. Swensen said in fervent agreement. “She’s particular about the girls. Clean and neat. She’d get out of bed and scrub them herself.”

“Then we’ll have to find a way to tidy them up before she awakes. Heating water for the six of them will take forever. I guess we’ll have to build a fire by the creek because the snowmelt will turn them blue with cold. Good thing the day’s still warm out.”

Mr. Swensen frowned. “No need, ma’am. I chose here to settle because hot spring nearby.” He jerked his head to indicate the back of the house. “But we must build fire so everyone dries out. I have firepit we use.”

“Just what we need.”

“Inga and Elsebe.” Mr. Swensen’s voice became more authoritative. “Fetch soap and every towel and rag. You must wear your best dresses, so bring them, too. Once they are on, you must all sit still to not make dirty.”

From the dismayed expression on Inga’s face, Micah guessed sitting still was a worse punishment than being scolded, spanked, or sent to your room without supper. He could empathize.

“Don’t wake your ma,” Mr. Swensen ordered.

Elsebe lowered Lottie to the ground, and Inga set the squirrels on the porch, then they scurried to do his bidding.

Micah crouched so Marta could climb off his back. “Guess I should help carry firewood.”

“Ja, firewood. Micah help me skin the squirrels.”

His interest perked up. “I’ve never cleaned squirrels before.”

“Saved me the trouble of hunting dinner,” Mr. Swensen admitted as he scratched his beard. “We have beans, which is what we eat when my wife is confined.”

His grandmother frowned. “This time, Anna had a more difficult delivery. She must rest. You can’t exist on beans for days.”

Mr. Swensen gave his daughters a grim look. “Now I know the girls can hunt with me.”

“Yes,” said Grandmother in a wry tone. “But perhaps without the mud next time.”

Mr. Swensen eyed Micah’s clothes. “I’ve got shirt and pants in trunk from when I was youngster. You borrow them.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Mr. Swensen gestured from Grandmother to the open door. “If you put baby down. . .”

“The dear boy is sound asleep. I’ll tuck him in his cradle. Then I’ll supervise the girls’ bathing. When they are done, Micah can have his turn.”

The adults went into the house, leaving Micah with the little girls. The three plopped down on the steps to wait, but before long the older girls came out, their arms full of towels and rags. His grandmother and Mr. Swensen followed, carrying batches of clothes.

Mr. Swensen tilted his head to the side of the house. “Grab armful of wood, Micah,” he ordered.

Micah hurried around the corner of the house to see a woodpile. He picked up as many logs as he could carry, then staggered to the back where the others waited.

Inga whirled and started down a path opposite of the one they’d taken on their hunt. The others fell in line behind her.

Just as Micah’s arms started to ache from carrying the wood, they came into a clearing. Stones formed a firepit in a sandy area, some rough wooden benches on either side.

Mr. Swensen set the clothes on one. “The hot spring’s up a ways.” With his chin, he indicated the direction. “By the time water runs here, temperature’s fine.” He gestured for Micah to put down the wood, then crouched to deftly build a fire. Once the flames blazed, he stood and smiled at Grandmother. “Girls go in the water with their clothes. Are going to need to wash dresses anyway.”

Grandmother laughed, placed her armload of clothes on the bench, and waved the two males away.

Micah followed Mr. Swensen back to the house. He picked up the squirrels. “Skin these, ja?”

“Ja,” Micah echoed, following the man to the shed.

Inside the shed, across from the skins, stood a counter stained brown with old blood. One side held several knives and some garden implements. On the walls hung metal animal traps of various sizes, with jagged teeth that made Micah grimace.

“Nasty things,” said Mr. Swensen, “but necessary to survival.” Stacks of furs took up the rest of the space.

Mr. Swensen set a large pail near the counter. “For pig,” Mr. Swensen commented. “She eats ’most anything.”

Mr. Swensen picked up Inga’s squirrel, settled the animal on its back on the counter, and made a belly cut from neck to backside. “Keep shallow,” he instructed. “Don’t cut into guts.” He handed Micah the knife, his blue eyes serious. “Go ahead.”

Micah took a breath in preparation, inhaling the musky scent of the animal. He held his squirrel upside down and imitated Mr. Swensen’s motion, although not nearly as deftly. When he finished, he looked at Mr. Swensen for approval.

The man nodded. “Ja. Open body and remove insides.” He demonstrated.

Micah followed, fumbling a bit. He took longer than Mr. Swensen. The insides were slippery, and his hands soon became sticky with blood.

“Good. Now, circle-cut around each paw and tail.” Mr. Swensen positioned the squirrel so the back was toward him. “Grab head and yank off skin, downward towards tail.” He glanced at Micah to make sure he understood. “Make nicks to separate skin from meat. Pull off quick with one motion. Not cut off like with larger animal like deer.”

Micah smiled his understanding. He tried to imitate the man, but ended up with a mutilated carcass.

Mr. Swensen grinned, obviously having lost his ill humor. “Not bad for first attempt, ja? Now, remove paws, tail, and head.” He scooped the head and paws into the pail, then held up the tail. “Keep this to remember your first squirrel hunt.” He winked. “Better wash off blood before you take home.”

“Yes, sir,” Micah said, accepting the tail. “Thank you. This will make a great trophy.” He could hardly wait to show his father.

CHAPTER EIGHT

O
n the evening of the ice cream social, Delia dressed with care in one of her new gowns, a forest green silk with velvet bands on the sleeves and across the bottom of the basque and the hem of the skirt. A froth of lace edged the neckline, pinned in place by an emerald bar pin her father had given her.

She stepped to the oval mirror and critically surveyed herself. Matching earrings glittered in her earlobes, and she wore her hair in a chignon with trailing curls, instead of her usual braid.

Tonight, she had no need of pinching her cheeks, for her olive skin glowed pink with excitement. She was looking forward to the ice cream social and dreading attending at the same time. Reluctant to leave her father’s bedside, she was afraid to venture into her first social setting as a white woman.
What if I give myself away?

Delia could imagine the scorn on the faces of the people who’d been so hospitable. But one face lingered in her mind. She couldn’t bear to see the warmth in Reverend Norton’s blue eyes turn cold, rejecting. She’d nearly let the cat out of the bag during his first visit to the mansion with talk of voodoo in New Orleans culture. Thank goodness, her father had signaled for silence just in time.

Delia shuddered and moved away from the mirror. She glanced around the feminine room,
covered in rose-patterned wallpaper, wishing she could curl up on the pink velvet window seat and look out at the night.
Gather my courage.

But there was no time. Her hostess expected her downstairs in a few minutes.

She picked up a matching green velvet cloak, her gloves, and a beaded reticule from on top of the puffy pink bedcovering, then walked into her father’s room.

Andre was propped in bed, reading by the light of the lamp. He looked up when she entered. “You look beautiful, my dear. I predict the local swains will find you more delectable than the ice cream.”

Heat crept into her cheeks. She hadn’t yet grown used to her father’s compliments. “Oh, Papa!”

He closed his book. “I want you to enjoy yourself, daughter. No fretting about me. Promise?”

“Promise.” Delia swooped down and kissed his cheek. “Just the fact that you’re feeling well enough to read reassures me.”

“I’m growing tired already. I’m sure I’ll soon fall asleep.” He patted his book. “Sometimes just a little of Marcus Aurelius is all I need. The man’s words give me plenty to ponder, yet also relax me.”

The writings of the Roman philosopher and emperor had been left out of the nuns’ curriculum, although on the train journey, Delia had listened to her father recite his favorite quotes. “Well, I’m grateful you have Marcus Aurelius to keep you company when I cannot.”

Her father chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of swains to keep you company.”

That’s what I’m afraid of.

Delia walked with Edith Grayson and Ben to the schoolhouse under the light of a fat moon. She kept glancing up at the sky, with stars as bright as diamonds sparkling in the swath of black velvet. She couldn’t believe how beautiful the night looked, and she wished she could stop and observe her surroundings.

Although spring in New Orleans was Delia’s favorite season—with its fragrance of new growth and flowers and without the sticky heat of the summer that pressed down and leached energy from one’s body—since she’d left, she hadn’t missed the city. She found the crisp Montana air invigorating and drew in lungfuls as deep as her corset would allow.

As the threesome strolled toward the lights of the schoolhouse, Edith pulled her cashmere-lined velvet shawl closer around her. She was dressed in rose velvet that set off her dark upswept hair, the material edged with lace dyed the same shade. Pearls circled her neck and dangled from her earlobes. “I’m sorry, my dear friend,” she said, taking Delia’s arm, “that you won’t have the type of company tonight with whom you are accustomed to associating. The whole community is invited to events like this, and you’ll meet everyone from wealthy ranchers to the most uncouth cowhands who work for them. I believe even the poorer families have walked into town for the evening. Mack Taylor, the livery stable owner, allows them to sleep overnight in the hayloft.”

Delia hid a smile of irony.
If Edith only knew.
“I’m looking forward to Western entertainments. Everyone here has been quite kind.”
When it comes down to it, that’s more important than their social status. Not that most people in Papa’s circle in New Orleans would agree with me.
But she didn’t dare voice her thoughts to her hostess.

The schoolhouse came in sight, every window glowing with light. The ones nearest the front were open, and the noise of conversation spilled over to them. Some people walked or rode from opposite directions, obviously headed to the same place.

Her stomach jumping with nerves, Delia followed Edith up the steps and into the schoolhouse. The one-room building was filled with people. Happy chatter buzzed through the space. She smelled sugar and vanilla and couldn’t help searching the crowd for a certain tall minister and feeling a pang of disappointment when she didn’t see him. She unclasped her cloak and hung it over several coats already taking up all the available pegs.

Ben drifted over to some boys his age.

The people nearby glanced their way. Their gazes seemed to focus in on her, and the hum of conversation dipped.

Her jumpy stomach somersaulted. She felt pinned by everyone’s stares, a butterfly to a display board. Delia was certain people could tell who she really was—that
at any minute there would be an outcry deriding her presence in the room. She almost turned to flee, but her legs had frozen.

Edith grasped her elbow. “Let’s move to the other side.”

Delia shook her head. “I don’t think this is a good idea, Edith. I should go back to your house and be with my father.”

“Nonsense, my dear Delia. You know very well Andre insisted you attend this gathering. He will be quite perturbed if you return home without enjoying yourself.” She gave Delia’s elbow a tug. “Now, let’s go talk to Pamela Carter.” She lifted her chin to indicate the direction and began to cross the room.

People made way for Edith, some smiling or nodding politely. But no one stopped to talk, which seemed strange, given the number of people in conversations, the shouts and waves of greeting others received when they entered.

As Delia followed her hostess, she knew people stared at her. She caught the glint of interest in several men’s eyes and deliberately turned away her face , not wanting to give any sign of encouragement.

Finally, when Edith reached the other side of the room, she stopped in front of a plain brown-haired woman with plump cheeks who wore a silk gown the same color as her garnet necklace and earrings. She looked familiar.
Ah, she lent us her carriage
.

A little girl about four or five clung to her mother’s skirt. The child had delicate features, blue eyes, and long brown hair in ringlets. Her pink dress was edged with lace.

The woman gave Edith a polite smile, and the two touched fingers in a genteel greeting, murmuring hellos.

Mrs. Carter’s smile widened. “Miss Bellaire.” She clasped Delia’s hand with both of hers. “Tell me how your father fares. He’s been in our thoughts and prayers.”

Delia’s throat tightened at the genuine concern in the woman’s eyes. “Thank you, ma’am. He’s much better, else I wouldn’t be here. But my father insisted. He wants to hear all about the social later.”

Mrs. Carter patted Delia’s hand before releasing her. “Then you must have yourself a lovely time, so you have plenty to tell him. Staying bedridden is so dreary. After my confinement with my youngest daughter. . .” She smoothed her hand over the little girl’s head. “I had to stay in bed for several weeks. There were times I thought I’d go insane with boredom. Luckily, Lizzy was content to lie in my arms for hours, and I could gaze at her to my heart’s delight.”

Delia’s heart crimped. She’d always thought she’d have babies. But now. . . . She shoved the painful thought away.
I have my father. That is enough.

But for how long?
Another thought to set aside. “I want to thank you, ma’am, for your kindness in lending your carriage to my father and myself after his attack.”

“Call me Pamela, my dear.” The woman patted Delia’s shoulder. “We aren’t so formal in this town. And you’ll find that we help each other a great deal. Life in Montana can be harsh, but the spirit of community we have here makes up for all the big-city amenities we lack.”

Her kindness made sudden tears burn in the back of Delia’s eyes. She couldn’t help wondering if Pamela would have accepted Delia, the illegitimate octoroon, as readily as she did the woman she was pretending to be. But perhaps she would have.
I’ll never know,
Delia thought with sudden sadness, realizing that there were more complications to the deception than she’d anticipated.

Edith evidently didn’t notice Delia’s moment of emotion. “Mrs. Carter comes from Boston, as does my family,” she said in a self-important tone.

Pamela flicked a glance at Edith. “I don’t see Mr. Livingston with you.”

“My brother had an appointment at the bank. He should be here soon.”

Delia felt Reverend Norton before she saw him. An energy swirled within her and drew her attention toward the middle of the room. She shifted and saw him making his way over to her, and her heart did a happy dip.

He stopped in front of them and gave a little bow. “Ladies, I’ve come to you for safety, for you three are people I can surely identify. After so many years away, I don’t recognize several in the gathering, and I’ve narrowly avoided giving offense. Then there are the callers who’ve flooded the parsonage, and I dread forgetting the name of someone I’ve just met.” He made a comical expression.

Delia giggled.

Reverend Norton’s eyes twinkled at her. “I have to catch my breath and brace myself before once again entering into the fray.”

Edith didn’t look amused, but Pamela laughed with Delia. “I can understand your dilemma, Reverend Norton.” She shook her head. “Would you be comfortable with us addressing you as Reverend Joshua? It’s not that I don’t want to give you the respect due you. I just think two Reverend Nortons are confusing.”

His smile dimmed and, for a moment, his eyes looked sad. “Reverend Joshua was the very name my native parishioners called me. So, I’m quite familiar with being addressed that way.”

Mrs. Carter gave him an understanding smile. “Then we will spread the word about how to address you.”

“Thank you.” His gaze fell on their empty hands. “But where is your ice cream?” he asked, clearly changing the subject. “Allow me to procure some for you.” He leaned down to Lizzy. “Do you want ice cream, little one?”

She ducked behind her mother.

Pamela looked down at her daughter with a fond smile. “Lizzy’s shy, Reverend Joshua. She’ll be better when she’s familiar with you.” She paused before adding, “But not much.”

Everyone laughed except Edith.

Reverend Joshua straightened. “So I see. But I must try.” He peeked around Pamela. “Miss Lizzy. Will you come with me to obtain bowls of ice cream? I don’t have enough hands to carry them all.” He spread out his fingers.

Delia stepped back so she could see the little girl’s reaction.

Lizzy shook her head and buried her face against her mother’s hip.

“Rejected.” Reverend Joshua shook his head in mock dismay. “Perhaps, Miss Bellaire, I can call upon you to assist me in bringing ice cream for Miss Lizzy and her mother, as well as Mrs. Grayson.”

“Certainly, Reverend Joshua.”

Before they could embark on their mission, he spotted his son wiggling through the crowd. “Here comes my son.”

Micah stopped in front of him and held up a big bowl of ice cream topped with berry sauce. “Father.” He raised his voice for attention. “This syrup is good.” He pointed with his spoon at the berry sauce. “The lady said it was saskatoon and that it’s also a jam. Can we get some to have at home?”

Reverend Joshua grinned at his son.

For a moment, the careworn look he’d sometimes worn vanished, and Delia could see the young lad he must have been.

“My son has discovered his sweet tooth,” he said to Delia. “In Uganda, we didn’t have much chance to indulge.”

“I can imagine.”

He turned to his son. “Micah, one of the many blessings of being part of a minister’s family is that the good ladies of Sweetwater Springs make sure we are well provided with jams of all sorts. I remember we had to build a special cupboard in the kitchen.” He glanced at the women and made a boxlike motion with his hands. “The parsonage is so tiny that at one point, we cut out a section of the wall and built a pantry on the outside of the house.”

Pamela clapped her hands together. “Reverend Joshua, you bring back memories.” She beamed at the others. “When John and I were newly married, he helped build that pantry. It was my second introduction to how people here help each other by way of being neighborly.”

Reverend Joshua pulled a face of mock relief. “Thank goodness for that. My father, good man that he is, is
not
skilled with his hands. If the task were left to him, we’d probably have the wind whistling through the cracks. That is if the cupboard still stood after a few months.”