Glorious Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series) (18 page)

When he finished, Mr. Bellaire’s eyes drooped. “Finish memorizing it before you leave. Don’t mind if I fall asleep. But come back and visit again.”

“Yes, sir.”

Propping an elbow on the table, Micah applied himself to learning the chapter. Once he figured he knew the whole thing, he decided he’d recite the verses on the way home, so if he forgot anything, he could look it up at the parsonage.

At that moment, Miss Bellaire walked into the room. Her eyes widened. “Hello, Micah.”

Close on her heels came his father.

His stomach squeezed and he sat up straight.
Oh, no!

Mr. Bellaire woke up and smiled at his daughter. “Hello, dearest.”

Micah’s father frowned. “Son, what are you doing here?”

Mr. Bellaire lifted a hand. “Don’t scold the boy, Reverend. He’s been keeping me company.”

“I’m a tonic,” Micah said stoutly. “Mr. Bellaire said so.”

Eyes narrowed, his father glanced from Mr. Bellaire to Micah, eying the Bible in his hand.

Hoping his father wouldn’t ask why he was at the Livingstons’ house, Micah rushed into speech. “I read Psalm 100 to Mr. Bellaire, and I memorized the whole chapter. Do you want to hear it?”

“I do,” said Miss Bellaire, a pleased smile on her face. “Perhaps you can recite the whole thing for me later. For now, however, I think my father needs his rest.” She stooped and kissed Micah’s cheek. “Thank you, my dear boy.”

For what?

“Wait,” Mr. Bellaire commanded in a weak voice. “Daughter, bring me my traveling desk.”

Miss Bellaire gave him an odd look but crossed the room to a trunk, lifted the lid, and took out a flat box, the wood polished to a glossy finish. She brought the desk to her father and held it in front of him.

Mr. Bellaire raised the lid. “Ah. I thought I still had it. Come here, Micah.” He reached into the box and pulled out a red feather.

Micah’s eyes almost popped out of his head. He moved closer to the bed. “Is that your challenge feather?”

“It is indeed.” He handed it to Micah. “And now it’s yours. That is, if you take up the challenge.”

“I will, sir.”

“Good. You come back and tell me about it. Good-day to you, Micah. . .and Reverend Joshua.”

His father’s hand on his shoulder propelled Micah in the direction of the door. They said their good-byes and left.

On the walk home, Micah recited Psalm 100.

His father nodded, his mouth pulling up in the expression he made when he was pleased or amused and trying to hide his feelings.

When Micah finished, Father’s smile widened. “Well done. I don’t know what brought you to Mr. Bellaire’s bedside. . . .”

Micah glanced at his hands, worried where the conversation was aiming.

“And I’m not going to ask, for the results were positive, indeed.” He ruffled Micah’s hair. “I’m pleased how you kept an ill man company. Your mother would have been pleased. She took great store in visiting the sick and reading to them from the Bible.”

His smile slid away, but Micah knew the change was about his mother dying, not him. Whatever the reason, Micah was filled with relief. As they turned the corner to the parsonage, Micah twirled the stem of the red feather between his thumb and forefinger, realizing that he had met his challenge for the day.

CHAPTER TWELVE

T
en days later, Joshua was at the train station to send off a dutiful letter to the Maynards. He’d included a note that Micah had reluctantly composed, only because he stood over his son while the boy wrote and made suggestions for what to say.

The inside of the depot looked different from the spare space he remembered. Two long benches that reminded him of pews were placed back to back, and a wall, with a window and a counter, divided the travelers’ area from the mailroom. While waiting at the counter, Joshua could see shelves containing neatly labeled boxes lined the back wall of the mailroom. Once again, Joshua was reminded how the town had grown in his absence.

He handed over the letter to the short, stocky stationmaster and mail clerk, Jack Waite, who stood behind the low counter. Since Joshua had last seen him, the bushy hair haloing the man’s head had turned completely gray and lines fanned across his face. “It’s good to see you, Mr. Waite. How have you been?”

“Now that the winter has passed, and we have sunshine, I’m much better. My old joints don’t like the cold.” Jack touched the petal of a white narcissus with one gnarled finger—one of a bunch of flowers crammed into a jar on the end of the counter.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“My condolences on the death of your missus.”

“Why, thank you, Mr. Waite,” said Joshua, touched and surprised by the stationmaster’s acknowledgment of his private loss.

“Call me Jack, Reverend Joshua. You’re not a boy any longer.”

Joshua grinned at him. “Sometimes, I feel twice my age.”

The man frowned. “That’s not right. A young fella like you, minister or not, should be enjoying life. I tell you, aging ain’t something a body wants to be doing. So, you appreciate what you’ve got while you can.”

Joshua’s thoughts flashed to Esther’s dying, the pain in her withered body. “A sage lesson, Jack, thank you. I need to remember more often how blessed I am.”

“You do that, Reverend.” Jack glanced down at the letter. “Now, where’s this goin’
?” He squinted at the envelope. “Ah, Cambridge. I remember well all the letters that went back and forth from there when you were in school. Not as many afterwards, although your parents kept in touch with the family of your missus. The Maynards would send a note to your parents if they’d heard from her, and your parents would let them know what they’d learned from your letters.”

For a moment, Joshua stared at Jack, startled by what he’d heard. Then he shook his head. “I didn’t know that. Perhaps I should have. If either Esther’s letters or my own made it to our families, I can see how news of our doings could provide comfort when passed on.”

“Yes, thoughtful, that.”

“Well, you’ll see plenty more back and forth to Cambridge now, especially if I can persuade my son to voluntarily engage in his own correspondence.”

“I saw your young shaver. I heard he’s been spending time at the Bellaires.”

The small town grapevine never failed to amaze him. “Yes. As have I. Lying in bed with nothing to do is wearing on Mr. Bellaire’s spirits.”

“Don’t I know that! That’s why I don’t give up my job here, no matter how much my rheumatism pains me.”

“A good choice, Jack.”

“I tell you, though. Goin’ to miss your letters from Africa. I’d hold each one in my hand and imagine the journey it took to reach here. Later, your ma or pa would tell us your news.” He smiled and the wrinkles around his mouth deepened. “Fascinating, some of what you described.”

Touched by the old man’s words, Joshua stood there for a minute, letting the images Jack had spoken about soak in. He’d never known he was writing to the whole town—that the folks would be fascinated by his trials and adventures in that exotic far land.
“I probably wrote a lot more letters than arrived here. I know I didn’t receive all the ones my parents sent.”

“Well, that figures. Once the letter left the states, it had quite a long and perilous journey to reach you.”

Joshua gave him a rueful smile. “So did humans.”

“Why,” Jack marveled, “In some places, hand-carrying the post for hundreds of miles
. . .it’s a wonder any mail arrives at all.”

Smiling indulgently, Joshua tilted his head toward the door. “I’d best be on my way.”

“You heading over to the Livingstons now?”

Joshua nodded.

“Good. A letter came for Miss Bellaire. From New Orleans. Will you take it to her? Save them making a trip to fetch it.”

“Of course.” Joshua accepted the letter for Delia, scrupulously not looking at the envelope. He tucked the letter into his vest pocket, set his hat on, bade Jack good-bye, and walked outside into the spring sunshine, his heart already lifting at the thought he’d see Delia in just minutes. Longing, strange and undefined, pierced him, and he hurried toward the Livingston mansion. . .to her.

He strode down the street, conscious of the letter in his pocket, With a clench of his stomach, Joshua wondered if Delia had a beau. That thought had never occurred to him, and he didn’t like that it had now. . .how it mattered to him that her affections might be already engaged.

Joshua passed the schoolhouse and wondered what Micah was doing. Hopefully, dutifully studying. He hadn’t received a poor report from Mrs. Gordon, and so far, the boy hadn’t complained about attending school—probably because he was spending time with other children. Although, instead of playing with the other boys, his son had been visiting Andre Bellaire every day after school—a surprising friendship but one that seemed good for both the young boy and the older man. He shook his head.
Sometimes, prayers are answered in the strangest ways.

Joshua turned into the Livingston’s gate and walked up to the door, conscious of anticipation kicking up in him about seeing Delia.

Mrs. Graves answered his knock and directed her habitual scowl his way. Without his asking, the housekeeper launched into a litany of the doings of the inhabitants. “Mr. Livingston is at the bank. Mrs. Grayson is out making calls. Mr. Bellaire is sleeping, and Miss Bellaire is in the garden.” She clipped each word.

“Thank you, Mrs. Graves. I’ll start with Miss Bellaire.”

Mrs. Graves jerked her head toward the back of the house. “Down the hall. Through the sunroom.”

By this time, Joshua was familiar with the Livingston home, although he still felt uncomfortable wandering around the place without an escort. The hallway led straight through the house to a door, which he opened to see a sunroom that ran the width of the house. He stepped inside. The glass windows looked like they could be slid back to expose screened panels. The floor was covered with blue-and-white tile, and wicker furniture with cushions in an India print was arranged around an octagonal table.

Joshua walked to one of the windows and peered out, searching for Delia. The formal garden shouldn’t have taken him by surprise, given the elegance of the Livingston mansion, but he’d never seen anything like these gro
unds—at least, not in Montana. An ivy-covered brick wall closed in the broad rectangular expanse. A boxwood-lined brick walkway bisected a lawn and led to a fountain featuring a mermaid spilling water from a jug. The path circled around the fountain on each side, branching off to wisteria-covered arbors. On the far side of the fountain, the walkway forked, one path
leading to a vine-shaded gazebo in one direction and the other to a small pond.

Near the house was a stone well covered with a peaked wooden roof. Joshua suspected the well was left over from an earlier time. He vaguely remembered a decrepit cabin sitting on this land. But now, the well was a romantic element that blended well with the rest of the garden.

No sign of Delia. Anxious to see her, he stepped through the glass door and onto the brick path. He moved toward the fountain, then veered to the right, checking underneath the arbor, and then looked across to the other. The wooden benches under both were empty.

Disappointed and wondering if she’d gone in to check on her father, Joshua continued his stroll around the fountain, choosing the slanting path toward the gazebo. The breeze brought the scent of the roses growing in beds along the wall. From this angle, he co
uld see through the doorway to where Delia sat reading on a cushioned bench that circled the interior. His stomach did a little flip, and his feet rooted to the ground.

Sunlight filtered through the lattice and hanging morning glory vines to gild her gold-and-brown patterned dress and burnish auburn highlights into her dark hair. He could see her profile
. . .the line of her throat, the soft rise and fall of her breasts.

Somehow, Joshua knew he’d always remember this image. Reluctant to shatter the picture, he watched for another moment before taking off his hat. “Miss Bellaire,” he called softly.

Delia looked up from her book and saw him.

The way she smiled and how her eyes lit up caused Joshua to catch his breath.

“Reverend Joshua.” She placed a bookmark between the leaves and closed the volume. “How good to see you.” She waved him in.

“Mrs. Graves tells me your father is resting.”

“Yes, I insisted. Although Papa does seem much stronger and has started to chafe at staying in bed.”

“I don’t blame him.”

“Your son is a godsend, the way he entertains my father. After their chess game, Micah walks him in the area outside the bedroom. It’s something to see, Papa’s hand on Micah’s shoulder, their painstaking progress, that boy’s patience with a sick man.”

Her words gave Joshua a sense of pride. For so long, he’d only heard complaints and criticism about his son, mostly, he reflected with some guilt, from the boy’s own mother. And she’d made him believe their son’s normal boyhood mischief was a more serious behavioral problem.
Thank goodness, Micah and I are gradually growing closer.

“Visiting with Andre has helped Micah, too,” he said. “My son seems happier lately. I’m hopeful adapting to Montana won’t be as difficult as he and I feared.”

She patted the bench next to her. “Come sit. I imagine my father will awaken soon and will be happy to see you.”

Joshua took a seat next to her, perhaps closer than he would for any other lady, setting down the bowler on his other side. “I’ve been in better spirits, too.”

Delia gazed at him, sympathy in her eyes. “You’ve been in mourning.”

He let out a long breath. “Yes, but I’ve also struggled with a feeling of malaise.”

“I’ve seen signs of that.” She touched his hand.

“Being home. . .with my family and old friends. . .” He gazed at her, sure she could see his feelings in his eyes. “And
new
ones. . .has proven to be a tonic.”

Pink rose in her cheeks, and she glanced away.

He reached inside his coat, pulled out the letter from his vest pocket, and extended it toward her. “The stationmaster sent this with me. He says it’s from New Orleans.”

The light left her eyes, and her skin paled. With obvious reluctance, Delia
reached to take the letter from his hand.

Concerned, Joshua leaned in closer.

Delia glanced up at him, her eyes wide and apprehensive. “It’s from my mother.”

“Would you like me to leave so you can read in private?”

Her hand shot out to clasp his. “Oh, no. Please stay.”

Joshua squeezed her fingers and had to prevent an instinctive need to bring her hand to his lips. Reluctantly, he released her.

Delia took a deep breath, opened the envelope, pulled out the single sheet of paper, and began to read.

From the glimpse Joshua had of the writing before he turned away his face, her mother had only written a few paragraphs.

Delia made a small gasping sound of distress.

His stomach tightened.
What’s wrong?

When she finished reading, Delia kept her head averted. With shaking hands, she clumsily folded the paper and tried to stuff the sheet back into the envelope. The paper crumpled and the edge of the envelope tore. She dropped it on the seat next to her.

“Is it bad news, Delia?” Joshua barely noticed his use of her first name.

“It’s to be expected,” she said in a low voice, still hiding her face. “My mother is. . .upset that I’ve chosen to leave New Orleans and live with my father. I’d hoped she would understand, but. . .she’s very angry.”

“Your mother must miss you.”

She shook her head and flicked a sad glance his way.

“Delia, I hope you know you can confide in me.”

She hesitated, and her hazel eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, Delia.” Compelled by a protective urge, Joshua gathered her into his arms.

She let out a sob and buried her face against his shoulder, sliding her hands around his waist. Her shoulders shook as she silently wept.

Joshua held her tightly, breathing in her perfume and wishing he had the power to ease her pain.

Delia only allowed herself a few minutes before she pul
led away and dabbed a finger under her eyes. “Oh, what must you think?”

Joshua captured her finger and brought it to his lips. With his other hand, he cupped her face and wiped away her tears with his thumb. “I think you’re beautiful, tears and all. You have a tender heart that loves your mother and wishes for her approval.”

Delia stared up at him, her eyes glistening. Her lips parted, and she swayed in his direction.

Joshua couldn’t resist the temptation of her silent invitation. He lowered his head and pressed a kiss on her mouth.

Delia’s lips softened beneath his. Her hand crept up his arm to rest on his shoulder and her tense muscles relaxed.

How right she feels in my arms.
That was Joshua’s last coherent thought. Passion surged through him, unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He deepened the kiss.

Delia was the first to pull away. “I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I shouldn’t have done that. So misleading. . .”

Reluctantly, he released her.

With a hand at her throat, she turned her back on him.