Glorious Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series) (19 page)

Her words thrust full awareness on Joshua.
What have I done!
He swallowed, struggling for words. “Forgive me, Delia. . .Miss Bellaire. As a man of the cloth, I should not have taken advantage of your vulnerability.” He leaped to his feet and strode the few feet to the opposite side of the gazebo before turning to face her. “It won’t happen again.”

She didn’t say anything, but kept her back turned and shook her head.

Joshua didn’t know his heart could twist with such pain. He didn’t know what to say. . .to do.

Uncomfortable silence stretched between them.

Finally, Joshua cleared his throat. “Shall we pretend this didn’t happen? Can you trust me enough to continue—?”

“Oh, yes! Please don’t blame yourself, Joshua.” Delia interrupted and sniffed. “I should not have misled you,” she repeated.

His hands shook, and he thrust them in his pockets to keep from reaching for her. “Delia, you haven’t done anything wrong, and you didn’t mislead me. I was caught up in the moment
. . .I acted on my. . .attraction for you, which was not the behavior of a gentleman, especially a minister.”

“Oh, no!” She stretched a hand toward him, then quickly pulled away. “Please, Joshua, do not distress yourself. I do not hold you accountable.”

“I hold myself accountable,” he said stiffly.

“Can we still be on friendly terms?” she asked with a pleading expression.

Joshua looked into her beautiful face and longed to take her into his arms again. But that would be a selfish act. He forced a smile. “Of course.” He crossed over and picked up his bowler, placing the hat on his head. “Perhaps, it’s best I defer my visit to your father for another day.”

Delia hesitated and glanced at the crumpled letter, which had fallen to the ground. “Yes. I think that’s wise. I must speak with Papa about—” she gestured at the missive from her mother.

He gave her a little bow. “Good-bye, Miss Bellaire.” Joshua walked out of the gazebo, well aware that he’d just left his heart in the hands of a woman who’d only wanted his friendship.

“Good-bye, Joshua,” Delia whispered to his retreating back, not moving until she heard the sound of his footsteps receding in the distance. She touched her lips, remembering the feel of his mouth on hers—the passion that made butterflies flutter in her belly. So different from the horrid kiss Marcel Dupuy had forced on her. She never imagined kissing a man would feel so. . .sublime.

For a moment, Delia had forgotten everything and become lost in Joshua’s arms, until stark reality reminded her that she’d no right to be there, given the secrets she was keeping. Still, she’d needed every effort of will to pull away from his embrace.

If only he knew who I really was and accepted me. . .loved me anyway,
she thought, her chest tight. But such was not to be. Her mother’s letter was a harsh reminder of the life she’d escaped.

Delia picked up the envelope and traced the lettering with her finger.

Miss Delia Bellaire

She sighed.
At least
, Maman respected my request to use Bellaire, instead of Fortier.
She pulled out the sheet of paper and began to read—more carefully this time.

Delia,

Because of your selfish action of leaving New Orleans with your father, you have left me in dire straits financially. My investments have suffered setbacks, and I am destitute.

Marcel Dupuy is an obsessed man. He says he must have you. Will have you. He
was very angry with me for failing to deliver you as per our agreement. In the face of his wrath, I trembled for my life. Only my assurance that you would return stayed his hand.

I’m sure you are living the high life with Andre. I’ve heard he returned from New York a wealthy man. I think he should be generous with the mother of his daughter. Please work your wiles on your father and have him send me some money. Otherwise, you might not have a home to return to. Take advantage of what Andre has to offer, for he’ll surely soon tire of you as he did me.

I will put off Marcel Dupuy as long as I can. But if you don’t soon return, I don’t know what he’ll do to me. I fear the worst.

Your mother,

Isadora Fortier

Rereading her mother’s words made a sick knot form in Delia’s stomach. After only a short while of living with her father’s love and generosity, she was able to more clearly see her mother’s utter selfishness and greed.
She doesn’t care about me, at all—only what I can do for her.

Is this information even true?
She hated to doubt Isadora. After all, she’d known for several weeks her mother was worried about some risky investments. Yet, Delia couldn’t help wondering if this letter was a manipulation so Isadora could get what she wanted.

But what if it’s true? If her life is in jeopardy?

I must help her.

Delia decided she’d discuss the letter with her father. He’d probably agree to send Isadora money, if only to ease his daughter’s guilt and worry about her mother. The thought made her feel somewhat better about Isadora’s demands.

Thinking about Joshua, she let out a long sigh. He’d asked her to confide in him, and oh, how she wished to. But even if she didn’t have secrets to hide, how could she show him such a letter and let him see her mother, her family, in such a bad light? He would be disgusted with her when he found out she was trained to be a concubine. How Isadora sold her to be Dupuy’s mistress.

Delia sensed she’d hurt Joshua by declining to share her circumstances, which only made her feel worse. A sob welled up and stuck in her chest. She bit her lip to hold in the tears, her face hot with shame. Her dear Joshua—
Reverend
Joshua—deserved a better woman, and she would dismiss any future romantic advances out of hand. She
must
do so.

My decision is for the best.
Delia tried to make herself believe the words.
I know it’s for the best.
Even though she knew the truth of that thought, turning away from Joshua made her heart ache.

Joshua hurried through the Livingston residence, hoping not to see anyone. Given his state of mind, the pain and shame roiling in his gut, he doubted he could politely converse with another person.

To his relief, he made it out the door without encountering a single soul. He strode up the street, hoping people would see his haste and assume he was on his way to somewhere important.

As he walked, Joshua berated himself. He couldn’t believe his own actions—that he’d kissed a woman to whom he wasn’t engaged. No matter his attraction to Delia Bellaire, he should have been more restrained in his behavior. Bile burned in the back of his throat. He’d never been so ashamed of himself.

Joshua tried to tell himself he was fortunate that Delia had pulled away, turned her back—surely, an indication she didn’t want to pursue a relationship. Else, he would have impulsively proposed. Such an action would have been the right thing to do, given how he’d compromised her.
What I wanted to do.

Yet, although offering matrimony was the correct response, proposing
, no matter how strong his physical reaction to her, would have been wrong for him—for both of them. As much as Delia Bellaire mesmerized him, he knew so little about her. How could he know if they’d be compatible? She was Catholic, and he was a Protestant minister. The criticism he’d take for marrying her, especially from the Maynards, would be intense. She’d have to give up her religion
—more than her religion—to wed him. Joshua shook his head. Delia in the role of minister’s wife? He couldn’t quite picture it.

Somehow, he’d have to rein in the attraction he felt for her. But even the thought of doing so felt impossible.
Perhaps, I can endeavor to learn more about her.
Maybe with familiarity, he’d clearly see they weren’t suited, and the flame of his attraction would flicker out.

What if Delia loves someone else?
The thought plunged a knife into his chest. But then again, he’d always had an inkling she was attracted to him, as well. She’d certainly welcomed his kisses—at least, at first. He wished he had the certainty of knowing what was in her mind.

In thinking over their time together, Joshua realized he still believed in Delia’s attraction to him.
Then why did she pull away?

There must be some impediment. Somehow,
I’ll have to find out what.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

T
wo weeks later, the lumber and windows had arrived for the work on the Nortons’ home. The women began planning a “parsonage raising” and were kind enough to include Delia in the preparations—collecting money to order a stove, attending a quilting bee to make bed coverings, and cooking up enough food to feed the countryside.

Earlier, Delia had talked Mrs. Graves into allowing her to use the kitchen to prepare a big pot of jambalaya and rice. Her father had feared the dish might betray her origins, but Delia had argued that the food was common enough in New Orleans, and it wasn’t a secret where they hailed from. She couldn’t buy the right sausage for the meal, but Lina Barrett had given her a batch she’d made, with the assurance that the meat was spicy enough to fit her requirements.

A taste had proven her new friend to be correct. Delia doubted many people in Sweetwater Springs had eaten jambalaya and would know the difference between Cajun and Italian sausage. She’d printed a warning on a placard to place before the pot so people would know the dish was spicy.

The morning of the build, Delia, Edith, and Mrs. Graves planned to take the food she and the housekeeper had prepared to the schoolhouse. There, they’d help move the desks and organize the offerings each housewife contributed. After that, Delia intended to help with building onto the parsonage. She didn’t know anything about construction, but she wanted to contribute to Joshua’s home with her own hands, to make a tangible repayment of his and Micah’s devotion to her papa.

In preparation for the day of labor, Delia dressed in her plainest clothes—a brown shirtwaist and skirt—and covered them with a green apron she’d bought yesterday at the mercantile.

As she braided her hair, Delia debated about wearing a tignon, for the construction area was bound to be dusty. But on second thought, she figured the sight of her wearing such a headcovering might give h
er father another heart attack.

For the last few days, Andre Bellaire had been well enough to move about the house, and she didn’t want any setbacks. Today was his first excursion into town, and he’d promised to lounge in a chair and
supervise
the construction. Delia was determined to make her father relax, even if she had to sit on him. She set a plain straw hat on her head, also a new purchase.

Since Andre had been on his feet, Edith had become very attentive to him in ways that made Delia uneasy. She’d once caught the woman gazing at her father, a speculative gleam in her eye. Although Papa was thinner than before, he was still a handsome man. And she was afraid the older woman had set her sights on him. Delia’s relationship with her father was so new, she wasn’t yet ready to share him with another woman.

But more disturbing was Edith’s innate condescension. Perhaps she was unaware of the judgments she could scarcely veil. Papa, in contrast, had a generous nature toward everyone who treated them cordially. She did not want to see him made unhappy by a critical wife.

Still, if Andre was interested in Edith, they’d likely stay in Sweetwater Springs. A dilemma she didn’t want to think about today.

And her father wasn’t the only Bellaire to attract the attention of a Livingston. Since the ice cream social, the banker’s attentions had grown more marked, which delighted her father and made Delia uneasy. She wasn’t the least bit interested in the man, even if she didn’t have a secret to hide. She suspected that if either Livingston sibling discovered Delia’s background, she’d be ruined.

She glanced at the vase of pink roses on her dressing table, presented to her yesterday by Caleb. The color symbolized admiration and appreciation, although he might not have thought about that message when he gathered them.
At least, they aren’t red.
She didn’t want flowers from him that signified love.

But Delia didn’t want to rebuff Caleb outright. After all, the Bellaires were guests in his house, and if things became too uncomfortable, there wasn’t another suitable place in town to stay. Although, perhaps they could manage for a while at Widow Murphy’s boarding house. More likely, her father would decide to move on from Sweetwater Springs and continue their journey West. Come to that, she couldn’t bear the thought of leaving. . .of never again seeing Joshua.
And not just the father, but also the son.
Micah tugged on her heartstrings, and she’d become fond of the boy.

With a sigh, Delia grabbed a pair of leather gloves and pulled them on. They’d soon be ruined by the heavy work of construction, but they were the best she could do to protect her hands.

The day of the parsonage build, the crowd began to gather early. Families living outside Sweetwater Springs must have left at dawn to make the trip to town. As the morning advanced, more people showed up, the women carrying pots and trays of food, and the men stocked with tools—overwhelming the Nortons with their generosity and eagerness to lend a hand in the expansion.

While Joshua played an active part in the building process, he allowed the architect, Will Phillips, to direct the construction. The town leaders had banished his father from participating in the project, joking in kind tones about Reverend Norton’s well-known handicap with tools. The older minister had found a seat in the shade of a tree next to Andre Bellaire. His mother was with the women at the schoolhouse.
All but one woman, that is.
Delia Bellaire was determined to take part in the build, although he didn’t know why. In fact, he wished she’d take her distracting presence away.

Joshua paused in the act of hammering a nail into the frame of what would be his father’s new office to check on Delia, who was fetching a pail of water to mix with the cement for the footings of the new parlor and front porch. She’d stunned him with her unexpected offer to help—not that they needed her, for they had more than enough men working on the site—but her willingness had unsettled him beyond the distraction she caused by her presence.

Although a few men had laughed at Delia and told her to go do women’s work, most of the men knew better than to open their mouths. Their wives had helped build their homes, dug up the gardens, tilled fields, and engaged in plenty of other labor-intensive work. Only Caleb Livingston had strenuously objected, which was enough for Joshua to give Delia permission to stay and help. Of course, that meant he had to keep an eye on her, which considerably slowed his work.

Since their kiss, Delia seemed reserved around him. But Joshua’s attraction for her hadn’t waned as he’d hoped. Instead, his feelings had grown—as had his frustration.

Even after seeing her and Andre almost every day, he was no closer to knowing the Southern woman than he’d been a few weeks before. During his visits, Andre gladly share
d stories about his youth and his twenty years in New York. Delia would describe New Orleans, but she deflected all but the most general of his questions about her personal life.

Joshua bent back to his task, pounding the hammer harder than necessary to release some of his frustration, but even that wasn’t enough to put Delia from his mind. All he had to do was look up and she was there, laughing at something Phineas O’Reilly, the carpenter, said.

His gut clenched with jealously. He swung the hammer and missed, leaving a round mark in the wood next to the nail and making him feel foolish. With another blow, he drove in the nail, then moved on to the next.

Half an hour later, the scent of Delia’s perfume penetrated the smell of new wood and sawdust. Joshua looked up to see her standing next to him, her body blocking the sun. He pushed back his hat and stood.

“Can I do that?” She pointed at the place he’d been working.

“What?” Joshua couldn’t think clearly with her fragrance teasing his brain.

“Hammer nails?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Have you ever done this before?”

“No.” She visibly braced herself as if digging in her boot heels. “But when we were setting up the food, Mrs. Jones told me how she and her husband built their cabin. If she can do it, so can I. I want to learn.”

Joshua couldn’t help but grin at the determined set of her chin and handed over the hammer. “Ready to become a true pioneer?”

“Ready.” She gripped the handle in determination.

He reached over to arrange her gloved hand around the handle, trying to keep his touch instructional, instead of personal. “Hold the hammer near the end, not the head. That way, you’ll have more hitting power.”

She nodded.

Her expression was so serious that Joshua had to suppress a laugh. He picked up a nail. “We’re putting these about a foot apart.” He positioned the nail in the desired spot. “Hold it upright with your thumb and forefinger. Now, rap the top gently to hold the nail in place.” Joshua knew he was risking a finger-bashing from her first attempt. But better his than hers.

Gingerly, she gave the nail head a tiny tap.

“That’s good.” He gave her an encouraging smile. “You might have to pound a bit harder next time. Let’s see if the nail stands on its own.” He released the nail and it toppled over. “Guess you’ll have to try again.” He repositioned the nail. “Go on.”

This time, her tap was firm, and when he let go of the nail, it stood upright.

“That’s it.” With a quick inhale to prepare, Joshua positioned himself behind her, placing his hand over hers, trying not to touch her shapely backside.
Pretend you’re teaching Micah.

She gave a little wiggle.

Heat rushed through him. The image he’d tried to hold of his son flew out of his mind. Joshua held in a groan of frustration, then paused to catch his breath enough to speak. “Brace yourself with your opposite hand on the wood.” His voice came out more jagged than he intended. “Then swing harder and hit the nail straight on. A few smacks should knock it into place.”

With his guidance, Delia banged the nail and connected. “There.”

He reluctantly released her and stepped to the side. “Now again. Drive it all the way in.”

Her swing was crooked, and the nail bent with the impact. “Oh, dear.” She straightened, pouting up at him.

Joshua focused on her lips, and the sounds of saws and hammers faded away. The edges of his vision grew hazy. He leaned forward a few inches and saw in her eyes the awareness of the attraction between them. “Don’t. . .” His mouth was dry, and he had to work for the words. “Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time.”
Concentrate on the job.
He resumed his instructional mode, trying to put emotional distance between them. He took the hammer from her and turned it over, touching the end. “Just use the claw to pull it out.” With a tug, he yanked out the nail. “It’s too bent to use this way, so we have to straighten it.”

“Why not just use a new one?”

“Can’t let any of them go to waste.” Joshua laid the nail on its side, the head hanging over the edge of the wood and tapped it straight. “There. Let me do this one so it doesn’t go crooked again, and you can start with a new nail.” He quickly drove in the nail and waved to the small burlap sack containing more. “Pick one.” He handed Delia the hammer.

Slowly, she followed his steps. This time, she succeeded and flashed him a triumphant smile. “I did it!”

“You certainly did.” How he wished they were alone. . .that he had the right to take her in his arms. Joshua fisted his hands, caught himself, and splayed his fingers. “Now, finish the row.”

Quickly, as if fearing he’d take back the tool, she plucked another nail from the sack, and poised to strike.

“I’ll go find another hammer.” With a laugh and a shake of his head, he moved away, searching for O’Reilly. Hopefully, the carpenter would have an extra one. But as he walked toward the man, Joshua couldn’t help thinking about Delia. Somehow, his frustration with her had vanished and not just because of the intimacy of their interaction.

Remembering Esther, h
e stopped in the shade of an oak tree. His proper wife would never have participated in the expansion of the parsonage, even if she were to live in the home. In Uganda, Esther had resented having to undertake household responsibilities until she’d trained a helper to cook and do laundry so she could have a little freedom. She preferred going to a native family’s hut to preach and pray with them. Esther wouldn’t have
dirtied her hands with menial labor—menial
men’s
labor—even if given in aid to another.

Joshua glanced back at Delia, who’d moved several feet down the wood frame. He could tell she was gaining confidence in her ability to drive the nail home, for her movements were slightly faster than before.

For all that Delia Bellaire refused to allow him to know her more deeply, he’d learned a great deal about her today—perhaps far more important information about her personality than anything she could have told him.

Far from diminishing his feelings, Joshua found even more to admire.

I’m in trouble now,
he thought and went in search of a hammer.