Glorious Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series) (28 page)

He nodded.

She stalked to the bar.

Hardy, the bartender, a big man with a gray walrus mustache, shot her a look. “Trouble, Sheriff?”

“Trouble’s right there in front of you,” she answered.

Marcel’s gaze dropped to her badge. “Now, Sheriff, I’m not here to make trouble.”

“That’s not what I’ve been hearing. Marcel Dupuy, I suggest you come with me.”

“If that nigger bitch—”

Her hand shot out to grab his throat, choking off the words. “Not another word,” she growled.

In a flash, he grabbed her arm, swung at her face with the other hand.

The sheriff blocked the swing and closed her fingers over his wrist. “Attacking an officer of the law.” She released his throat, pulled out her gun, and pointed it at his stomach.

His free hand flew up in a gesture of surrender.

“Marcel Dupuy, I suggest you come quietly with me.”

He gave several quick nods.

“I’m releasing you, and you’re not going to make a sound. Understand?”

Sweat beaded on Dupuy’s brow. He nodded.

The sheriff let go and stepped back. “Lower your arms.”

He obeyed, his head and shoulders drooping.

Watching Dupuy’s every move, she holstered the gun, took out the handcuffs, and slapped one around his wrist.

He jerked away before she could shackle the other, and made to grab her.

With a sweeping move, she kicked his feet out from under him, releasing his wrist.

Dupuy fell heavily. His shoulder slammed onto the floor, the handcuffs jangling. He groaned.

The sheriff gave a head shake of mock pity. “Some people just don’t learn.”

Crouching, she pulled his arms together, snapped closed the second handcuff, then grabbed his arm and jerked him to his feet. “You’ll spend some time as a guest in our jail until the next train comes through.”

Again, he groaned but didn’t protest.

“Mighty fine work there, Sheriff,” Slim called.

She nodded in acknowledgment. “Let’s go.” Sheriff Granger pushed Dupuy in the direction of the door, past Joshua, and out into the street.

The men watched through the window.

Slim shook his head. “That is one fine woman. Scary. But a fine one. Don’t want to get on her bad side, no siree.”

“Good as a law
man
,” the smirking one grumbled. “Has her eye everywhere.”

In perfect agreement with
Slim, Joshua walked out the door. As far as he could tell, Marcel Dupuy had no idea that he’d just been arrested by a woman. By the time he’d entered the sheriff’s office, he saw that the man was behind bars, his handcuffs off, sitting on the cot holding his sore shoulder.

Sheriff Granger sat behind the desk, writing on an official form.

Joshua stopped in front of her desk. “What now?” he asked softly so he couldn’t be heard in the cell.

She tilted her head to the door, and they walked outside. “Well, we could send for the judge, hold a trial for attempted kidnapping, as well as an attempt to assault an officer of the law.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “A trial is public, and Miss Bellaire’s background would be dragged through the mud. Her reputation tarnished.”

“Unfortunately, bound over for trial, Dupuy would be stuck here, possibly babbling to someone every time I’m not in the office.”

“We can’t have that.” Joshua paced a few feet and returned.

She pursed her mouth, musing. “I think the humiliation of a night in jail will be enough to send him home to New Orleans with his tail tucked between his legs. I doubt he’s learned his lesson, though. That type never do.”

“I should be protesting that statement. Praying for his soul, speaking to him about the error of his ways, putting the fear of the Lord and of hellfire and brimstone into him.” Joshua shook his head and clenched his fists. “Instead, I’d rather throttle him.” He let out an exhale and relaxed his hands. “Perhaps later I can pray for him. In the meantime, I’ll pray for the willingness to forgive him because I certainly don’t want to now.”

K.C. Granger smiled and clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder, like any male friend would. “Return to Miss Bellaire,” she said, a knowing look in her eyes. “Set her mind at ease about Dupuy. Her secret’s safe with me. Perhaps the gossip won’t get out.”

“I will, Sheriff. Thank you.”

She went back inside, and Joshua slowly walked down the street, knowing that with all that had happened, his mind still wasn’t at ease about Delia.

Right after Joshua left the house, Edith entered the room followed by Mrs. Graves carrying a tray with a bottle of wine and several glasses, as well as a glass of lemonade for Micah, which she set on a sideboard.

As soon as Mrs. Graves left, Caleb went over to the door and listened to the sound of her footsteps fade away. He didn’t think she listened at doors, but this was a conversation that he’d prefer others not be privy to. He shut the door with a sharp click, walked over to the sideboard, and poured the wine in silence, handing each glass to his sister to deliver to the recipient.

Caleb took his time with pouring the wine, struggling to get his emotions under control. But
the delaying tactic was no use. Hands shaking with rage, he had to concentrate in order not to spill. He took a bigger sip than necessary, but even his favorite wine failed to mellow his anger.
Wait, he told himself. Find out the truth about Delia before you react.

He eyed Micah, who was drinking his lemonade, wondering if he should send the boy from the room. But the child had already heard everything. . . .

Frowning, Caleb set down his glass, the deliberateness of his movements betraying his disapproval. He looked from Andre to Delia. For the first time, he wasn’t moved by her beauty in the least bit. “Now, Miss Bellaire, or should I call you Miss Fortier? I require an explanation.”

Andre stiffened, his mouth drawing into a tight line.

Delia placed a calming hand on his leg. “Marcel called me a nigger bastard.”

Edith gasped.

Andre surged to his feet. “I’ll kill him.”

Delia grabbed his arm. “No, Papa. No!”

Caleb walked over, set his hand on Andre’s shoulder, and pressed him back down on the settee. “Reverend Joshua will see that the sheriff takes care of him.” He turned to the woman he’d been quietly courting, “Who are you really, Delia?”

After inhaling a deep breath, she raised her chin. “Delia Fortier.”

“My daughter,” Andre cut in hastily.

“That at least is obvious by her resemblance to you,” Caleb said, his voice cold. “And the Negro blood?”

“I’m octoroon,” Delia said quietly. “And my parents were not married.”

Even the anger could not fill the hollowness in his chest caused by her betrayal.

With stiff movements, Edith rose to stand beside Caleb. “We took you in. Treated you as guests.” Her voice quivered with outrage.

Andre raised his eyebrows. “And you wouldn’t if you’d known the truth? Not stepped forward to provide shelter for a gravely ill man?”

Neither Caleb nor Edith answered that for a moment.

“We probably would have offered you our hospitality for a brief time,” Edith said grudgingly.

Caleb looked into Delia’s hazel eyes, shadowed now. But he couldn’t feel pity for her, only his anger.
If I’d known, I wouldn’t have considered you for a wife.
Caleb didn’t think he needed to say aloud the harsh words. Father and daughter obviously already knew.

“I can see we’re not welcome here,” Andre said stiffly. “If we can request your indulgence to put up with us for one more night, we will catch the train West tomorrow.”

Delia inhaled a sharp breath but didn’t protest.

Caleb wondered how deeply her feelings for him went, or if she had any at all. . .if she was disappointed she hadn’t hooked him before her secret came out.

What a close call I’ve had.

Was there ever a man more unlucky in his courting?

Micah had stayed quiet while the adults talked, not wanting to be sent from the room. He tried to understand what the fuss was about, why the Bellaires had lied about Miss Delia’s Negro blood, as if such a thing even mattered. His Ugandan friends were brave and kind, the best people in the world. He wasn’t sure why the Bellaires were in trouble, only that Mr. Livingston and Mrs. Grayson seemed to feel about Negros the same way as the Maynards had felt about the Baganda.

But when he heard Mr. Bellaire said they were leaving tomorrow, Micah couldn’t contain the protest that boiled up. “No!” He jumped to his feet. “Don’t go. Oh, please don’t leave.”

Miss Delia’s eyes filled with tears. “We must, darling Micah.”

“We will be sorry to leave you, Micah,” Mr. Bellaire said, his expression sad.

Hurt cut through him as sharply as shards of glass. An all-too-familiar sense of abandonment made anger and resentment rise up to cover his pain.

“Then go,” Micah cried in a bitter voice. “I don’t care.” He whirled, thrust the door open, and ran from the room, down the hallway and out the door, slamming it behind him. The windows rattled.

On the street, he took to his heels, as if a cheetah was after him, racing to the parsonage. He knew his grandmother was out, and he’d be alone. Once in the house, Micah hurried down the hall to his room. His grandfather’s study door was closed, where before it had been open, but he figured his grandmother must have been cleaning in there.

He threw himself on the bed, resentment and sadness balling in his brain. He wanted to cry. He wanted to yell. He wanted to hit something. But all Micah could do was lie there, aching for Uganda, for his familiar life with the people he loved. He wanted a hug from his nanny Kisozi and to run and play with Kimu. He wanted to tickle Meec’s fat baby cheeks and tease Kimu’s sister, Senyiwa.

An idea struck him, and Micah abruptly sat up.
I’ll run away.
His mind raced.
I’ll travel back to Uganda. I know the way.

His grandfather had given Micah plenty of money before he left Cambridge, and he hadn’t spent any. He knew the trip would be long and arduous. Undaunted, he quickly packed his clothes and everything else he’d need into the valise, including
Tom Sawyer,
hesitating when he came to the red feather Mr. Bellaire had given him. After a long moment, he laid the feather on his pillow. He hadn’t met the challenge of coming to like Sweetwater Springs enough to stay.

Micah carted the valise from the lean-to and raided the kitchen, wrapping rolls in a napkin and taking the last of the dried meat, then sat on the over-stuffed bag to close it.

At the last minute, he thought of taking his coat but figured he wouldn’t need it in Africa anyway. But he did grab the crazy quilt his grandmother had given him for his bed and rolled it up, using some string to tie it closed. With a sense of sadness, Micah took Fred out to the garden and released his pet. He doubted the toad would survive the journey to Africa.

Micah was about to leave when he realized he should let Father and Grandmother know where he’d gone. He couldn’t just disappear, or they’d think he’d been eaten by a bear or something. But he couldn’t leave a letter where they’d find it right away and come after him. He scribbled a note and left it tucked into his father’s Bible.

With the valise in one hand and the quilt under his other arm, Micah left the house. Instead of walking openly to the train station, he snuck through the cemetery and behind the buildings lining the street. When he reached the last one, he edged around the side, peering at the depot and the platform. Only an old man was in sight, sitting on a bench.

Maybe he won’t notice me.
Micah climbed the steps to the platform.

The old man blinked rheumy gray eyes. “You look familiar. Whose boy are you?”

“No one’s.” Micah’s stomach tightened, realizing he spoke the truth.
I’ve left my family and don’t belong to anybody.

The man’s bushy white eyebrows drew together. Before he asked another question, Micah gave him a jaunty wave and hurried into the depot.

The stationmaster was in the mailroom, his back to the rest of the station.

Micah tiptoed past him and over to where the train schedule was printed on a chalkboard. Seeing the next one wouldn’t come through until tomorrow morning made his shoulders droop in disappointment.