Love Finds You in Lonesome Prairie, Montana (28 page)

No, please no.
Everywhere she looked, reminders of Isaac pummeled her fragile heart, and she longed to be far from any place where he’d ever been. Soon she would. In fact, hopefully this letter held a quick and easy strategy for making it happen.

She glanced at the looped writing and couldn’t help smiling at the familiarity of her headmistress’s penmanship. The curlicue letters and sprinkled hearts bespoke Mrs. Gaffin’s cheery demeanor. How Julia longed to hear her cackling laugh and feel her arms receive her in an uninhibited embrace.

She slit open the envelope and unfolded the letter. Clutching it tightly in her hand to withstand the gusts, she read.

Dearest Julia,

“Thank goodness,” Julia said out loud. She knew Mrs. Gaffin would want to help, but what a relief that Mr. Gaffin formulated the measures. Perhaps he’d provide the sense dear Mrs. Gaffin lacked. Julia continued to read.

Julia smiled imagining Mrs. Gaffin dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief as the emotions flowed.

Julia set the paper on the table and placed her hand over it.
Thank you, Mrs. Gaffin
. A calm acceptance settled over Julia’s heart for the first time in days. Mrs. Gaffin really did return the affection Julia felt for her. She’d reside under her protection as a daughter. She’d be part of—a family. And the employment was more than she could’ve asked for.

A deer leaped into Julia’s vision followed by another and two fawns, their hooves crackling the dry grass.

Finally, Julia would be able to leave her past behind, like closing chapters in a book—her parents’ death, life in the orphanage, the pain of leaving the girls…Isaac.

Her eyes moved to the firepit next to the table. The memory of Sarah Mack’s song and the gaze she and Isaac had shared in the dancing firelight fluttered to her thoughts. And despite everything—all her striving to push it away—a part of her heart still longed for him to return to her. That’s why she sat out here each day pretending to need rest or to work on her embroidery. She longed to see his butterscotch mare clopping over the field with him mounted atop. She longed for him to spy her sitting there. If he came to her, apologized and confessed his love, Julia would gladly accept him back. She knew she would, despite her attempts to convince herself otherwise.

The deer family frolicked away, and Julia scolded herself. She knew allowing those thoughts to fuel her imagination only brought pain.
O God, help me let him go.

She glanced back at the letter, her salvation.

Reading it again, a bit of uncertainty niggled at her. She checked inside the envelope. It was empty. Something was missing. Mrs. Gaffin said they had a plan to “fix everything,” but she didn’t say what that plan was. If she’d just sent Horace’s money—and perhaps a train ticket—Julia could pay him back and go home, but…

Oh, Mrs. Gaffin.

She groaned. It would take three more weeks to post another letter and wait for a reply. Three more weeks of worrying about being kidnapped by Horace. And then there was the question of whether she’d get an answer before the Fourth of July train arrived. Or the money to get on it.

Maybe she should pray that Horace would find a vein of gold up in those hills.
Yes, that would keep him occupied for a while
….

Julia slumped on the hard wooden bench where she sat. Although Mrs. Gaffin’s words brought comfort to her emotions, the letter had done nothing to provide relief from her situation. She realized she’d been fastening her plans on getting a letter from Mrs. Gaffin before the train arrived, assuming her former headmistress would include the money and ticket she needed. But now…

A stray, dry leaf from a distant box elder tree slapped against her face then whirled away in the murky day—just like her plans.

She glanced at her hands and decided to go back to her room. Perhaps she could finish the sampler. Even if the Home Sweet Home pattern held only ironic pleasure to her now, the repeated movement of the stitching would at least distract her thoughts.

Then, in a quick rush, an idea struck her. “That’s it.”

“Parson, you been staring out that window fer the last week. Don’t you think you need to get your mind on somethin’ else?” Jim, who sat on a log, hollered to Isaac inside, nudging him from his thoughts.

Lounging on the cot, Isaac’s gaze swung lazily to Giant Jim playing cards with their sentinel, Lefty, outside the cabin—the makeshift jail for him, Mabelina, and Jim.

“Can’t you think of nothin’ to pass the time? You got yer Bible, why not work on them sermons of yours?”

Lefty sucked on his ebony pipe then released the smoke from the side of his mouth. “Yeah, Parson. The way Giant Jim here’s been preaching to me, a body’d think
he’s
the minister, not you.”

“Just can’t help but talk ’bout the Lord. Plus, if we gotta spend a considerable ’mount o’ a time stuck like two gophers on a spit, might as well make friends.” Jim planted his cards for Lefty to see. “Full house. Read ’em and weep.”

“Aw!” Their captor took off his hat and punched it against his knee. “You call that friendly?”

“The friendly part is the fact that we ain’t bettin’.” Jim’s mustache arced up in a grin. “Parson, you wanna play a hand?”

“Nah, I’m just gonna rest a bit.” Isaac leaned against the wall of the dark, dank cabin. A drab moth flew to the window. He moved his attention out the door to where Virginia was nibbling on grass under the shade of the tall pine, with Calamity napping at her side.

“Suit yerself. Mabelina’s skinnin’ up a coon she trapped. We’ll cook it up fer dinner soon.” Jim licked his lips.

Isaac didn’t respond. Instead, he shifted his gaze inside, scanning the wobbly shack. Last night a windstorm had blown in, causing the structure to shudder on its foundation. Any stronger blast surely would’ve sent its planks tumbling down the hill.

Isaac exhaled a weary sigh. For all the years he’d been in Montana, he and Milo had planned and prayed. Bit by bit, doing their own part to construct a foundation to build a far-reaching ministry. To tend the spiritual landscape of this untamed land.

Their first structure was to be the school. In Isaac’s mind, its whitewashed walls, neat desks lined up in rows, blackboard, and schoolmarm’s desk were already established. But most importantly, he envisioned the children. His sisters’ brood, the Indian little ones who’d have no chance to learn without a school, the soldiers’ children, the new homesteaders’ tykes—they all depended on Isaac. And the orphans who came across the country on the train. He’d promised them an education. His stomach ached as failure’s fist jabbed him anew.

He and Milo had dreamed that their one schoolhouse would lead to others and that eventually their ministry would impact not just Chouteau County—or even Montana—but the whole West. The whole country.

He laughed at his own hubris. Had he really thought the efforts of two countrymen—an elder and a preacher—could “civilize the West”?

Ripping off a bit of loose newsprint, previously stuck to the walls for insulation, he flicked it to the floor. Now, because of the death of one of those men—and the naïveté of the other—their plans had collapsed as easily as this shaky prospector’s cabin might.

A long list of accusations wrangled through his mind. He should’ve urged Milo to put the school in his will. And in hindsight, Isaac realized how gullible he’d been about Warren’s character. So much pain could’ve been avoided if he’d only heeded the warnings.
Maybe Aponi and her girls would still have their home
….

More than that, Isaac had never found a teacher. One simple task. If he had, perhaps they could’ve started without a building. But he’d gotten sidetracked, and now the whole project would be delayed. Isaac shook his head. He didn’t know when, if ever, the school would be built.

The two men outside apparently finished their game, because Lefty’s harmonica sent its melodic twangs to Isaac’s ears. He moaned. If he heard “Oh! Susanna” one more time, he’d take that harmonica and chuck it into the fire. Is that the only song anybody knew around these parts?

He returned his gaze out the window and tried to tune out the annoying ditty. He’d made a decision sitting here this week. And his resolution made more sense with every moment that passed.

It was over.

All his plans, his big ideas to start a school, a hospital, even the orphan train—someone else could dedicate his life to such futile tasks. Six years of fruitless toil were enough for Isaac.

As soon as Mabelina’s trial was over, he’d pack up and go back to St. Louis. He could be gone in a week. He’d talk to the dean of the seminary and apply for a teaching position. Isaac folded his hands behind his head and lay back on the scrawny pillow. It was the perfect plan. He could train an army of future ministers—and never have to ride a circuit again.

“Suppertime!” Mabelina called from the firepit a couple yards beyond the house.

Isaac scooted off the cot and moseyed outdoors. He grabbed a tin plate hanging from a nail in the outer wall and brushed it off with his hand. Then, following the others, he took his share of raccoon stew and beans.

“You know,” Isaac started, as they settled on logs and stumps by the cabin, “today marks a week since Warren left. I say if he doesn’t come on the morrow, we pack up and head out to Fort Benton.”

Isaac expected them all to agree. Nobody would want to stay in this dingy sty any longer than absolutely necessary. But Jim, Mabelina, and Lefty all gaped at him, chewing their meat silently.

Isaac sent a questioning grimace. “You mean you don’t want to go?”

“Nope.” Jim jumped in first. “I don’t see why we’d hurry the trial when we don’t know what’s gonna happen to my sweet lady.” He scooted closer to her.

“He’s right.” Mabelina’s curly red hair outlined her face like a starburst. “Why not just stay up here? I ain’t never been so happy in my life.” She tucked her head under Jim’s neck as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

Isaac eyeballed Lefty, who was happily eating. “You agree, I suppose.”

“Yup. I don’t cherish seeing old Warren and them rascals again. Much rather bide my time with you folks.”

Isaac stood and chucked his plate to the ground in a huff. “I’m going to the stream.”

“That parson’s a cantankerous fellow,” Isaac heard Lefty say as he stalked off.

“Naw, he’s a good man,” Jim replied. “Just needs to figure a few things out.”

Isaac ambled down the wooded trail to the stream. Parking himself on a rotting log, he listened to the water trickle over the stones and watched the fading sunlight’s glimmering reflection.

Before long, Jim plodded down the trail and sat beside him.

“I don’t want to talk.” Isaac threw a pebble into the stream.

“I know ya don’t, but I was jest discussin’ with Mabelina, and if you want to go back to the fort tomorrow, we’ll go. May as well git it over with, I s’pose.” Jim’s head angled toward Isaac, an intent look in his eyes.

Isaac’s lips pursed, and he clenched his jaw, steeling himself as the significance of Jim’s words seeped in. Jim would sacrifice his happiness to ease Isaac’s discomfort?
How can I be so selfish
?

“No,” Isaac said, hearing the shame thick in his own voice.

A tinge of relief flickered over the man’s face. “All right, then, we’ll jest wait.”

“Yeah.”

A brown-feathered swallow fluttered down and landed on a rock.

“You all right, Pastor Ike?” Jim faced the stream, apparently watching the bird.

Isaac’s neck grew weak, and his head collapsed to his hands. The man’s selfless generosity triggered the thoughts, options, plans, worries, and complaints he’d indulged in all week to swirl around him like a court of accusers. He rubbed his forehead. He still didn’t know what to do next.