by Tricia Goyer
Isaac glanced at the wooden crate he’d noticed earlier in the day. More crates were lined up against the house. Lifting one of the lids, he discovered a tanned leather jacket Aponi had made for Milo atop a stack of books. Milo had worn the jacket for years. In fact, Isaac couldn’t remember many times—aside from worship and sweltering hot days—when he hadn’t seen his friend wearing it. Seeing it now sparked fresh mourning, as hard and sharp as the northeastern wind.
Isaac eyed Milo’s stepson, unsure how to read him. Lord, help me minister to Warren. “Well, if the ladies aren’t game, why don’t you and I sit down? I’d love to talk to you about the school. The train with supplies’ll be here in a couple months.”
A slight grin appeared on the young man’s face. “My father told me. The lumber.”
“Yes, and schoolbooks, slates, even a chalkboard. The children will love it…. Your father would’ve loved it. It was very generous of him to offer to pay for it all.”
“That it was.”
Isaac edged toward the door. If he could get inside, perhaps he’d have a chance to talk to Aponi and the girls. “Well, how ’bout that coffee. Got some for a parson heading out of town?”
“Maybe we should go over to the Log Cabin. Get a table.”
“Nah, we can use your kitchen. If I head over there we’ll have lots of interruptions from folks wanting to talk.”
Warren reluctantly moved aside.
Isaac’s gaze adjusted to the dim parlor, and he immediately realized why Warren had wanted to take the conversation elsewhere. The walls, normally bedecked with paintings, a cuckoo clock, and peg lamps, now stood empty. Most of the crates were nailed closed, but inside some half-full crates, Isaac spied not only Milo’s things but also his family’s belongings—children’s winter boots and wool coats, a supply of medicines, a chamber set, girls’ clothing.
But worse, six small cardboard valises with dolls perched on top rested next to the door. Another satchel held books and a photographic portrait of Milo and Aponi. A tightness, like a lariat around a steer’s neck, constricted Isaac’s chest.
Warren hurriedly moved to the kitchen, and Isaac followed. The scent of biscuits baking in the woodstove filled the room. A brown broth simmered in a pot on the cookstove. “Why are the girls’ things packed up? What are the satchels for?”
Warren leaned against the table. “Well, I know this may be hard for you to hear, Parson. I didn’t want to tell you….”
Isaac reached for the back of a tall wooden chair. “What is it?”
“I’m sending the girls to boarding school and Aponi to the reservation.”
Isaac released a heavy breath, unable to believe Warren’s words.
He visited the Assiniboine reservation often. He’d prayed for the tribes’ sick children and performed funerals for those who’d embraced Christ. And each time he went, he left with a heavy ache in his heart for these once mighty people, so stripped by the broken promises of the white man. The reservation was too small to provide enough game. And the U.S. government had forced warring tribes—the Assiniboine and Blackfoot—to live on the same land. The rivalries persevered, and skirmishes often broke out.
The poor condition of the reservation was one of the reasons he and Milo had wanted to start a school—for both white and Indian children.
But as bad as the reservation was for Indians, boarding schools were worse. Indian children slept on the floor, many in one small room, without enough heat. Forced to do chores for the white children, they endured severe punishments for even a slight misstep. Isaac pictured Milo’s beautiful girls, so happy and secure. How could Warren do this?
A low wind whistled through the maples in the back yard. Next to Aponi’s herb garden a row of white dresses, descending in sizes, flapped in the breeze on a clothesline.
“Why, Warren?” It was all he could ask.
Warren’s eyes darted out the window, refusing to meet Isaac’s gaze. “I’m the executor of a will that was never finished. It’s my responsibility to take care of them.”
“And you think this—these decisions are fulfilling your responsibility?”
“I don’t know how to care for a woman and six girls. I figure they need a good place to live, food, and an education. It’s all I know to do.”
Isaac trudged to the cookstove. Out of habit he picked up the wooden spoon from a peg on the wall and stirred, more like a family member than a guest. “But why make them leave their home?”
“Gotta sell it—at least the goods—to pay for the school.”
“But Aponi teaches them. The girls are smart, more cultured than any others in town.”
Warren shook his head. “No, Aponi can’t teach them all in the same way a school would. And after what has happened—I don’t think she can shoulder the responsibility alone. I promised my father I’d give them the best.” He pulled a hunk of jerky from a jar in the cupboard and stuck it in his mouth.
“But they treat Indians horribly. You know that.” None of Warren’s reasons made sense. Isaac pivoted toward him. “We’ll have a school in a few months. Wait. Let them attend there.”
“You think so?” Warren’s voice raised, impatience tingeing his tone. “You and my father had all these great plans for a school, but do you have a teacher? A building’s not much use without a schoolmarm.”
Isaac clenched his fist. He’d said the same thing to Milo.
God provides for the sparrows, doesn’t He? Milo had said. He’ll bring a teacher at the right time.
The back door opened, and Aponi entered. The wind swept in with her tired steps. Strands of her raven black hair flew from her braids, and then they stilled as she closed the door behind her. Aponi’s head was bowed, her shoulders wilted.
She strode in and then glanced up, for the first time noticing Isaac. “Parson.” The word released in a shaky breath as she rushed to him and grabbed his arm. “My girls. Warren say they leave.”
Isaac rested his large palm over the woman’s small hand. Her hand felt dry, rough from years of scrubbing laundry, cleaning floors, digging the garden, teaching her girls to tan hides. Dedication Isaac witnessed every time he saw her.
As quickly as Aponi gripped his arm, she released it. Embarrassment replaced the anxious look in her eyes, and it was obvious she wasn’t accustomed to showing such emotion. Once again setting a brave face, she took a rag and wiped crumbs from the table, dented and stained from countless meals with toddlers and children.
The table clean, Aponi retrieved the biscuits from the oven and stirred the stew. Then she stood before the two men. Her eyes, aimed toward Warren, brimmed with determination. “I get them back. I not let my girls stay at white man’s school.”
With a quick shake of his head, Warren blinked, then turned and faced the window again.
“Aponi, I’m not giving up on our school—the one we planned—and neither is Warren.” Isaac hoped this was true. “In a couple months the supplies will be here. Then your girls can go to school there. They could be back by Christmas.”
Aponi’s eyes shifted toward Warren. “Christmas?”
Isaac wished he could stand up to Warren, chase him out of town, and let Aponi and her daughters remain in their home. But he hadn’t the right to intervene. And neither did Aponi. An Indian woman, even when married to an American citizen, held no legal standing. Isaac knew of several Indian wives who’d been abandoned when their husbands found more “suitable” white women to marry. The men didn’t even have to file for divorce. Most just unloaded their wives and children, who’d served and cared for them, at a reservation, never to see them again.
“Christmas,” Isaac repeated, hopeful.
Aponi nodded, yet she didn’t look convinced.
Isaac silently walked to the crate on the porch and took out Milo’s jacket. Returning, he displayed it to Aponi. “Your hands made this.” He pointed to the fine stitching, the soft, perfectly stained leather. “You served your husband well, every day of his life—even on the last
day….” He handed the coat to Aponi. “When you hold this, remember how he loved you. How proud he was of you. And, Mrs. Godfrey, continue to be his good wife, no matter where this life may lead you.”
A single trail of tears lined Aponi’s high cheekbones. “I serve my true husband, Christ. I always served Christ.” She closed her eyes, took in a breath, and then opened them. “I go to reservation. Let Warren have Milo’s house.” Her voice was strong, almost fierce. “My God take care of me and my girls, wherever we go.” And a faint hint of hope, a hope of a home eternal, settled in her eyes.
“Hold on, Julia!” Miriam warned. She guided the horses out of the ravine called Lonesome Lake Coulee. Straining forward, Julia’s backside still hung off the buckboard. With all her strength, she gripped the rough plank—slivers digging into her fingers—and slid back on.
The horses surged forward, and soon they were back on level ground.
“Oh,” Julia muttered. “What more will this day bring?” Though the sun hid behind looming clouds, she knew by her hunger that it must be around dinnertime. The day felt like it would never end, and assured Isaac wouldn’t return, she looked forward to settling into the parsonage.
In her neighborhood church in Manhattan, the parishioners maintained their minister’s house. Though not large, it was clean and painted, even boasting an indoor bathroom with a bathtub. How I’d love a bath. Julia longed to clean the dust off her body and soak for a while. She’d even take the time to heat the water.
Miriam released a breath. “We’re almost there. See that?” She pointed up ahead. “That’s Isaac’s house.”
Julia looked ahead, noting a small shed made of dirt and hay rising up from the land around it.
“All I see is that shed and the barn-structure behind it.” She surveyed the surrounding area.
The corners of Miriam’s mouth raised in an apologetic smile. “That’s Isaac’s place. It’s call a soddy. Doesn’t look like much, I suppose.”
“That’s the parson’s house?” Tucked into a small hillside, the “house” wasn’t even made of wood. It was just a big dirt clod that could be the residence of an oversized groundhog. Only a door and window gave evidence that it was a dwelling. Behind it stood a small barn that she supposed could shelter a horse.
It’s not even as big as the kitchen in the orphanage. Julia wanted to cry, but she’d already wept enough that day. Instead, she laughed. “It’ll be fine. I’ve read about sod houses in books.”
“Probably saw a few on your train ride, too.”
Julia nodded.
“One of Isaac’s parishioners, Mr. Robertson, thought the parson should have his own place. Isaac had been staying with us whenever he was in the area. So he let Isaac use his land, and the two of them, with Jefferson and Abe, built the house and barn in an afternoon.”
“That was kind of them.”
Miriam glanced at Julia and laughed. “You poor dear. Look at you.”
Julia glanced at her clothes. Singe holes from the sparks flying through the train’s windows, a wet hem from the coulee, and a whole lot of dust. She could only imagine the state of her hair. She reached in the back for her parasol and popped it open.
“What?” she said, mockingly blinking her eyes. “Don’t I look like a fine New York lady?”
They both laughed as Miriam parked the wagon near the soddy. Julia hopped down, grateful to be on the hard earth, and hurried over to help Miriam. The pregnant woman clutched her belly as she gingerly climbed down.
“It’s getting close to the time to have this little one.” She cupped her hands under her round belly. “I’m getting sore.”
“I’m so sorry. It must be very uncomfortable.” Julia gazed at the one-windowed shelter and tilted her head. “Is it leaning?”
Miriam placed an arm around her shoulders and slanted her head as well. “Hmm…sort of is, isn’t it?” She wiped her hands on her apron as they approached the soddy.
Sprigs grew from the dirt roof, which was topped by a chimney. Miriam palmed a rocking chair of sticks and branches that stood outside next to the black door.
“Mrs. Wells made this chair for Isaac. She’s a member of the circuit in Lodge Pole, where he’s headed tonight.”
Julia touched it, surprised by the smooth surface and complex design. “It’s lovely.”
“See that?” Miriam pointed to a small wool welcome rug. The words, As for me and my house, we will serve the LORD, were woven into it. “The ladies from Fort Benton made that for him.” She opened the door and walked inside.
The cave-like room smelled of mud, sweat, and gunpowder.
“Let me get you some light.” Miriam fumbled for the lantern. Within a minute, a golden glow filled the dank room. A table, a bookshelf with a dozen or so books, and a woodstove filled the rest of the space. A small wooden bed sat on one side. Above the door was a set of deer horns, and a shotgun of some sort hung from them. Julia shivered at the sight.
Miriam rubbed her hands on her apron. “You must need to be fed and watered. Let me see if I can get a fire going.”
She’s talking about me like I’m her horse…or maybe one of her children. Julia tried to hide her smile as she stepped to her side. “Here’s the wood and tinder.” She touched Miriam’s arm. “And actually, I know how to light a woodstove. My parents used to have one just like this. Go ahead and head for home. It’s been a long day for you, too.”
Miriam exhaled and her shoulders drooped. “I am getting pretty tuckered.”
A gust of wind blew, slamming the door shut.
Julia peered out the small, dingy window. The few white, willowy clouds had transformed into looming gray. “It’s getting stormy out there. You’d better go.”
“All right then. But before I go, I want to tell you another thing that helped me when we first came.” Miriam placed a hand on Julia’s back as they turned toward the door.
“I’d love any advice you can give.”
Miriam stopped and held Julia’s hands, and the deep brown eyes that had comforted her so much earlier today again enveloped Julia with a sense of peace, safety. “More than anything else, the one thing that helped this place feel like home was remembering that it’s not my home.”
Julia paused, unfolding the woman’s words. “I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t understand yet, but you will. Pray about it. And…” Miriam touched Julia’s hair. “Did my brother give you a verse?”
Julia lifted her eyes. “Actually, he did. It was Psalm 63:1.”
Miriam pointed to a large family Bible sitting on the shelf. “You’re welcome to use that Bible. It was our great-great-grandfather’s from Scotland. Start by reading Psalm 63. Isaac’s got a knack for picking just the right verse.”
Julia opened her valise and displayed her own family Bible. “I will read it,” she said. “Thank you for everything.”
Miriam embraced her tightly. “I’ll be back in the morning to check on you.”
Julia nodded. “I appreciate that.”
Julia watched Miriam go and then perched on the edge of the bed. She thought about the changes in her life. There had been a few, and this was just one more.
She sniffed the air and didn’t understand how someone could live in a dirt cave. It’s just not civilized. Then again, she didn’t have to worry about living here forever. It was just a temporary fix. Whether two days or even two months, she knew she’d be moving on—heading back to the land of paved streets, stone and brick buildings, and streetlamps. I can do anything for a short amount of time.
It’s not forever.
“Miriam will be back tomorrow,” she spoke out loud, but there was no one to comment. No one who heard her. In fact, she knew if she were to yell at the top of her lungs, there would be no one to hear.
She looked through the small window and then glanced around the space, taking it all in. And for the first time in her life Julia Cavanaugh realized she was completely and utterly alone.
Chapter Ele
ven
Isaac pressed his body tightly against his mare, Virginia, as he rode at a gallop, hunkering under the stone-sized hail that pounded against his arms, neck, and back.
“Calamity!” Sidelong torrents hurled the icy orbs against his dog’s ribs. She yowled in pain. “Stay by me, girl.”
They’d left Aponi’s house two hours ago, the sky blue with a slight wind. After three miles, threatening clouds chased away the blue, changing the wide Montana expanse to closed-in, suffocating gloom. Thunder roared. Lightning, like claws, scratched the sky. Then came the inevitable hail. They were small beads at first, so Isaac had decided to forge ahead. Soon the balls grew to cherry-size, and now… Now his horse trod on dead jackrabbits, their bodies battered by the large hail.
It’d taken them the last hour to make it barely a half mile. Streaks of white ice marring his vision, Isaac attempted to veer his horse westward—or what he hoped was westward. Back to his soddy where they would be safe and dry.
“Lord, get us there before nightfall,” he cried out loud. With each stride, more hail pummeled his weakening body.
The sound of hoofbeats and jangling bridles gone, all the world seemed silent. Yet, as Julia listened, she became aware of softer, subtler sounds. The growing wind’s consistent drone. Crows cawing as they searched for shelter from the coming storm. She even sensed her own footsteps as she shifted from the red gingham curtains and stepped toward her valise next to the table. The same red-checkered material formed a tablecloth, and Julia wondered which parish ladies had given them to Parson Ike.
She plopped onto the bench, pulled out her Bible, and rested it on the table. She let her fingers glide over the ornate cover. Her father’s voice reading to her and her mother each night after supper echoed in her ears. She slipped the thin pages open to the verse Isaac had suggested, Psalm 63:1, but her weary eyes struggled to focus. In the morning. She’d read it then.
Leaving the Bible on the table, Julia slouched to the bed and slipped off her shoes. The bed creaked as Julia’s body sank into the soft padding. Her arms felt heavy. Her legs felt heavy. Her mind felt heavy, as if she’d been dipped in molten iron and left to harden.