Glorious Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series)

by Debra Holland

  Micah moved across the polished wooden floor, and his shoes felt like blocks of wood, imprisoning his feet. His grandmother had taken him shopping two days earlier and the scratchy woolen clothing—knickers, coat, stockings—and hated shoes, were the result. To add to the insult, he wore a completely unnecessary cap on his head, and his grandmother had insisted he drape a blue knitted scarf around his neck, even though he’d seen no one else wearing them.

  He opened the front door and stepped out, inhaling the damp smell of grass and trees, so different from the warm air and bright light of Uganda. The chill of the spring day made him shiver. Across the street, stately old trees shadowed a broad green park. The cool colors appealed to him, and he decided to go exploring after his errand.

  For a moment, Micah imagined him and Kimu having a jolly time pretending to be hunters stalking the leopard among the trees. Then he remembered reality. He and his best friend would never play together again. Micah’s buoyant spirits flattened, and he decided he wouldn’t go to the park after all.

  Determined, he set off down the street, past big brick houses that were twenty times the size of the house he’d lived in Uganda. The whole village could live in one. The thought made a pang of loss zing through him. He wondered what Kimu was doing, and something like tears burned in the back of his eyes.

  Micah burst into a run, his heavy clothing and shoes weighing him down until he moved like a hippopotamus, instead of leaping like a gazelle. The stone of the street didn’t give under his feet, like the dirt he was used to. He ran several blocks before he emerged into the main part of town, where stores beneath three- and four-story buildings lined up on each side of the street. He leaped over a fresh clump of horse manure, dodged a woman in a fancy dress carrying a parasol, and slowed so he wouldn’t knock over a hunched granny using a cane.

  Soon, Micah found whom he was looking for—a boy, perhaps a little younger than himself, his thin face pinched with hunger and cold. He had shaggy, too-long brown hair, and was barefoot. His bony wrists showed beneath the sleeves of a worn jacket. The boy sat halfway up the steps of the mercantile next door to the grocer, his legs drawn up, arms around his knees.

  On Saturday, when his grandmother had taken him shopping, the boy had asked her for work. When she said no, he’d held out his hand, palm up. “My ma and my sister are real sick, ma’am.”

  Grandmother had hesitated and glanced at Micah. Then she’d opened the fancy pouch that dangled from her wrist and took out a coin, placing it in the boy’s hand.

  His pale skin had flushed, and the dullness in his eyes lightened just a bit. “Thank you, ma’am. Thank you, kindly.”

  His grandmother had nodded, taken Micah’s shoulder in one hand, and practically pushed him past the beggar boy.

  As they climbed the steps, Micah had glanced over his shoulder. The boy didn’t look anything like Kimu with his dark skin and rounder features. But for a moment, their gazes connected, and Micah felt a flash of kinship. The feeling vanished as soon as he and his grandmother entered the store and his senses were assaulted by all the food inside. Grandmother had let him choose some red fruit. “Apples,” she called them, as they wandered down the aisles. Later, he’d eaten one, enjoying the crisp, sweet taste.

  When they’d left, the beggar boy wasn’t there. But that hadn’t stopped Micah from wondering about him—if his ma was as sick as Mother had been. If she was going to die, too.

  Micah slowed his hippo trot to a walk, wondering how best to approach the boy. He decided to be straightforward and plopped down next to him, taking an apple from his pocket. “What’s your name?”

  The boy eyed the apple, a hungry expression on his face. “Roger.”

  “Mine’s Micah.”

  The boy raised an eyebrow. “What kind of name’s that?”

  Micah shrugged. “From the Bible.”

  “Oh.” The boy looked down at Micah’s shiny leather shoes, envy in his brown eyes, then back at his own dirty feet.

  “I brought you something.” Micah held out the apple.

  Roger’s smile was slow to come but gradually spread across his face and into his eyes.

  Not like Kimu, whose quick, broad grin showed teeth white against his dark skin. An ache cramped his stomach. Probably that oatmeal his grandmother had made him eat for breakfast.

  Roger accepted the gift. “Thank you kindly.”

  Micah gestured at the apple. “Go ahead. Eat it.”

  Roger shook his head. He pointed his chin toward the livery. “This morning, Mr. Jones gave me some bread for sweeping up the street. I’ll take this home for my ma and sister.”

  Micah stared at his hands. He was no stranger to seeing starving people. Although his parents had always done what they could to help the natives, here, in “the land of the free” as his father called this country, in this town there was enough food to feed the village for a month.

  He glanced at the street, at horse-drawn carriages, wagons laden with goods, at the office buildings and stores across the road, and thought of the grocery next door full of so much abundance. He couldn’t understand how in America people went hungry.

  Roger shivered and stared down at the apple. “I’ll take this home. Then I’ll come back and try to find work. I was just resting my feet a bit first.”

  Micah unrolled the stockings he carried and held them up. He’d chosen the thickest ones he had, thinking his shoes would probably be big on the other boy. “Brought you something else.” He placed the stockings in Roger’s hands, then leaned over to undo his shoes. He slipped them off and handed them over. “Here.”

  Roger’s mouth gaped. “You can’t give me your shoes!”

  “Why not?” Micah said matter-of-factly. “I don’t want them.”

  “But, but,” Roger sputtered and gestured to Micah’s stocking feet. “You can’t walk around like that.”

  “Why not? You’re barefoot.”

  The question apparently stumped Roger. He closed his mouth and shook his head.

  Micah grinned. “Just teasing ya. I’d rather wear my old ones. More comfortable.”

  Slowly, as if not believing his luck, Roger pulled on one stocking, then the other. He wiggled his toes before thrusting his feet into the shoes. His eyes lit with joy, and he rose and jumped down the two steps and into the street, where he danced a happy jig, not looking like a hippo at all.

  For the first time since leaving the village, Micah’s heart lightened and he laughed.

  Roger joined in with a gleeful chortle.

  Standing, Micah trotted down the steps, unwinding his scarf and tossing an end to Roger. “Put it on.”

  Still bouncing his jig, Roger complied, spinning as he wrapped the scarf around his neck.

  Caught up in the joy of the moment, Micah pulled off his cap and plopped it on the other boy’s head. “There you go.” He waved good-bye and started to walk away.

  “Thankee, Micah” Roger called.

  On the walk back to his grandparents, the stones of the street bruised his cold feet, but Micah didn’t care for his heart was warm.

  Joshua joined his father-in-law in his study just off the entryway of the house, a place where he’d once spent hours in intellectual discourse with the man, Abner sitting behind the massive desk and Joshua in a leather chair in front. Abner was fond of lecturing to him, but the man had also encouraged the young seminary student to voice his opinion. They’d often worked on projects together at the square table in the corner, with Joshua helping prepare sermons and lectures by looking up relevant references—offering, and sometimes even debating, ideas with the older man.

  Today, Abner waved him to an L-shaped sofa, which used to be upholstered in gold velvet but now was covered with green tapestry. Each of them took a seat on the adjacent sections.

  Joshua glanced around the study. The room looked much the same as when he was
a student—glass-fronted bookcases running across the whole wall behind a desk that stood in the middle of the room. A new painting of Abner hung on one wall, and a landscape he hadn’t seen before on another. A second open-faced bookshelf, neatly-lined with books and pamphlets, had been added to a side wall. The jeweled reds, blues, and greens of the Persian carpet had grown more muted with time. And a stained glass clerestory window in a simple design had replaced clear glass above the large bookcase. The room smelled of books and the coffee from a silver urn on a matching tray, ready on the table in front of the sofa.

  Joshua waved toward the coffeepot and raised an eyebrow at Abner.

  The man shook his head.

  Joshua poured a cup for himself and took a sip, hoping the coffee would lift his mind and give him energy. He hadn’t slept well in the big bed in the guest room. Too many memories. Too many years of sleeping beside Esther. In the final months of Esther’s life, he’d been up frequently, caring for her during the night, so having the bed to himself, since Micah was sleeping in Joel’s room, should have allowed him a peaceful repose.

  The front door slammed, and Joshua winced, having no doubt who’d just entered the house. Neither the family nor the servants would dare make such an uncouth noise. He waited to hear the clump of Micah’s new shoes on the floor but was puzzled by the silence and decided he should get up and investigate.

  Just as Joshua shifted to stand, he heard the voice of his mother-in-law.

  “Micah, where are your shoes?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Joshua recognized that carefully innocent tone and wondered what mischief Micah had just gotten into. Should I intervene?

  No. He sat back against the sofa cushion. Ruth and Micah need to develop a relationship. As long as she isn’t unduly harsh, I should allow her to handle her grandson. He glanced at his father-in-law.

  Abner propped one elbow on the arm of the sofa and settled his chin on his hand, finger on his cheek, head cocked.

  “And you’re missing your cap and scarf,” Ruth said in an accusing tone. “Where did you leave them last?”

  “Outside.”

  “Well, go get them.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “I can’t do that, ma’am,” Ruth chided.

  “I can’t do that, ma’am,” Micah echoed.

  “Micah Norton, go retrieve your shoes and clothing this instant!”

  “I can’t, ma’am.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “Because I gave them to the beggar boy.”

  Abner’s eyebrows rose.

  “What?” Ruth’s voice sharpened. “You gave your new shoes to a beggar boy? Your cap and scarf?”

  Joshua almost groaned.

  “Yes, ma’am. His name’s Roger. Grandfather preached a sermon yesterday about charity and giving alms to the poor, but I didn’t have money, and Roger was cold and didn’t have any shoes, so I gave him mine.”

  Abner broke into a pleased smile. He pulled at his goatee.

  A few seconds of silence passed in the entryway. Joshua supposed his mother-in-law was still stunned. He suppressed a smile. Since leaving Uganda, the boy had been so lethargic that Joshua welcomed almost any evidence of his formerly lively personality.

  “That’s very good of you.” Ruth’s voice softened. “I’m proud of you for doing such a charitable act for someone who’s less fortunate. I’m also pleased you listened to your grandfather’s sermon. Given the way you kept wiggling and looking all over the place, I assumed your mind was. . .elsewhere.”

  “No, ma’am. I listened. Grandfather is very grand when he orates.”

  Abner’s cheeks suffused with what was clearly pleasure.

  Charitable did describe the boy. Micah was prone to sudden acts of generosity, like the time his mother had baked a cake for the bishop’s annual visit, using up the last of their carefully hoarded sugar. When Esther went to the kitchen to serve the dessert, she discovered the cake had vanished—taken by Micah to give to a starving mother with two emaciated children.

  Esther had not been pleased. Only the bishop’s presence prevented her from boxing Micah’s ears. But later, she’d sent him to bed without his supper, although Micah remained unrepentant for his action.

  But in this case, Joshua suspected Micah had not acted on impulse, but had deliberately chosen a clever way to get rid of his hated shoes—one that wouldn’t get him into trouble and would benefit someone else.

  “We’ll buy a new pair tomorrow. But next time, Micah Norton—” Ruth’s tone firmed “—do not give your new shoes away.”

  “Yes, Grandmother,” Micah said, sounding contrite—or perhaps resigned.

  Half appalled and half admiring of his son, Joshua could only shake his head. What am I going to do with the boy?

  “However. . .” Ruth’s voice eased into indulgence. “We will put your old shoes in the poor box in the broom closet.”

  Joshua suppressed a laugh. He doubted the shoes would remain in the poor box. Micah hadn’t outgrown them, and the pair was comfortable. They’d end up back on the boy’s feet in no time.

  “Now, go up to your room,” Ruth ordered. “Start on that history chapter I told you to read. After supper, I’ll question you about the material to see how thoroughly you’ve learned the lesson.”

  “Yes, Grandmother.”

  The two men waited until the sound of the footsteps on the stairs died away.

  Abner stood and closed the double doors before taking a seat. “The scamp,” he said in an indulgent tone. “I’m pleased about Micah’s understanding of the importance of charity. He’s very like his mother in that regard.” At the mention of his daughter, the man’s voice grew gruff. He paused.

  Joshua remained silent. Esther had some worthy qualities, but he’d come to see his wife wasn’t particularly charitable—at least not in her heart. While living in Cambridge, she’d bestowed alms aplenty—easy to do when you came from an affluent family. But once they moved to Africa and had to eke by with limited resources, the generosity of spirit he’d thought his wife possessed had withered like the African grasses in summer.

  “Now, Joshua.” Abner cleared his throat. “We need to have a talk about your future.”

  My future. Joshua wasn’t ready to discuss the topic with his father-in-law. Abner would only disapprove of his plan to move to Sweetwater Springs for Micah’s sake. The boy hopefully would thrive in a small rural community like they’d had in Uganda. Joshua had experienced a loving, happy childhood growing up in the freedom of the West, and he hoped his son would, too.

  “Did you receive the letter from me about the death of Ruth’s brother, Upton?”

  Joshua remembered meeting the man nine years ago at his wedding—one of a spate of Esther’s relatives who’d descended upon them for the event. That had been a whirlwind time, what with graduating, marrying, and leaving for Africa all within a week. Esther had gotten pregnant right away, perhaps on their wedding night. He’d been happy then, filled with enthusiasm, strength, purpose, and love. How had all those feelings evaporated?

  “I’m sorry to hear such sad news, sir.” Joshua shook his head. “I know Ruth and Upton were close. My condolences to you both.”

  “Yes, his death, then our daughter’s. . . .” Abner’s voice faltered before strengthening. “Ruth is a strong woman. Perhaps it helps that we hadn’t seen Esther for so long. It’s easier to pretend she’s still in Africa, even though we know differently.”

  Joshua tried to hide his surprise.

  “Did you think to hear me say something pious about Esther being in heaven? There’s no need to state such an obvious belief.”

  “I understand. I felt similarly over some of the losses my parents wrote me about. In my mind, everyone in Sweetwater Springs is still as young and alive as I left them.” Joshua paused, thinking how to put his
thoughts into words. “Sometimes, there’s so little comfort in a loved one’s death,” he said in a careful tone. “We must use whatever we can. For me, it’s that Esther is released from suffering. And. . .” He decided to be somewhat truthful. “That Micah and I are also. . .released. Not from the pain of her loss. But her dying was a torment to us, as well.”

  “I’m sure you took good care of my daughter.”

  The horror of seeing her suffer. . .his strong wife reduced to skin and bones. . .her constant pain. . .passed through Joshua’s mind. They hadn’t been close for many years. Esther had been difficult to live with—critical, even cold—but her suffering had moved him to pity and kindness. “In the last months, except for Sunday service, I hardly left her side,” he said, still possessed by the memories.

  Abner cleared his throat. “Just as well you and Micah have returned home. The boy needs a mother. I’m sure Ruth will select several worthy candidates for you to consider.”

  Joshua choked on the sip of coffee he’d just taken. Another woman like Esther, God rest her soul, is the last kind of wife I want.

  Abner didn’t seem to notice Joshua’s reaction. “I don’t know if you recall. . .Upton’s wife and child died many years ago, and he never remarried. He left his considerable fortune to his nephews and nieces. Of course, split eight ways. But it’s still a tidy sum. I took the liberty of placing the bulk of the inheritance into a trust for Micah; however, there’s enough left for the two of you to live comfortably, as well as give generously to charity.”

  Dazed by the news, Joshua held up a hand to stop Abner from saying anything more. He needed time to absorb the information—to get past his first instinctive rejection of the inheritance. The money should have been Esther’s. “This is quite a shock.”

  “I understand.” Abner rose, crossed to his desk, picked up a folder, and returned. He handed the folder to Joshua. “Here are the papers.”

  Joshua accepted the folder and laid it next to him on the settee. He didn’t like how his father-in-law had taken control of Micah’s inheritance. He’d carefully study the details later.