Glorious Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series)

by Debra Holland

  “Ben,” said Mr. Livingston. “Get the valises.”

  The boy frowned but complied.

  The man held out his arm to escort Delia up the brick walkway lined with flowers.

  She would have preferred to stay right next to her father, but the path wasn’t wide enough.

  Behind them, the men carried her papa.

  Several times, Delia glanced over her shoulder to check on him.

  But Dr. Cameron hovered, keeping an eye on the transportation of his patient.

  Mr. Livingston’s sister followed along with Ben, who toted their valises.

  As they reached the steps to the house, the door opened. A woman in a gray dress and white apron glared at them.

  Taken aback, Delia faltered.

  Mr. Livingston leaned over. “Don’t mind Mrs. Graves, my housekeeper,” he said in a low voice full of humor, obviously meant to reassure her. “That’s her normal expression. She only smiles once a year on Christmas.”

  Delia gave Mr. Livingston a dutiful turn-up of her lips and nodded at the housekeeper when he introduced them.

  “The bed is ready in the blue guest room,” the woman said tersely.

  Perhaps she believes we’ll make more work for her. Feeling guilty, Delia walked with Mr. Livingston into the house.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Graves.” Mr. Livingston released Delia and pointed at the staircase, as impressive as the one in her grandmother’s house, except instead of curving, there was a middle landing that changed the direction of the stairs. “Go on ahead, Miss Bellaire. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Delia gathered up her skirts, crossed the black-and-white tile floor, and hastened up the steps. She paused on the landing to catch her breath. Beneath a stained glass window, a cushioned bench with fringe hanging to the floor ran the width of the wall. After a few gasps for air, her ribs straining against her corset, she continued climbing. The thudding of the men’s footsteps followed her.

  The top of the staircase opened up to a large rectangular room lined with rose-patterned wallpaper, which looked big enough to be a parlor. Doors were spaced around on all four sides. The room was empty but for a Persian carpet, and she wondered what they used the space for.

  “To the right,” Mr. Livingston called behind her. “The first door.”

  Delia hurried inside. A spindle four-poster bed had a puffy blue satin covering that was turned down to reveal crisp white sheets. She hurried to the far corner to get out of the way of everyone else. Blue velvet curtains framed a window and a matching wingchair sat next to a large wardrobe. A chessboard was set out on a small table, and a washstand and a bureau took up the rest of the space. Pictures of peaceful landscapes hung around the room. Surely, my father will recover in this safe haven.

  Mr. Livingston walked in and moved to stand beside her. Then came the men carrying Andre into the room, followed by the doctor and Mr. Livingston’s sister.

  The two men carefully hefted her father onto the bed.

  Dr. Cameron bent over and checked Andre’s pulse. He glanced at Mr. Livingston. “Caleb, if you’ll help me get him out of his clothes.”

  Delia clapped a hand to her cheek. “Oh, dear. His nightshirts are packed in his trunk.”

  “Don’t worry, Miss Bellaire.” Mr. Livingston placed his hand in the small of her back, urging her toward the door. “I’ll lend him one of mine.” He shot a look at his sister. “Edith, will you bring one, please?”

  She inclined her head and left.

  Dr. Cameron finished checking her father’s pulse and gently laid his arm on the bed. “I’m asking you all to leave the room while we make Mr. Bellaire more comfortable. As soon as we’ve changed him, Miss Bellaire, you can return.”

  Although reluctant to leave her father’s side, she allowed herself to be chivied out of the room to where their two brawny helpers waited. Once the door closed behind her, Delia took the first deep breath she’d inhaled since Andre’s attack. Surely in such capable hands, her father would be fine.

  “We’ll be going, then, Miss,” a masculine voice said from behind her.

  Delia turned to the two men who’d so faithfully carried her father and impulsively did something she’d never done in her life—reached out uninvited to touch a white man who was not her father. She placed her fingertips on the nearest one’s arm. “I cannot thank you enough for what you’ve done.” She brushed the other man’s shoulder. “I don’t know how I would have managed without your help.” Her voice broke and she swallowed hard.

  The first man rubbed his head, mussing his brown hair. “Now, now, Miss. I don’t know how things are in those southern parts you hail from, but in Montana, we help when there’s a need. Many here would have done the same, eh, Rube?”

  “That’s right, Bart. The Reverend picked us because he needed two big strappin’ men.” Rube puffed out his chest and gave her a teasing grin, showing gaps in his teeth. “Besides, t’was a regular treat for us. Got to help a pretty lady and see the inside of Banker Livingston’s house.” He winked. “The likes of us would never have been allowed up here. Quite a sight, this place is.”

  This time, Delia’s smile felt genuine.

  “We’ll just be going then, Miss. Have to get back to work. We’re building the hotel.”

  “Then I mustn’t keep you from such an important job.” Delia walked with them to the head of the staircase. “Good day, gentlemen.” She waved. “And thank you again.”

  Just as they left, Edith bustled over, carrying a nightshirt. She knocked on the door of the bedroom, then when it opened, she handed in the garment.

  Delia hoped changing out of his clothes wouldn’t cause Papa pain.

  Edith turned to face Delia. She was an attractive woman, tall like her brother, with big brown eyes and patrician features. She’d removed her flowered bonnet, and her rose-colored dress flattered her coloring. “We haven’t been properly introduced, Miss Bellaire. I’m Mrs. Nathaniel Grayson,” she said in a smooth voice. She waved to the boy who retreated into another room. “My son, Ben.

  Ah, her son, not Mr. Livingston’s.

  “But since you’ll be staying here, I think we can dispense with the formalities, and you can call me Edith.”

  “And I’m Delia. You’re so kind, Edith, to offer your hospitality to strangers, one of whom is ill.”

  With a graceful wave, Mrs. Grayson indicated the space of the upstairs. “As you can see, we have plenty of room. And having such refined guests from out of town will be a treat.”

  Her words made Delia uncomfortable. If Edith knew the truth about our deception, would she welcome us so graciously?

  Delia doubted it. And in such close confines, it would be easy to slip and reveal the truth—her father, in his weakened state, might have a difficult time remembering the story they’d concocted. Suddenly the house that had first seemed like such a haven now became full of pits that might be all too easy to fall into.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Walking into the kitchen of the parsonage, Joshua thought it smelled like the best kind of welcome. Just sniffing the air, he could tell his mother had made chicken and dumplings as well as cinnamon apple pie—the tastes of home. His stomach growled. “I must be hungry for your cooking, Mother.”

  “I made your favorite meal.”

  Joshua grinned at her gratified expression. “I can tell.” He looked at his son. “You’re in for a treat, Micah. No one makes chicken and dumplings like your grandmother. And I’ve never had as good an apple pie as the one she bakes.”

  Micah flicked an interested glance at the stove.

  Pink crept into his mother’s wrinkled cheeks. “Oh, now,” she chided, fussing with the folds of her skirt. “It’s the apples from this region,” she protested. “The cool autumn weather we have.”

  “There’s no ‘Oh, now’ about it, Mother. Simply the best.” He leaned over an
d pressed a kiss to her soft cheek. “I’ve missed you.”

  She gave him a little swat on the arm. “I’m sure you had plenty of fine meals in Cambridge, son.”

  “That I did. But it’s not the same as your very own mother’s cooking.” He cast a mischievous glance at his son. “We’d just better keep the peas away from Micah. He’s been known to turn them into dangerous projectiles.”

  A familiar puckish expression brightened Micah’s face.

  Joshua rejoiced to see his son look more like himself. Although, I probably shouldn’t be encouraging an avoidance of peas.

  His mother waved toward a curtained door on the far side of the kitchen, leading to the lean-to where he’d slept growing up. “We’d been using the space for storage—”

  “But we just cleared it out for you both,” his father interrupted, coming in, hanging his hat on the peg of the rack. “Why don’t you set your valises there for right now? We’ll figure out where everything will go later.”

  Joshua had forgotten his father’s unfortunate tendency to speak over his mother’s words. He took Micah’s valise, then pushed aside the faded blue calico curtain.

  With dismay, he looked into the lean-to, which had just enough room for a box bed that he’d be sharing with Micah with about two feet of space to navigate around one side. He could stand to his full height near the doorway, but the roof sloped to a few feet above the ground, and if he took two steps into the room, he’d have to duck. Near the doorway, a high shelf ran above the bed, with several hooks for clothing on either side.

  Remembering how much Micah twisted and turned during the night, from a ball to a sprawl and back again, Joshua suppressed a groan. I might not be sleeping well for a while.

  He thought of the three trunks they’d brought with them, which they’d left on the porch. He’d only had two when they departed from Africa, mostly full of gifts acquired over the years from the natives. But his mother-in-law’s shopping sprees had meant they needed to buy a third one. That thought reminded him that Abner and Ruth had sent along presents for his parents.

  He set down the valises on the bed, crouched, and opened one, taking out his treatise and the milk bottle, a soiled shirt, some clerical cravats, some handkerchiefs, and his comb, strop, and razor. Underneath were the presents—a book and some dress material wrapped in tissue paper.

  Carrying the gifts, Joshua stepped back into the kitchen. His parents and Micah had taken off their coats and hung them on hooks near the door. He set the tissue-wrapped bundle in his mother’s arms and gave his father the book. “From Esther’s parents.”

  “Oh, how thoughtful,” his mother murmured, carefully unwrapping the tissue paper to expose wool material in a slate blue, which matched her eyes. She stroked a trembling hand over the cloth. “Why, I’ve never had anything so fine.”

  Until Esther, Joshua had never paid any attention to women’s fashions. But his wife had educated him. She’d loved elegant gowns, even though she would also disparage any woman who dressed too frivolously. He thought of the clothing he’d seen his mother wearing in the past. She’d always looked neat. But she’d worn the same three dresses for years.

  Her brow wrinkled. “Do you think this is too beautiful for a minister’s wife?” She glanced from her husband to her son.

  Sadness welled up in Joshua. He knew his parents had chosen a life of sacrifice and ministry. Serving a remote town, rather than a rich neighborhood in a city like Cambridge, meant relying on parishioners for food, wood, and a tiny salary, and wearing clothes from the mission boxes, which were sent from wealthier people back East. They rarely had enough money for new clothes, and those they did buy had to last for years.

  His father spoke first. “You look beautiful no matter what you wear, Mary. “

  He smiled. The Reverend—Joshua sometimes thought of his father that way—had never been a man who believed that compliments turned a person’s head. Sincere compliments, that is. He placed a hand over his mother’s. “When you came to my wedding, you saw how Esther dressed, her mother and her sisters. Nothing ostentatious. Simple, well-made gowns of fine material like this.”

  In a girlish move, Mother hugged the fabric to her chest. “I’ll have to write and thank them.” She glanced over at her husband. “What did they send you, dear?”

  His father held up the volume, looking pleased. “A treatise on Ecclesiastes. I remember Abner and I having quite the discussion on that book of the Bible. This is newly published.”

  His mother took down an apron hanging on a hook next to the stove. “Micah, why don’t you help me prepare supper?” She made a shooing motion to her husband and son. “You two get out from underfoot while I spend some time with my grandson.” Her smile belied the sharpness of her words. “I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

  Nose in the air sniffing the mouth-watering smells, Micah seemed not to mind the invitation to help.

  “Very well.” The Reverend motioned for Joshua to follow him. “Come with me, son.”

  They walked down the short hall and into the study. Joshua had forgotten how tiny the parsonage was, including his father’s miniscule office, which was crammed with furniture and books.

  His father moved a stack of volumes off one of the two chairs lining the wall on the side of the desk and set them on the floor. The desk was covered with pamphlets and papers. A wooden swivel chair sat in front of it. Open shelves above the chairs held more books.

  Joshua’s house in Uganda had also been small—a frequent complaint of Esther’s. The size and primitive conditions hadn’t suited his wife. But he hadn’t minded because he spent so much time out-of-doors. A circular open-sided hut was next to the house. Once he’d laid flat stones into the ground underneath the roof, Joshua had moved a lightweight table and three chairs gifted him by some natives outside, where he did most of his work, following the shade as the sun arced across the sky.

  His father sat in the desk chair.

  With a tired sigh, Joshua sank into a seat, conscious the fatigue of the journey had caught up with him. He reclined in the chair, resting the back of his head against the wall and wishing he had room to stretch out his legs. “If Micah and I stay here, Father, we’ll have to add onto the house. A bedroom, a bigger study. A parlor for mother.”

  His father moved aside several pamphlets on the desk and then swiveled the chair to face him. “I suppose if you will be helping me with the ministry, I could appeal to the congregation for the funds to expand the house.”

  “There’s no need to do that. I can pay for it.”

  His father raised an eyebrow.

  “Esther’s mother comes from a wealthy family,” Joshua hastened to explain. “In addition, her uncle became a merchant and did very well for himself. His wife and only child died young, and he never remarried. He left his fortune to his nieces and nephews. The bulk of Esther’s share of his estate is in trust for Micah, but there’s enough to expand this house or build one of my own. And to live simply without worrying about money.”

  His father nodded. “A blessing, son, to live without want.” He cleared his throat, as if to say he wasn’t complaining about the sacrifices he’d made to minister here.

  “Indeed.”

  “We’d like you to remain with us. But, of course, that is your decision. I look forward to hearing about your ministry in Uganda. Your mother and I are proud of all you’ve accomplished.”

  Joshua wished he, too, could feel proud. “I can tell you plenty of stories. . .but I don’t think I can put into words some of the difficulties. . .how ill prepared Esther and I were for the challenges we faced—sometimes almost insurmountable barriers in language and culture; being miles away from anyone but unschooled natives, living off the land. . . . That we succeeded at all amazes me. The hand of God working. . . .”

  “I always thought you were well named, son. You were never afraid to blow th
e horn and take down the walls impeding you. I knew you’d find your Jericho in Africa.”

  “I’ve no breath left to blow, Father. Somehow, it all seeped away. I don’t think I can even muster the strength to raise the horn.”

  The Reverend’s eyebrows drew together, and he rested an elbow on the desk. “Why, son. Have you. . . . Don’t tell me you’ve lost your faith?”

  Joshua took some time to reflect on his answer. “No, Father, my intellectual faith remains intact. But I’ve lost the passion for my faith.”

  His father stroked his beard, listening.

  Encouraged, Joshua rushed to reveal the secret he’d carried for the last year. “I fear I have lost my feelings for most everything, except for you, Mama, and Micah, of course. But even with my son, I haven’t done well.”

  “Not well?”

  “I’ve let him run wild. He made friends with the natives, who adopted him. He speaks their language fluently. He’s often my translator. One family, in particular, had a boy his age who was his best friend. They were a godsend in this last year when so much of my time was taken up in nursing Esther.” Joshua exhaled, briefly looked away. “They were more of a family to my son than his own parents were. Micah hasn’t forgiven me for tearing him away from them.”

  “I see. The boy is grieving more than just the death of his mother. He lost other family members.”

  “And a country. . .and even a way of life.”

  “Perhaps he’ll go back someday, as a missionary.”

  “I’ve thought on it for the past few days. Micah might return to Uganda, but I’m not certain he’ll want to follow in our footsteps. Our five-generation line of ministers might very well break with him.”

  His father leaned forward to drop a comforting hand on Joshua’s shoulder and squeezed. “Better not pressure the boy to go into a profession he doesn’t want. Either he will receive God’s call, or he won’t. Micah can still do good work, whatever path he chooses.”