Joshua smiled faintly. “I don’t think I ever told you how much I appreciated that attitude of yours. Many men in the seminary had to be there because their fathers were preachers. Or maybe the man’s parents wanted a minister in the family. Perhaps I became a minister because I didn’t have to. I watched you and wanted to be like you.”
Color flooded his father’s cheeks. Obviously touched, his eyes grew moist.
“I don’t think Micah feels the same about me. In fact, I doubt he even likes me.”
“Perhaps not right now. Give him time. Give both of you time.”
“Esther’s family wanted me to leave him with them.”
The Reverend just looked at him, his gaze steady.
“My son is my responsibility. He ran wild with the natives these last years. Confining him to a house in the city would have been cruel. He wouldn’t have thrived in a fire-and-brimstone, spare-the-rod, spoil-the-child home.”
“And you think he will here?”
Joshua nodded towards the mountains. “At least, he’ll have space to roam.” He attempted to smile. “Might have a hard time adjusting to his first winter, though.”
“He’ll need more than space, son.”
Huffing out a breath, Joshua dropped his head into his hands. “On the inside, he’s become Baganda.” He gave a sad shake of his head. “Micah made the mistake of telling Esther’s family about his closeness with Kimu. They were scandalized. Scolded him. Blamed me.”
“What did you do?”
“Besides cutting our visit short? Micah ran out of the room, and I pointed out to them that he’ll be an expert missionary someday. I didn’t share my doubts in his actually having a vocation. I also told them that he’ll continue to aid me with the translations. That helped the Maynards accept his attachment to the natives.”
His father sat back in his chair. “I’m glad to hear you’re continuing your work. In your last letter, you’d finished John and Luke.”
“That was it, I’m afraid. But I want to do more and send the Gospels to the missionary society. I used to dream about presenting the Baganda with the whole Bible in their language. Or I should say, my natives with the Bible in their dialect. There’s dozens, maybe hundreds of variations of Swahili.”
“You still can, son.”
“Perhaps.”
“Now that you’ve returned, what do you intend to do?”
“I don’t know. Abner wants me to teach missionary studies at his college. I’ll have to think on that. But in the meantime, I can help you a little. . .”
“What are you seeking, son?”
Joshua hesitated. “What I really want is some peace.”
The Reverend’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think we’re meant to live peaceful lives, son. Too much peace would be stagnating.”
Joshua started to protest.
His father held up a hand to stop him. “Let me finish. I’m not saying we can’t have times of peace, where we relax and replenish. You are in need of such. But I believe those instances are to prepare us for the next stretch of challenges.”
Joshua sighed, not willing to think of more challenges just now. I should be counting my blessings. My family is healthy. I have ample means. I’m home. I have time to focus on my son, to guide him as he adapts to his new life. But even though he was truly grateful, Joshua still felt drained, as if most of the blood had seeped from his body. He turned the topic back to his son. “Wherever Micah goes, he’ll be a misfit.”
His father gave him a knowing smile. “Since you’ve been gone, Sweetwater Springs has acquired some other misfit boys. They’ve found a home in our community. Found acceptance. . .friendship. Micah will, too.”
Joshua wasn’t so optimistic. His father didn’t know Micah like he did.
“Give the boy time to settle in. Give yourself time to settle in.”
“Wise advice, as always, Father.” He felt better for unburdening himself to this rare, fine man. Still, his doubts remained.
But what if my fire doesn’t return? If I never settle in?
The next day, Joshua resolved to pay a call on the Bellaires, Mr. Bellaire, he amended, trying not to think how eager he was to also see the man’s beautiful daughter. An unexpected surge of energy went through him when thinking of her. He just wished the feeling wasn’t caused by an unknown woman—or any woman at all for that matter—but because his vitality was returning.
He changed clothes in his parents’ bedroom, grateful to be clean after traveling. He and Micah had taken a bath the night before in a tin washtub in the kitchen, which had made him miss the big bathroom with indoor plumbing at the Maynards’ house. How quickly one becomes used to amenities. Most of the time in Uganda, they’d made do with sponge baths. There, a tub and plenty of water from a pump indoors would have seemed a luxury.
Satisfied he looked as well as possible, Joshua returned to the kitchen, where his son was reading Tom Sawyer at the table, and his mother was pouring soup into a tin pail that looked like a lunch bucket. She wore a divided brown riding skirt, which told him she planned on traveling to an area inaccessible by buggy.
“I’m calling on a parishioner,” she said, confirming his guess. “A new baby. A difficult delivery, poor woman. She already has six other children, and that husband of hers is helpless in the kitchen.” She tisked.
Joshua raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t most husbands?”
His mother set the bucket on the table next to a basket and placed the tin lid on top. A loaf of bread sat on the napkin in the middle of the basket, and she pulled the edges of the cloth over the top, scooped up a neatly folded pile of what looked like knitted baby clothes, and tucked them around the side. In her spare moments, his mother knitted or crocheted garments, often using donated yarn. She also quilted blankets with scraps of material to give to the needy. “Not your father. And certainly, not you. I taught you better.”
Joshua hugged her, dropping a kiss on her head. “Just as well you did, Mother. I needed those skills when Esther became too ill to manage the household.” Not that he’d managed very well, either.
She patted his cheeks. “Yes, dear. That’s why a man needs to know his way around a kitchen. And the laundry wash tub, and. . .” She shook her head. “Enough of that. You’ve heard the lecture many times.”
Micah lifted his head. “I can make nsesene. Kisozi showed me how.”
Joshua choked and turned the sound into a cough.
“How interesting, Micah.” She beamed at the boy. “Perhaps you can prepare it for us sometime.”
The boy shrugged and started to read again.
Perhaps I shouldn’t tell Mother that nsesene are grasshoppers.
His mother fussed with the basket, making sure everything was arranged. Then she placed her hand under Micah’s chin and gently lifted. “You’ll start school next week when you’re a little more familiar here. Today, why don’t you come along? You can carry that for me.” She waved to the basket. “Once we hit the mountain, we’ll have to unhitch the horse to ride and hike the rest of the way to the house. The exercise and the fresh air will do you good.”
Although Micah didn’t seem overjoyed by the prospect, he gave his grandmother an obedient nod.
At least there are other children where he’s going. “While you’re there, you can organize the children,” Joshua suggested. “Teach them some of the games you played in Africa.”
For a moment, his son’s eyes brightened. Then a shadow crossed his face. “Won’t be the same without Kimu,” he muttered.
Joshua dropped a hand on Micah’s shoulder. “No, it won’t, son. But Kimu is in Uganda, playing with the children there. And you must do the same thing here.”
Micah didn’t answer.
“You’ll make new friends. Maybe even one of these children.” Joshua looked over at his mother. “I’m paying a call on the B
ellaires. Where is Mr. Livingston’s house?”
“Just keep walking down Main Street.” She pointed in the direction she wanted him to go. “You can’t miss it. A lovely brick mansion, three stories, the nicest house in town, although the Adlers’ is also lovely. And you should see the one Nick Sanders built on his ranch.”
Joshua blinked and shook his head, the image of young, gangly Nick Sanders too strong in his head to imagine him grown up, much less the owner of a fine house on a ranch.
His mother laughed. “There’s so much to catch you up on, Joshua. We wrote faithfully to you, but judging from the letters we received in return, half of our correspondence back and forth never arrived.”
“You can tell me Nick’s story later, Mother.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek, then plucked his bowler off a hook next to the door and set it on his head. “Micah, you behave and listen to your grandmother.”
The boy nodded.
Joshua reached out and ruffled Micah’s hair. “I’ll see you both later.” With a jaunty step, he hurried out of the house. Once outdoors, he adjusted his pace to one of ministerly decorum and hoped he could make it down the street without causing offense by not recognizing someone he should.
But when he reached Main Street, his unobstructed view of the town pulled him to a stop. Yesterday, he’d been so caught up with the Bellaires—Mr. Bellaire’s life-threatening attack and the way his daughter stirred Joshua’s senses, then reuniting with his parents and the press of people welcoming him—that the changes in Sweetwater Springs had not registered.
Now Joshua took the time to absorb his hometown—the place enshrined in his memory until it had seemed only a dream. There were times when he’d gone days without thinking of his home, other days where the memory of Montana had slapped him with longing, and still more when he’d deliberately recollected the crisp cold of winter—the snow so white it gleamed crystal-blue in places, the arching blue sky, the blue-gray mountains with purple shadows, their green-forested sides. Other times, the reality of Africa so immersed his senses that no matter how he tried, he couldn’t call up the scent of pine or the cry of an eagle.
The sound of hammers rang through the air, drawing Joshua’s gaze to the new hotel, the four-story building towering over the rest of the town. The outside facade of polished brown stone gleamed almost pink where the light hit. To anyone who’d never left Sweetwater Springs, the hotel must seem a wonder in size and beauty. He couldn’t imagine how the sleepy town he remembered would provide enough business for such a grand establishment.
Near the railroad station, workmen dug in the street, laying rough paving blocks of the same stone that lined the hotel. He wondered how far the paved road would extend.
The train station that he remembered as new wood now sported a coat of brown paint and jaunty yellow trim. He continued his perusal. Some of the false-fronted buildings remained unpainted, but many, such as the green saloon, with “Hardy’s” in big black letters over the door, were bright with color. The flowers growing in some window boxes showed the owners’ dedication to improving the appearance of their businesses.
Joshua turned and began to stroll in the direction of the banker’s house. As he passed, he touched his hat to an elderly lady he didn’t know and returned the wave of a man across the street. But he had no problem remembering the hatchet-faced woman who stopped in front of him, the handle of a basket looped over the crook of her arm.
Fear fluttered through him. The difficult woman was quick to take offense, and he didn’t want to make trouble. Joshua had to sternly remind himself that he was an adult and a minister.
“Mrs. Murphy.” He took off his hat and gave her a little bow. “Good to see you again,” he politely fibbed. “I hope all is well?”
She sniffed. “ ’Bout time you returned home, Joshua Norton. Your parents have pined for you.”
“I followed God’s call to Africa, Mrs. Murphy,” he said, keeping to his most charming tone.
She shook her head and the wattle under her chin quivered. “Those heathen didn’t need you as much as your parents did. . .as our town did.”
“Well, I’m home now.” He changed the subject. “How is Mr. Murphy?”
The woman frowned and stiffened her back. “I’m surprised your parents didn’t inform you,” she said tartly. “My husband passed on six years ago.”
Well, I just went and put my foot into a painful hole. “I’m sure they did write to me about Mr. Murphy’s death,” he said gently, trying to respect her grief and not respond to her prickly communication. “My mother and I were just talking about how many of our letters went astray. However, I’m sorry to hear of Mr. Murphy’s passing. He was a good man, and he loved you dearly.”
Mrs. Murphy’s eyes clouded, and her sharp features softened until, for an unbelievable moment, she looked vulnerable. “Thank you for those kind words. No one talks about him. It’s as if Thomas is not remembered by anyone but me.”
“I remember him quite clearly.” Joshua gave her a kind smile. “Your husband was always so proud of the garden produce he shared with my family. And I know we weren’t the only ones. I believe he had not only a green thumb, but green fingers and toes. He could practically feed the whole town.”
Her answering smile was fleeting. “The garden doesn’t do as well without him.”
“I’m sure the memory of Mr. Murphy lives on in many people’s hearts and minds. However, grief is such a touchy subject. Knowing how close you two were, I suspect people don’t mention your husband because they’re afraid to bring you pain.” Or because they avoid talking to you at all. But now wasn’t the time to point out the woman’s tendency to alienate others. She needed comforting, not admonition.
“Well, perhaps you’re right,” the widow admitted in a grudging tone.
“I suggest you try bringing up the subject. Start with your friends. Mention Mr. Murphy in conversation and see how people respond.”
“I’ll try that.” She gave a brief nod and held up the basket, obviously changing the subject. “My garden might not grow as well anymore, but my chickens continue to lay just fine. I have some eggs for your mother.”
“That’s very good of you, Mrs. Murphy. You’ll catch her and my son at home. They’re just about to set out.”
“I’ll hurry on, then.” She paused and gathered a breath. “Thank you, Reverend.”
“Good day, ma’am.” Floored by her unexpected approval, Joshua continued down the street, lost in thought. Not for the first time he reminded himself to refrain from judgment, for too often he was wrong. He never would have thought he’d make an impact on one of the most difficult women in Sweetwater Springs. But, as had happened many times in the past, he knew that the words that had flowed out of him weren’t his alone. He was just a channel for a power far wiser than he.
Judge not, that ye be not judged. He continued down the street, reciting the words of the seventh chapter of Matthew to himself as a much-needed reminder.
Sitting beside his grandmother in the surrey, Micah shivered in the cool air. Grandmother didn’t seem bothered by the chill, but she reached behind the seat and pulled out a blanket. “Tuck it around our legs, will you, dear?”
He obeyed. Within minutes, the warmth of the blanket helped.
She flicked the reins, and the horse started up.
Micah stayed silent while they drove through the rest of the town, although his grandmother gave him a running commentary on the buildings and the inhabitants, which he only half paid attention to.
The town wasn’t nearly as interesting as Cambridge, but was still as different from his African village as could be. A fierce tug of homesickness cramped his stomach, and only an effort of will kept him from bending over in pain. Tears stung his eyes, and Micah wanted to bawl like a baby. He concentrated hard to make them go away before his grandmother saw.
She transferred the
reins to one hand and patted his knee with the other. “Now, my dear, let me tell you about the Swensens, whom we are going to visit.” She took the reins back in both hands. “There are six daughters. The oldest is probably a year or two older than you.”
Six girls! “No boys?”
“Dr. Cameron tells me the new baby is a boy. The family is overjoyed. And the only reason Dr. Cameron knows the information is Mrs. Swenson’s labor was so long that Mr. Swenson became worried and sent Inga for the doctor.”
Micah scrunched his face.
She flicked a glance at him. “Normally, I wouldn’t even mention such a topic to a child, especially a boy. But you are the son and grandson of a minister. You will be called upon to see and do things other boys won’t.”
“I helped Senyiwa deliver her sister.”
“You what?” she exclaimed.
“There was a festival in the next village and almost everyone left. I was in trouble, so I had to stay home with Kisozi.”
“Ah, yes. I remember your father wrote that Kisozi was your nanny.”
“Senyiwa came running for Kisozi, and we both went to help. I got to hold the baby when he was born,” Micah said. “They named him after me.” For a moment, he took pride in the memory. But then he remembered Meec, as they called the little one, holding out his arms to be picked up, and he became sad all over again. “We shouldn’t have left. The Baganda are our people, and they need us,” he said fiercely.
“I’m sure they do. You and your parents must have made a big difference in the lives of the natives.”
“Then why did we have to leave?”
His grandmother sighed and pulled back on the reins.
The horse ambled to a stop.
Grandmother turned to face him. “Well, my dear.” She gave a playful tug at the brim of his cap. “I think it was time for you to come home to Sweetwater Springs.”
No, it wasn’t!
“The presence of you and your father will make a difference to those who live here as well as you did in Uganda, but most of all, to your grandfather and myself. We have missed your father with a deep ache in our hearts, even though we knew he did important work in Africa and prayed daily for his ministry.” She set the back of her hand against his cheek. “To not know our only grandchild has also hurt our hearts.” She sighed. “And we are growing older.”
Glorious Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series) Page 8