Glorious Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series)

by Debra Holland

  “But not now.” Andre’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “Praying over me will make me feel like I’m on my deathbed.”

  “Well, we can’t have that,” Joshua said with a smile. “How about if I say prayers for you later when I’m home?” For a moment, he experienced an ache of loss for his outdoor office in Africa, the early morning time he reserved for solitude and prayer just as the sun sent golden rays to waken the world around him.

  “I’d appreciate that.” Andre squirmed, as if trying to get comfortable.

  Delia rose and helped rearrange his pillows behind him.

  Andre let out a grateful sigh. “Now, enough talking about such weighty matters. You were traveling. . . ? Making a visit?”

  Joshua couldn’t help but grin. “Quite a long one.”

  Delia looked at Joshua with interest. “Dr. Cameron told me you’ve just returned from Africa?”

  “Yes. Uganda, near Lake Victoria. I was a missionary to the Baganda. I’ve been away from Sweetwater Springs for a long time. First to attend seminary, then as a missionary. But when my wife died, I wanted to bring my son home.”

  Miss Bellaire’s hazel eyes grew sad. “I’m sorry to hear of your loss.”

  “Thank you. Esther had a long illness and suffered greatly. By the end, I could find solace in knowing she was at peace in heaven.”

  Delia looked away.

  “I’ve made you uncomfortable?”

  “Not at all, Reverend Norton. I’m merely reflecting how grateful I am that Papa was spared.” She placed a graceful hand on her chest. “I’ve never been so frightened in my life. I thought I was going to lose you.” Her mouth turned down at the corners, she glanced at her father. “I’m still shaky when I think about it.”

  Andre held out a hand to her. “I’m so sorry, dearest.”

  She clasped her father’s fingers and brought the back of his hand to her cheek.

  The loving expression on Delia’s face moved Joshua. He had no doubt of the devotion between father and daughter.

  He couldn’t help contrasting the two Bellaires with Esther and Abner. The Maynards had an undoubted bond, but they were not a demonstrative family. While he was attending seminary, Joshua had been so caught up with the intellectual stimulation, his admiration for the family’s educational prowess, that he hadn’t noticed the lack of more tender emotions between the parents and their children or among the siblings themselves.

  As much as Joshua valued intelligence and education, he’d learned to his distress that unless those two were tempered by emotion—kindness, tolerance, affection—a couple lost the intimate connection he believed God intended for a marriage.

  After a moment, Andre turned to him. “I don’t want to delay you, Reverend Norton, but when you have time, I’d love to hear about your experiences in Africa. Your presence has certainly perked me up.”

  Joshua sat back in his chair. “My mother and son are calling on parishioners, so I have all the time in the world.” He glanced from Andre to his daughter. “I could stay if you’d like. Tell you some stories of Uganda.”

  Andre’s expression indicated interest, encouraging him to say more.

  Miss Bellaire gave him a warm smile. “Please stay.”

  With such an invitation, how could I not?

  Joshua thought of what might most interest them. “First of all—” Joshua waved his arm around the room “—if you were sick in a Baganda village, you’d have a crowd of relatives and friends here with you, for it was considered unfriendly not to go and inquire after the ill man.”

  “A gang of visitors. . .” Andre gave a mock shudder. “I think I prefer more solitude when I’m ill.”

  “As do I,” Joshua agreed. “And of course, your wives, plural, would tenderly nurse you.”

  Andre’s eyebrows rose. “Plural?”

  Joshua nodded. “Your head wife would consult the medicine man, who in turn would consult an oracle to tell him what your sickness was. The medicine man might try to transfer your sickness to an animal.”

  Delia laughed. “I wonder what Dr. Cameron would think of that.”

  Her father rubbed his temples.

  “Do you have a headache?” Joshua asked Andre.

  “Somewhat.”

  “You didn’t tell me that, Papa,” Delia exclaimed. “You need to take some willowbark tea.”

  Joshua nodded. “Willowbark tea is far preferable to cupping the side of your head.”

  “Cupping, such as the drawing of blood?” Andre asked with a look of dismay. “On my head?”

  “Yes. Done with a sharp knife and the tips of cow horns.”

  “I think that just banished my headache.” Andre raised his hand to cover a cough.

  “Ah,” Joshua said. “Cupping was also done for coughs, deep-seated abscesses, and sometimes for pleurisy in one’s side.”

  “I merely had something caught in my throat,” Andre protested with humor. “Not a cough at all.”

  Joshua realized he was enjoying himself. “In that case,” he said in a teasing tone, although his face remained deadpan, “you would probably be given a vapor bath.”

  “What’s that?” Delia’s face was alight with interest.

  Joshua’s gaze wanted to linger on her face, the smooth olive-tinted skin, delicate features, long-lashed intelligent eyes, but he made himself look at Andre. “You’d be stripped of your clothes, and a pot of burning embers would be set next to you. Barkcloth would cover you and the pot, until the perspiration poured out of you, and you felt better.”

  “Sounds like summer in New Orleans,” Andre quipped. “Although, sweating like a pig did not make one feel better.”

  “Actually, our Indians have a similar custom called a sweat lodge where one or more will sit in a tent that’s made exceedingly hot, until they are sweating. Although I’m not sure it’s used for actual illness. I believe the purpose is for well-being and spiritual visions and messages.”

  “How do you so much about the Indians?” Delia asked.

  “My father, as you will hopefully come to know, is unusually broadminded for a man of God. And he would have liked to have ministered to the Indian tribes, just as he liked to be able to visit the surrounding tiny towns that don’t have a preacher. In other words, to do the work of ten men. But he strives to learn what he can about the Indians, talking with any who come to town.”

  “I think many of us wish we could do far more than we do. But not always for such commendable reasons,” Andre said in a wry tone.

  Joshua nodded in agreement. “Growing up, my father encouraged me to talk to the Indian boys, learn some of the language. I’ve probably forgotten it all by now. But I think the practice helped me considerably when I went to Africa. Perhaps I was able to understand the natives better than a man. . .or woman. . .without any knowledge of indigenous people or with only prejudicial knowledge of them.”

  “Tell us more about Africa,” Delia urged. “Did the natives have any other treatments for illness?”

  He couldn’t help smiling her way. “For a fever, you’d drink a concoction of herbs from a fetish to increase the potency of the medicinal benefits.”

  “What’s a fetish?”

  “Something like a good luck charm, usually decorated gourds.”

  “Now that I understand,” Delia exclaimed. “New Orleans has voodoo, you know, which is a religion based on African beliefs that the slaves brought with them to America. A fetish sounds like a gris-gris, although they’re cloth bags, not gourds.”

  Joshua was about to ask for more information when he caught Andre shooting Delia a reproving look.

  She sank back in her chair, her posture betraying uncertainty.

  Joshua caught an undercurrent between the pair but decided not to ask questions. Perhaps voodoo wasn’t a topic an unmarried young lady should discuss. He hurried to draw th
eir attention away from the possible faux pas. “Ghosts play a strong part in their beliefs. The natives might believe an ancestor who’d died of the same illness is. . .I guess haunting them is the best way to describe it.”

  “Ah,” Andre exclaimed, with a tense note in his voice. “Another topic we in New Orleans are familiar with.” He attempted a smile, but the lines around his eyes deepened. “Although we usually have ghosts that haunt places, not people. It’s something the servants whisper about, although a rational man like myself dismisses it as nonsense.”

  Joshua wondered if Andre was tired. . .if he should leave the invalid to rest.

  Miss Bellaire tilted her head. “So, what does the poor haunted soul do?”

  “Seeks a way to propitiate the ghost. Or the medicine man tries to exorcise it by breathing in smoke, fumigated with herbs.”

  “That doesn’t sound good for your lungs.” Delia commented with a shake of her head.

  “Definitely not something I want to try.”

  The humor was back in Andre’s tone, and Joshua relaxed. “I agree.” Seeing the interest of father and daughter, he continued the conversation. “If you were in pain, a hot iron about a quarter of an inch would be applied to the area three times. The three blisters it made were supposed to give you relief and drive out the cause of the pain.”

  “I can’t imagine such a thing!” Delia exclaimed. “What if the pain was on your face? What if you had pain all over your body? This certainly sounds like a case where the treatment makes the illness worse.”

  “I agree with you,” Joshua said with a shrug. “But the superstitions of the natives are very deeply embedded in their minds, a part of them from the time they are babies. If the belief is strong enough, the treatment can help, at least temporarily.” He smiled at Andre. “I could talk for days on the rigid rules they have for every part of their lives. Even after nine years, I didn’t learn them all.”

  Delia put together her hands. “Oh, I do hope to hear more.”

  “Perhaps I’ll take a different topic on each visit.” Joshua’s gaze caught hers and lingered. I’ll definitely be paying many sickbed visits to Andre Bellaire.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  By the time Micah and his grandmother had ridden and hiked up the mountain for an hour, he was no longer cold. In fact, when they’d stopped for a breather, Micah had taken off his jacket and tied it around his waist.

  After they’d abandoned the surrey and unhitched and saddled the horse, they’d ridden double for the first part of the way up the mountain. But Matilda was old—although, his grandmother said, a faithful mount—and at a certain point, they’d begun to take turns, one riding and one walking.

  Riding by himself gave Micah a chance to study his surroundings. The trees had changed to straight-trunked ones that had clumps of green quills instead of branches. He reached out to grab a bunch, feeling the roughness of the needles. The points pricked his fingers. He released the branch and it snapped back, leaving behind an unfamiliar spicy smell that clung to his skin.

  His grandmother, walking in front, turned and smiled. “How are you doing, Micah?”

  “Fine.” He wasn’t going to tell her his thighs ached. And walking, er, hiking wasn’t much better. He was used to walking and running for miles, just not up a mountain. He marveled that his old grandmother seemed so spry. “You do this often?”

  Her smile put a crinkle of lines around her face. “All the time. Not always this trail, of course. But many of our parishioners live in out-of-the-way places, where riding a horse or walking is the only way in. Keeps your grandfather and me quite vigorous.”

  Despite her stalwart words, Micah had a feeling he should be a man and let her ride. He pulled on the reins.

  Matilda halted.

  He slid off, trying to hide how his legs trembled. “Your turn to ride, Grandmother.”

  Smiling, she took the reins, then cupped his cheeks and kissed his forehead. “You’re such a thoughtful boy.”

  Micah blinked at her in surprise. No one had ever said anything like that to him. In fact, he was usually scolded because he wasn’t thoughtful. Even though most of the time he believed what he was doing was helpful, his idea of thoughtfulness and that of the adults around him weren’t the same. Although he liked the feeling of warmth his grandmother’s compliment gave him, Micah was pretty sure things would change when she became better acquainted with him.

  He held the horse steady while she climbed into the saddle, avoiding the basket tied to one side and the bucket on the other.

  Once he saw his grandmother had adjusted her skirt, he handed her the reins.

  She gave him a go ahead nod.

  With a sigh, he began to climb the sloping path. The hike seemed to take forever. Just as Micah thought he’d have to ask for a ride on the horse, they passed a forked stump and trudged around a bend in the trail.

  “Not much farther, Micah,” Grandmother said in an encouraging tone.

  They forded a stream. Matilda splashed right on through, and Micah hopped across on flat rocks that had obviously been laid out as steppingstones. The path curved again, and a clearing lay to the right. Micah saw a main house, which was little more than a cabin with lean-tos on either end like the one he’d slept in last night.

  Drying pelts of animals, large and small, hung on the wall of a shed. Micah wished he could go examine them up close but figured he’d better stay with his grandmother for now.

  In the yard, three yellow-haired girls jumped over a rope. When they saw the visitors, they squealed and dropped the rope. One turned and pelted into the house, and the others ran toward them, braids bouncing, big smiles on their faces.

  “Hello, Mrs. Norton,” said one who looked about his age. “We have a baby brother.”

  “So I’ve heard, Inga. And that’s why we’ve come to visit.”

  Micah held the mare’s head while his grandmother dismounted.

  “Who are you?” asked another girl.

  She was about the same size as her sister, but he couldn’t tell which one was older.

  “I’ve never seen you before.”

  Grandmother patted his shoulder. “This is Micah, my grandson. He and his father just arrived yesterday.” She gently touched the first girl’s cheek. “Micah, this is Inga. And her sister is Elsebe.”

  He ducked his head in a greeting.

  A man stepped out on the porch, hurried down the steps, and across the dirt to them. He was blond and blue-eyed like his girls and had a scraggly beard. “Mrs. Norton, kind you are to visit. But an effort for you.” He had dark circles under his eyes, and his words had a strange accent to them. “Anna lies down with baby. Our son.” He beamed just saying the word.

  “As I expected, my dear Mr. Swensen. Nor should she get up on our account. You go right on in and tell Anna I said so. I can visit sitting by her bedside just fine, and Micah will stay outside and play with the girls.” She gave Micah a direct look. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, wishing he could explore on his own without the girls.

  “Inga and Elsebe, can you please help Micah with the horse?” his grandmother asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Inga burst out. “We can unsaddle her, water her, and stake her out in the shade with our mule.”

  Grandmother gave her an approving smile. “Excellent.” She worked to untie the bucket and hand it over to Inga. Then she moved to the other side of the horse and took off the basket.

  “I’ll carry this in for you, Mrs. Norton,” Inga said.

  “Thank you, child.”

  The two walked to the house.

  Elsebe stared at Micah for a minute with unabashed curiosity in her blue eyes. “Where are you from?”

  “Uganda.”

  Her eyes widened. “Where’s that?”

  “Africa.”

  “Africa,�
�� Elsebe said on a breath. “Mrs. Gordon showed us Africa on the globe.” She stared at him in awe.

  Seeing her expression made a proud feeling rise in Micah. “I’ll tell you some stories,” he offered.

  “Oh, yes!”

  Her sister ran out of the house to join them, followed by two bitty ones in descending sizes. They all had blonde braids and golden-lashed blue eyes, with pale skin and mouths like rosebuds. He couldn’t help staring.

  “Why you looking at us so queer-like?” Inga demanded.

  Micah pulled a wry smile at being caught out. “I’ve never seen so many pale gals up close. Where I come from the natives have dark skin.”

  The third oldest girl scrunched her brows. “Like Red Charlie and Little Feather. Well, his name is Hunter now, but sometimes we forget and call him Little Feather.”

  Micah didn’t know who Red Charlie and Little Feather were, but the names sounded Indian, and his father had pointed out some of the American natives on the trip. “No, darker.” He waved a hand across his head. “And their hair is very short and fuzzy-curly. When they smile, you smile.” His throat closed at remembering his friends. He even missed the girls.

  The whole troop ambled to a water trough—a half-barrel buried in the ground and fed by a tiny spring that trickled in and dribbled out the lower lip. Matilda sucked up a goodly drink, and they tied her by a twenty-foot tether so she could munch clumps of new grass.

  That done, Inga studied Micah. “Must be hard leaving your friends.”

  He couldn’t answer, only nod.

  “We’ll be your friends, if you let us,” Inga offered.

  “Aw, you’re just girls.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Well, girls is all you got here, unless you want to go play with the baby.”

  “What kind of games do you play in Africa?” Elsebe asked.

  Her tone was that of a peacemaker, reminding him of Senyiwa, Kimu’s older sister, who was twelve. “Hunting games.”

  The next youngest after Inga—perhaps six—clapped her hands. “I want to play hunting games.”

  “Krista,” Elsebe said in a reproving tone. “Micah’s here to visit. We should stick near the house.”