Glorious Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series)

by Debra Holland

  “We shall, indeed.”

  He started to step away, then stopped. “If we talk to someone, and I don’t introduce you right away, that means I don’t remember the person’s name. Please rescue me by introducing yourself, and then I’ll apologize for my bad manners in not presenting you earlier.”

  “Sounds like the perfect plan for causing the least amount of offense.”

  They moved across the room at a snail’s pace, for Reverend Joshua couldn’t take a step before being stopped by people who wanted to introduce themselves, or chat about old times, or bring him up to date about the happenings in their families.

  He made Delia known to everyone, regardless of social strata. In fact, unlike New Orleans with its racial as well as wealth class system, in Sweetwater Springs, there didn’t seem to be much social distinction. Some people were dressed more fashionably than others, but all had made an obvious effort to present a tidy appearance, which she wouldn’t have expected in the Wild West. But then again, this ice cream social might very well be the highlight of the spring season, and the temperature was no longer too cold for people to bathe.

  She couldn’t believe the friendliness of the people, the genuine happiness they displayed in having Reverend Joshua returned to them, and the welcome they gave to her as a newcomer. More than once, a person mentioned they’d prayed for the safety of him and his family over the years. Each time, she could tell the comment made the minister emotional. Then the person would turn to her and say they were praying for her father’s recovery, and it was her turn to choke up. The kindness of strangers. . .Delia put away the thought, planning to mull over when she had a chance.

  Finally, they reached one of the tables, where stood several men, grinding the handles of the ice cream makers. One woman prepared bowls of ice cream and another poured sauce over them.

  The one with the sauce was plump, with wooly white hair and a bulldog chin. “Well, Joshua Norton, you’ve taken your time getting here.” She spoke with the familiarity of long acquaintance.

  Delia wasn’t sure if the woman meant home from Africa or over to the ice cream table.

  “But I’m here now, Mrs. Pendell,” he said. “And that’s what’s important.” He gestured back and forth to the two women. “Mrs. P, Miss Bellaire and her father are staying in Sweetwater Springs while he recovers his health.”

  “I’ve heard tell.”

  “Delia, this is Mrs. Pendell. She’s the housekeeper for the Dunns, who have a ranch in Green Valley. And her peach cobbler is a treat I still remember.”

  The woman blushed. “I’ll be sure to bring one by on Sunday.”

  “I’d like that just fine, Mrs. P.” He gave the woman his friendly smile.

  But Delia could tell the man had no idea of his personal charm. . .natural charm. She’d been the recipient of enough manipulative gallantry to know the difference. Reverend Joshua displayed genuine warmth, which made her like him all the more.

  She brought her attention back to the woman. “I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs. Pendell,” Delia said, and teased, “I was afraid you’d be out of ice cream by the time we moved from one end of the room to the other.”

  Mrs. Pendell gave her a proud smile. “Oh, no, dearie. We’ve been planning this social for weeks. Everyone with cows contributed the cream, especially dairy farmers like the Muths.” She pointed at a couple—a petite woman who was heavily pregnant and her big husband, who looked like a Viking. “And Mr. Mead, who’s in that cluster of men talking politics in the corner. Practically every housewife contributed the toppings.”

  Reverend Joshua surveyed the stacked jars of syrup, each column a different color.

  “Do we have a choice, Mrs. Pendell?”

  “That you do, Reverend,” she said proudly. “Raspberry, saskatoon, huckleberry. Sorry, we’re out of strawberry. Only the Cobbs brought those. Elderberry, chokecherry, and buffalo berry.”

  “Buffalo berry?” Delia echoed.

  “Why, yes,” said Mrs. Pendell, flicking her hand toward the red jars. “Thorny bushes with little red berries. Makes a good syrup, if I do say so myself. Excellent on flapjacks, too.”

  Delia remembered what she’d said to Micah. “I’ll take saskatoon.”

  “Make that two,” Reverend Norton added. He picked up the first bowl.

  As he handed it to her, their fingers brushed, sending a surge of warmth through her. She felt her cheeks heat. “Thank you.” She took a spoonful of ice cream. But, still feeling her unexpected reaction to his touch, she barely tasted the creamy treat.

  Delia looked toward the door and noticed the beautiful woman she’d seen earlier walking in with another man holding her arm. Before she could speculate on what had happened to Mr. Livingston, she spotted a tall, thin cowboy coming up to her. He had a beaky nose, receding chin, and shy gray eyes.

  He sent a group of men quick glances, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he tried to get out some words.

  The men gestured and mouthed directions to him.

  Delia took pity on him. “Have your friends put you up to talking to me?”

  “Yes’m. Bet me.”

  Delia let out a peal of laughter. “Have you won yet?”

  “No’m. Ten. . .words.”

  Delia counted his words on his fingers. “You have five more to go.”

  His smile stuttered into view. “I. . .I think you’re real purty.”

  With a smile, Delia held up her hand, her fingers spread. “That’s five. You’ve won. Now go back to your friends and collect your bet.”

  With an expression of relief, he left her and slid through the crowd.

  A smile of amusement still on her face, Delia watched the man go. For some reason, she’d let down the automatic guard she kept in place with men. . . . But she felt safe with Reverend Norton—with receiving his admiration. And now this cowboy’s. . .not that she was attracted to him like she was to the handsome minister. . . . But she felt. . .respect from the men in the room. Is it that they think I’m white, or would they have treated me this way if they knew I was octoroon?

  I wish I knew the answer.

  Reluctantly, Joshua let his mother lead him away from Miss Bellaire, Delia as he already thought of her. She’d started talking to another man, and it wasn’t right for him to monopolize her. Joshua knew he needed to put the beautiful Southerner out of his mind. Not such an easy task.

  His mother pulled him across the room. As they threaded through the crowd, she chattered. “Elizabeth Sanders was a friend of Pamela Carter’s from Boston who came here to for a long visit and ended up marrying Nick. They’re very happy together and have a little girl.”

  Joshua couldn’t wrap his mind around Nick Sanders, the younger boy he’d taken to hunt arrowheads, as a grown man with a wife and baby. The wagon accident that had killed Nick’s parents and younger sister, Marcy, had sent a wave of grief through the community. Prior to her marriage, Nick’s mother had been the schoolteacher and before becoming the foreman at the Carter’s ranch, Mr. Sanders had helped build most of the houses around town. Many had wept at the funeral, and Joshua’s father had struggled to provide comfort and solace to everyone. Nick stayed on the ranch as John Carter’s ward, and soon after Joshua had left for Cambridge.

  Since then, Joshua had seen more than his share of tragedies and presided over more funerals than he could count, many that had affected him deeply. But the deaths of the Sanders family still stood out in his memory as a time of immense community sorrow.

  Joshua hadn’t succeeded in shaking off his melancholy thoughts when his mother headed him toward two men deep in a conversation. They struck hands as if concluding an agreement, then one moved in their direction.

  His mother made a here he is gesture with a sweep of her hand.

  Joshua had to blink a few times to see the boy in the man but his bluish-green eyes convinced hi
m. Mrs. Sanders and little Marcy had also had those eyes. Somewhere along the line, Nick had broken his nose, which gave him a rougher appearance, and his smile held none of the shyness Joshua remembered.

  Nick’s face lit up. “Joshua!” he exclaimed, before catching himself with a guilty expression. “Reverend Norton, I believe I should say.”

  “To a boyhood friend, it’ll always be Joshua.”

  Nick grinned. “Perhaps not on Sunday.”

  The two men clasped hands, and Joshua couldn’t help but clap Nick’s shoulder with his free hand. When they stepped back, he told his old friend, “It’s so good to see you.”

  “A lot has happened since you left.” Nick waved at a blonde woman talking on the side of the room. “Come meet Elizabeth—the woman who changed my life.”

  “Sometime, when we’re in quieter surroundings, I’d like to hear the story.”

  “More than a story, Joshua. A fairy tale. Not that I’m a prince or anything.”

  A beautiful woman slipped her hand around Nick’s arm. “What do you mean, you’re not a prince?” she exclaimed, a humorous light in her blue eyes. “You are too a prince. My prince.” She was elegant and well dressed, with lace edging her cobalt-colored dress and pearls in her ears and around her neck.

  Nick dropped a kiss on his wife’s cheek. “I was just about to tell Reverend Joshua, here, that a beautiful princess from Boston brought magic into my life.” The two exchanged looks of love.

  Joshua hoped his expression didn’t betray his surprise. Nick had always been a shy boy, but the death of his family had rendered him practically mute. He never would have thought the man possessed the eloquence he’d just witnessed. He nodded. “Mrs. Sanders, I’m so pleased to meet you.”

  Mrs. Sanders looked from Joshua to his mother. “You all will have to come to dinner on Sunday.”

  “Fine, fine,” Joshua said. “But I’m afraid we’ll have to take a rain check. Mr. Livingston has already invited us.”

  “Another Sunday, then.”

  “I’d like that.”

  Before he could tell them about the meeting on Sunday, someone pulled on his arm, and Joshua turned to recognize two more townsfolk he couldn’t forget. The Cobbs, owners of the mercantile, stood close by, their imperious expressions demanding his attention. Tall and thin, Mr. Cobb had lost all his hair except for the tonsure circling his head, and his nose had reddened. Short Mrs. Cobb had put on weight, and despite her smile, there was no warmth in her close-set brown eyes.

  He dipped his chin in good-bye to the Sanders before turning to the Cobbs. Out of the corner of his eye, Joshua noticed his mother slipping away through the crowd. He wished he could follow. The Cobbs were the last people in Sweetwater Springs he wanted to converse with. As a child, he’d run afoul of their unpleasant personalities a few times. But he’d seen and heard far worse about how they treated people.

  Joshua reminded himself to be charitable. . .more like his father. He knew for a fact the shop owners regularly appeared in his father’s private petitions to the Almighty. “They’re in need of prayer, not judgment, son,” his father had told him several times.” Perhaps they’ve changed.

  Mrs. Cobb eyed Joshua’s clothing, obviously assessing the expensive fabric and fine cut of the suit the Maynards had bought him.

  After only a few minutes of conversation, Joshua was disappointed to note the two seemed much the same, although surprisingly enough, they afforded him the respect due his collar.

  Luckily someone else pulled him away, and Joshua spent the rest of the evening spooning up his melting ice cream between greeting people. From time to time, he checked on Micah, who seemed to have fallen in with a gang of boys. But mostly, he tried to keep an eye on Miss Bellaire.

  Like him, she flowed from person to person, group to group. But he couldn’t help the envious twinge when he noticed how she always seemed to have a circle of admirers hanging back a few feet and watching her.

  After a while, he noticed the crowd thinning, as people left for the long journey back to their homes, and wondered if he should round up Micah and head to the parsonage.

  A tall man came into his vision, his hand resting on the small of a red-haired woman’s back. Wyatt Thompson. For a moment, time overlapped, and Joshua struggled to separate the past and the present. His mother had written of the death of Wyatt’s wife, Alicia. Then, years later, he’d received a missive telling him about a second marriage and several more containing news about the new couple. Good thing those letters had arrived. If he’d run into Wyatt without preparation for a second wife, his shock would have shown on his face.

  Before the marriage, Joshua had been sweet on vivacious, blonde Alicia, Wyatt’s first wife. When she’d returned from boarding school, her playfulness and charm had enticed men like bees to a particularly delectable flower. But she and Wyatt had tumbled into love, and Joshua had rarely seen them apart before he left.

  His mother’s letter telling him of Alicia’s death in childbirth had arrived during a time of sickness in his village, and he’d been toiling long hours to assist the dying and to comfort his flock. The news of her death had caused him a pang, which was quickly buried under all the losses he had on his hands at the time. Life in Sweetwater Springs had seemed so distant and unreal, the grief for his parishioners so immediate and overwhelming. . . .

  Now, the sight of Wyatt with another woman looked wrong, and grief jabbed him in the stomach. He struggled not to show his reaction, to remember that Alicia had been dead for many years, and to greet the beautiful redhead whose name he didn’t remember from the letters.

  Suddenly, he felt burdened with people, overwhelmed with memories, with trying to keep names and faces together. Exhaustion washed through him.

  A screech near the ice cream table shot a spike of energy through him. With some gasps, exclamations, and a few shrieks, a wave of women backed away. Then a couple of men lunged forward. One grabbed something and held up his hand. A toad, for goodness sakes.

  “That’s my toad, Fred!” It was Micah’s voice. “Please, sir. Give him to me!”

  With an apologetic duck of his chin to the Thompsons, Joshua pushed through the crowd to his son.

  Micah grabbed for the toad.

  The man released it with a laugh. “Hold on to him better, little fella.”

  Joshua dropped his hand on Micah’s shoulder and turned him toward the people. “Apologize to everyone, son.”

  “For what?”

  “Let’s start with bringing a toad to the ice cream social, then letting him lose and. . .startling the ladies.” He expected a sullen, mumbled sorry, something along the lines of what he’d seen from Micah in the past when he’d gotten in trouble.

  Micah bobbed his head and flashed a berry-stained smile. “My apologies, ladies.”

  Joshua clenched his jaw to keep his mouth from falling open.

  Smiles and twitters awarded the boy’s apology, all except for Mrs. Cobb, who scowled. “Get that dirty creature out of here!” she exclaimed.

  Joshua raised an eyebrow. “Are you talking about my son or the toad?”

  Her scowl deepened.

  Without waiting for an answer, he placed his hand on Micah’s back and guided him out of the room, nodding goodnight to people, including Delia, as he left. He couldn’t help feeling responsible. He should have checked for the toad. After all, he’d had to dissuade Micah from bringing the squirrel tail to show to Adam Barrett. Not that he’d even known about the toad. But Micah having one was inevitable.

  His parents fell in beside him.

  Outside, a few people stood around talking in the glow of the moon. The spring night had grown chill. Yet the sturdy townsfolk didn’t seem like they felt the cold.

  The Nortons strolled past them, saying quiet good nights.

  When they were out of earshot, Joshua asked, “Where did you find the
toad?”

  “At the Swensens.”

  His mother started to laugh. “Of course, at the Swensens.”

  Joshua had to shake his head. He’d heard the story of the mud and hunting, which sounded typically Micah. Since his mother and Mr. Swensen had gotten over being upset with the boy, he’d allowed himself to enjoy the tale of the adventure, grateful Micah seemed more like himself, instead of the sullen boy he’d been for the last months.

  “I suppose it was too much to expect Micah to get through a whole party without causing mischief,” he said to his parents. He gave his son a little shake. “I will have to get back in the habit of checking your pockets.”

  “Do I have to let Fred go?”

  “You’ll have to ask your grandmother if she’s willing to live with a toad.”

  “Well. . .” said Joshua’s mother, but her wide smile indicated she didn’t object.

  His father chuckled. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Micah looked at Joshua, his eyes wide. “You had a toad?”

  “I had a series of toads. You’ll be busy catching bugs to feed Fred. He might keep you out of trouble. I’ll help you make him a home. I think I remember what worked best.”

  Micah’s grin was his reward.

  They walked on in silence. Micah, who’d grown quiet and sleepy, leaned against him. Pleased by the unusual demonstrativeness of the boy, Joshua dropped an arm around his shoulders, remembering when Micah was little and he carried the boy in his arms. Tonight was a stark reminder of how time went by all too fast. Joshua felt as if he’d practically missed Micah’s growing up in the last year. Guilt stabbed him. Not for the first time, he reminded himself that he hadn’t any choice with Esther’s illness.

  Perhaps I should have put my foot down about having help to nurse her. But Joshua couldn’t argue with his dying wife. There’d been far too many arguments in their marriage as it was.

  The memory of Esther sobered him. He glanced at his parents, walking just ahead of them, his mother’s hand tucked in the crook of his father’s arm. He’d been blessed to have such loving parents—something he’d always taken for granted until he’d traveled the wider world. They were good people, compassionate and kind to each other, in spite of his father’s tendency to talk over his mother’s conversation.