Glorious Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series)

by Debra Holland

  Joshua let out a sigh, feeling the air rush out of him like a deflating balloon. “My pardon, Father. I didn’t mean to sound disrespectful.”

  His father held up his hand. “No, I’m glad you spoke up. I must strive to be a better husband and example for my congregation. Your mother and I will speak more about this. And I will pray about it.” He glanced across the table. “Mary, I charge you to cease allowing me to run over your words.”

  Smiling, she nodded.

  His father looked at him. “Joshua, please point it out if you see me doing it again.”

  “I shouldn’t be the one to chide you.” Joshua couldn’t help his bitter tone. “I certainly didn’t set a good example for my congregation with my own marriage.”

  Mother made a sound of distress. “Whatever do you mean, dear?”

  Joshua gave his parents an apologetic smile. “I chose the opposite of Mother in a wife—a woman who had definite opinions and was never afraid to express them. I admired her sharp intellect, her education. At the seminary, I strove to educate myself, not just for learning’s sake, but for her approval and that of her father.”

  His father broke a cookie in half. “I remember when we visited for the wedding. . .some of the discussions around the table. I thought your wife’s knowledge could put most theologians to shame.” He took a bite and chewed slowly.

  “She could put me to shame and sometimes did.”

  His parents looked at him with identical expressions of concern.

  “On our journey home from Africa and since I’ve been here, I’ve had plenty of time to think. I realize now that our early way of looking at the world in religious and philosophical terms made Esther and I seem we were in accord.”

  His mother let out a sigh. “I always wondered about that. But what good would it have done to question you? By the time you introduced us to Esther, you were on the brink of matrimony.”

  “However, the challenges we went through in Africa really showed our differences. She was determined to immediately impose a white Christian way of life upon the natives and had no patience for a gradual progression that respected some of their customs. We soon began to argue, and then fight. . .bitterly fight.” With a slow shake of his head, he paused to reflect on those painful years. “We quickly grew apart. If she hadn’t already been pregnant with Micah before we left Cambridge, I doubt we would have had any children.”

  His mother’s eyes filled with tears.

  He touched her hand in comfort and then added, “Esther was unhappy and turned cold to me. She did her duty, as she saw fit, to manage the household, but she hated being domestic. Growing up in a wealthy family hadn’t prepared her for hardship.”

  “Do you think if the two of you hadn’t gone to Africa, your marriage would have been different?” his father asked, leaning his forearm on the table.

  “I’ve come to that realization.” Joshua made a circling gesture with one hand. “Something similar, although perhaps not as intense, would have happened if we moved here, as I wanted to do. But if we’d stayed in Cambridge, and I followed in her father’s footsteps. . .became a professor, had a parish in a wealthy part of town, continued a materially comfortable and intellectually stimulating life. . .we would have been more compatible. Certainly would have had more children.” A pang went through him at what might have been. “Uganda ruined our marriage. But, the country, my work there, the natives, gave me so much more. When I think of that, I cannot regret my choice. My time as a missionary has forever formed who I am.”

  “Yet, Esther was the one who wanted to go to Africa,” his father pointed out in a gentle tone.

  “I acquiesced and followed her dream, thinking that would make her happy. . .and because I wanted to, as well. In so doing, our relationship disintegrated.”

  “Perhaps, there would have not been a marriage,” his father said. “I could see how determined she was to become a missionary. If you hadn’t shared that dream with her, she might have continued looking for a husband who would.”

  Joshua let out a breath through a tight throat. “You’re right, Father. I think that’s what would have happened. Not that it matters now. And I have Micah, and he means everything to me.”

  His mother’s eyes shone. “A blessing, indeed.” She took a cookie and placed it on her plate.

  Deeply grateful for her love and support, Joshua smiled. “Esther was a dutiful mother, but not an affectionate one. I’m hoping Micah will find happiness in a more loving household.”

  His mother placed a hand on his arm. “We’ll do everything we can to make that happen.”

  “I know you will.” Joshua hesitated. “But I learned my lesson about marriage. When I again choose a wife, I need to make sure she genuinely cares for Micah. Also, that we are likeminded. . .I want her to follow my dream, instead of me following hers.” Joshua realized how that sounded. “Not to be selfish, but she’ll have to want to be a minister’s wife, wherever I end up.”

  His father raised an eyebrow. “Have you figured out what your dream is, son? Where. . .or even if you want to minister?”

  “No. But I intend to find out.”

  “Well, I have an idea that might help you decide one way or another.”

  Taking a bite of the cookie, Joshua nodded for him to continue.

  “There’s something that’s been long weighing on my mind. Now that you’re here, I’d like your help.”

  “Certainly.”

  “I don’t know if you remember that time I took you on circuit with me? To the three tiny towns outside of Sweetwater Springs? Morgan’s Crossing by the mine and Buffalo Hollow and Honey Grove on the prairie?”

  “Of course, I do. I thought that trip was a great adventure.”

  “In the last years, as Sweetwater Springs has grown and my duties have increased, I haven’t been able to travel to minister to the people in those towns. I have my hands full here. And just when I do plan to leave, some crisis comes up. Deaths, usually. Father Fredrick, without a fixed parish, manages to visit each town on a regular basis, which has eased my mind considerably. But his visits are not the same as going myself to see to the needs of those who are Protestant.”

  “I can understand how you would dislike not being there for yourself.”

  “If you’ll take the pulpit this Sunday and be available for any who call for me, I can be gone for about twelve days, which should be sufficient.”

  Joshua saw the hopeful look in his father’s eyes and, in good conscience, couldn’t say no. He nodded a yes.

  “I’ll be disappointed to miss your first sermon in Sweetwater Springs, son. I’m sure your mother will cry, she’ll be so proud.” He beamed at his wife. “Perhaps when I return, you can repeat it for my benefit.”

  Joshua tried to make his smile genuine. “I’d like that.”

  Grinning, the Reverend settled back in his chair. “It’s settled then. I’ll leave in a few days.”

  Joshua wasn’t sure he was ready for the responsibility. Ministering to a parish took a great deal of energy, something he still struggled with. It’s only for twelve days. Surely, I can manage.

  The day of Lizzy Carter’s sixth birthday dawned warm and bright. After he dressed, Micah spread all his possessions from Uganda across his bed, searching for the perfect gift. Although he had a tiny ache about parting with any of his keepsakes, he kept remembering the shy, delicate girl who’d smiled only for him at the ice cream social. He wanted her to have something special.

  Micah had seen Lizzy every day before school let out for the summer, and sometimes she’d given him the same small smile the girl bestowed on almost everyone. He wanted the other one, the special one.

  He patted his small nakasa drum, wishing he hadn’t left his bigger drums behind in Uganda. Mother had forbidden him to play them in the house, and he’d assumed his grandmother would feel the same. But when he’
d showed the nakasa to her, he’d been surprised by her request for him to perform. Grandmother had watched him play with wide-eyed astonishment, smiling and nodding to the beat. She’d never said a word about keeping the noise outside.

  He picked through the rest of his things. Instinctively, Micah knew the masks would be too frightening. He selected a gray stone carving of an owl, which fit snuggly in his hand. Lizzy would be charmed by the deep-set eyes and feathers carved around the face and down the front.

  Pausing for a moment, Micah felt the smooth oval shape and remembered how a native had given the owl to his family as a gift—one his mother had tossed away as soon as the man left. Micah had rescued the carving from the trash heap. And now I’ll pass it on. He decided the owl would like living on a Montana ranch. He stuck the owl into pocket of his best pants, where it weighed in a heavy lump against his leg.

  “Micah,” his grandmother called. “We’re leaving.”

  He pushed aside the curtain and stepped out of the lean-to and into the kitchen.

  Grandmother was wearing the new gown she’d made with the material his Maynard grandparents had sent her. She carried a basket in the crook of her arm.

  Father looked up from the book he was reading at the table. “Ready?”

  Micah nodded.

  “Good. We have a long drive.” He marked his place, shut the book, and stood. “No toads?”

  Micah scowled, offended that his father had asked. He’d learned his lesson at the ice cream social. “Fred’s in his box.”

  “Anything else in your pockets?”

  “Besides a clean handkerchief,” his grandmother interjected.

  Micah rolled his eyes. “No handkerchief. Just a present for Lizzy.”

  “I’ll get a handkerchief for you, dear. They’re clean. I just haven’t ironed them yet.” Grandmother dug into the clothesbasket in the corner of the room to find a white one, which she handed to him. “Why don’t you bring your drum?”

  Micah shot her a glance of astonishment.

  She smiled and patted his shoulder. “The Carters are fond of noisy parades.”

  A parade? He exchanged a puzzled look with his father, silently asking for permission to bring his drum.

  His brows raised, Father shrugged, indicating he didn’t know about drums and parades, either. He grinned and flicked a hand at the lean-to. “Go get it.”

  Micah grabbed the drum from his bed and returned to the kitchen with it tucked under his arm.

  Father shot a pointed glance in the direction of Micah’s pocket. “What are you giving Lizzy? Nothing alive, I hope,” he teased.

  Micah pulled the owl from his pocket and held it up.

  His father studied the carving. “Ah. Nice. I don’t remember seeing this one.”

  “Mother threw it away,” Micah admitted.

  “Well, I’m glad you rescued the owl. A perfect present.” Father hesitated. “I know how much the things you brought from Uganda mean to you. . . .”

  Uncomfortable with the emotion Father’s words brought up, Micah ducked away. He ran out of the kitchen, down the hall, through the parlor, and out the front door.

  Outside, the old buggy waited, Matilda already hitched. He ran over to pet the horse’s nose, waiting for Father to help Grandmother into the seat. Then Micah climbed in after her.

  Once on the main street, Matilda settled into a slow trot. Micah relaxed, looking forward to playing with his friends. Sundays didn’t count because he wasn’t allowed to do more than talk quietly before parting with them to go home.

  Pulled by a team of glossy brown horses, Banker Livingston’s shiny black surrey flashed by them. Miss Delia sat between Mrs. Grayson and Mr. Livingston. As they passed, Miss Delia leaned forward, smiled, and lifted her hand to them.

  Micah waved so hard, he almost fell out of the vehicle. I wish we had a surrey like that and a team of horses, too. Black ones, though.

  The clip of hoofs heralded another buggy. Dr. and Mrs. Cameron passed them by, although not as fast as the Livingstons. They, too, waved. Their chestnut horse looked young and strong. Not like Matilda.

  “I think. . .” Micah waited until his father glanced at him. “Matilda’s old. Maybe we should get a new horse so she wouldn’t have to work so hard. A black one.”

  Grandmother shifted the basket on her lap. “Oh, no, dear. Matilda suits our needs just fine.”

  His father flicked him a glance. “Mother, I think Micah might have a good idea. We do need to consider adding another horse and buggy to our stable.”

  “We don’t have a stable,” Micah pointed out. “We use the livery.”

  Father laughed. “A figure of speech.” He transferred the reins to one hand and patted Grandmother’s knee. “We wouldn’t replace Matilda. But if the Reverend will be gone more often, we’ll need a second horse and buggy. It was good of Mack Taylor to lend Father a young, strong horse and the surrey for his journey, but we can’t keep imposing on his generosity.”

  Grandmother clutched the basket tighter. “But the expense, the upkeep. . . .”

  “I know,” Father agreed, taking back the reins in both hands. “But think of it, Mother. If Mack loans us his horse and surrey, then he can’t rent it out to anyone else. So he may lose money each time.”

  Grandmother gave a sharp intake of breath. “We can’t allow that. But can you afford it, Joshua? You just went to all that expense to expand the parsonage.”

  “Don’t worry, Mother. I wouldn’t purchase anything I couldn’t afford.”

  “All right then.” She settled back against the seat.

  Father winked at Micah.

  That expression made him wonder if seeing Banker Livingston’s equipage had given his father similar envious feelings.

  “Has the Carter ranch changed much?” Father asked, obviously changing the subject. “I remember the house was the biggest I’d ever seen.”

  “I don’t think the Carters have added onto the house since you left,” Grandmother said slowly, as if trying to recall. “The yard looks much different from when you were young, more plantings. The only thing that’s the same is the oak tree. The barn’s bigger.” She tapped her chin. “I don’t believe I’ve been to their home in two years. Not since the summer we had a heat wave and an outbreak of influenza.” She made a sad sound. “Such a terrible time. Many became ill. . .the Meager baby died. . .several of our older citizens passed away.”

  Micah knew about times of illness, of people dying. But somehow, he hadn’t realized pestilence happened in America, too. The thought made him sad. He felt as if the world’s troubles weighed on him. To cheer himself, he thought of Lizzy’s face when he gave her the owl.

  “Lizzy fell ill not long after her birthday celebration, and we almost lost that dear little girl.” Grandmother shook her head. “A real miracle she survived. . .” her voice trailed off.

  The thought of Lizzy dying gave Micah a strange pang in his chest. They had miracles in Uganda, too, Micah remembered, feeling a bit better. Mother and Father had helped tend the sick, prayed over them. . .rejoiced when some survived.

  They drove through the outskirts of the town and headed toward the mountain pass. Conversation waned. As the buggy moved along the road through the forest, Micah amused himself by looking for squirrels as if he’d planned to hunt. Birds, too, although he didn’t know which ones made for good eating, so he wouldn’t have shot at any. But he liked pretending.

  Just as he became bored with the hours of traveling and started to fidget, the buggy crested the pass and he could see down into a great, long valley. The Carter home looked like a doll’s house amid barns and other buildings. Cattle spread through wide pastures of pale green grass. A tree-lined river sparkled in the sun. Wagons and buggies were parked around the barn, with the horses turned loose in a paddock.

  As they drove closer, Micah recognized
the adults who stood talking under the trees. He looked for his friends but couldn’t find them and wondered where they were.

  Up close, the white house looked as wide as the Livingstons’, but not as tall. He liked the comfortable look of the broad porch across the front.

  Father dropped them off near the house and headed the buggy toward the barn.

  His grandmother waved at people, but instead of stopping to talk, she led Micah straight toward the house. They crossed the porch that had several rocking chairs and went through the front door.

  The inside was plainer than he’d expected. Not at all like the Maynards’ or Livingstons’ houses. The wooden floor was scuffed and paint brightened the walls instead of wallpaper, with pictures of the sea mounted along the staircase.

  Mrs. Carter walked down the hallway, with Lizzy right behind her. “Mrs. Norton, Micah, you made it. I was concerned Reverend Joshua might have some other call upon his time.”

  “No, dear Mrs. Carter. My son is parking the buggy.”

  Mrs. Carter noticed Micah’s drum. “Look what you brought,” she said in a delighted tone. “Just what we need. Mark has a toy drum, but not like yours. Did you bring this from Africa?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Lizzy, wearing a blue dress with a matching bow in her hair, barely peeked out at him from behind her mother.

  “Hello, Lizzy.” Micah sent her the same smile he’d given her the night of the ice cream social—the one the grown-ups had teased him about. But this time, the Norton charm wasn’t working because the little girl wouldn’t smile back.

  Wanting to catch her attention, Micah leaned over until he could see her full face.

  Her eyes widened when she saw him watching her.

  Micah made a face at her—not one of his scary ones with his tongue sticking out and his fingers pulling up his eyelids—but a funny one, with a goofy smile and rolling eyes.

  Lizzy turned away.

  Piqued, Micah tried a trilling whistle to coax her to glance at him again.

  Mrs. Carter laughed, the sound warm. “I’m sorry, Micah. With all the excitement and the attention centered on her, Lizzy is having a shy attack. Hopefully, we’ll soon unhitch her from my side.”