Uncertain how the rancher would take Micah’s appropriation of his livestock, he glanced around for John Carter. But the man watched his wife and daughter, a tender expression on his face.
Pamela waved toward the barn, obviously indicating for Micah to take the piglet back to the pen.
His son and Adam ran off toward the barn.
Pamela stooped to ask Lizzy something.
The child nodded, the broad smile remaining on her face.
Her mother stood, raising her voice to be heard. “Time to play with the Falabellas. Only the children in the paddock, please. As enticing as those Falabellas are to us adults, there isn’t enough room for all of us.”
Laughter greeted her remark.
Micah and Adam sprinted out of the barn, joining the wave of children heading toward the corral.
Joshua was as eager as his son to see the miniature horses. But he restrained himself from showing his excitement. Gathering his ministerial dignity, he fell into step with the crowd of parents moving towards the paddock. Delia walked at his side.
Out of the shade, the heat pressed down on them. Dust rose as they left the grass for the bare earth around the barn and outbuildings. They neared the corral. Horses even smaller than ponies milled about. Joshua counted eleven full grown and five foals in shades of brown, chestnut, gray, and black.
Delia gasped and ran a few feet to the fence. “Look at those little darlings! Oh, I do hope the adults have a chance to play with them later.”
Joshua didn’t know where to look—at the excitement on Delia’s beautiful face or the Falabellas, which were indeed captivating.
John Carter opened the gate to allow Samantha Thompson to go through. She held up the skirt of her pale blue dress a few inches to avoid trailing the hem in the dirt. Her red hair glinted in the sunlight. She raised her free hand to stop the horde of youngsters from streaming in. “Gently now, children. Don’t frighten them. Remember, even though they’re little, the Falabellas can still kick and bite. Be especially careful with the foals.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the children chorused, practically dancing with excitement.
Joshua searched for Micah and couldn’t help but grin at the sight of his son’s eager expression. He’d never seen the boy so wide-eyed with astonishment.
Delia glanced up at him. “I wonder which Falabella Micah will choose to play with.”
“One of the black ones,” Joshua said with certainty. “On the way here, he mentioned wanting a black horse.” He searched among the Falabellas. There were two black ones and a black foal. “I’m predicting the foal.”
She laughed. “Not a hard choice since both mother and foal are black.”
He glanced down at her and grinned. “Have you heard the story of how Samantha brought six Falabellas with her from Argentina?”
“I think doing so was very brave—for a woman with a child to travel from Argentina to Montana to start a new life—even if she did inherit a ranch here.”
Joshua had to refrain from touching Delia. He settled for a tender smile. “You’ve traveled pretty far, yourself.”
“But it wasn’t the same. I had my father. And I didn’t have the responsibility of a child. If anything, your story is more similar.” She touched his arm. “You came from Africa with your son.”
The feeling of her fingers lingered. “But I came home, not to an unknown land.”
In the paddock, Samantha gestured for the children to enter, a few at a time. The Carter children went first, making a beeline for a brown Falabella.
That must be the horse that belongs to them.
As Joshua predicted, when his turn came, Micah headed straight for the black foal. But wisely, he made friends with the mother before he ventured near her baby. As he petted the mare, his face glowed.
“I’ve never seen Micah look so happy,” Delia whispered.
I haven’t, either. . .or at least, not for a long time.
Delia’s eyes looked almost as gleeful as Micah’s. “Are you thinking of buying him that foal?”
Although tempted, Joshua shook his head. “A Falabella would be an unnecessary indulgence, an expensive indulgence.”
She wrinkled her nose at him.
“Ministers aren’t supposed to indulge in extravagance. They aren’t supposed to spoil their children.”
Delia’s expression sobered.
Joshua realized he might just have discouraged her from becoming a minister’s wife. The more time he spent with Delia, the more sure he was of her nature—of their compatibility, though, he hadn’t decided on a proposal—wasn’t sure if she’d even consider marrying him. Perhaps she’s right about the foal. “I do have the means. . .” he said slowly, thinking through the issue.
Her face brightened. “And if owning a Falabella made Micah content in Sweetwater Springs. . .wouldn’t that be worth every penny?”
Her argument makes sense. “You’re right. I’ll talk to Samantha.”
Delia clapped her hands like an excited girl.
“Don’t say a word to Micah,” he warned. “The foal can’t leave its mother for a while. Micah’s birthday is in December. A miniature horse would make a wonderful combination Christmas and birthday present, don’t you think?”
“I do, Joshua. Oh, I certainly do!”
The warm feeling traveling through his body had little to do with acquiring a Falabella for his son and everything to do with pleasing Delia Bellaire.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Two days after the party, Joshua sat at the worn desk in his father’s old office, which now belonged to him. He’d just spent several hours futilely wrestling with Sunday’s sermon, trying to find the right concepts, the most polished words for his first homily in Sweetwater Springs and, perhaps more important to him, the first time Delia Bellaire would hear him preach.
Joshua had given hundreds of sermons in his ministry, even if most had been simple enough for him to preach in Swahili. But somehow, he couldn’t make the words flow. Trying to dredge inspirational words out of his own spiritual emptiness exhausted him.
But he couldn’t allow himself to give up. So, a pattern emerged. He’d choose a text, begin writing, and hit a block. Crumpled papers lay scattered across his desktop, a waste he never would have allowed himself in Uganda, where paper and ink were precious and couldn’t be easily replaced.
Good thing today is only Friday. I have time until Sunday.
Three days after that, Father will be home, and I can give back the responsibility, he reminded himself. But even the thought of caring for the souls of Sweetwater Springs for any period of time made him fatigued. He wasn’t sure what he had to give, although he was quite capable of going through the motions.
A muted knock on the door gave him a welcome excuse to avoid writing the sermon, if only for a few minutes. He stood and left the room, encountering his mother, who beat him to answering the front door.
Pepe Sanchez from the livery stable stood there, his hat in his hands. When he smiled, his otherwise round face broke into angles and creases. “Mr. Waite sent me with the mission boxes and some packages for Reverend Joshua that arrived at the station,” he said with a Spanish accent.
Ah, the clothes I’ve ordered for my parents have arrived. Joshua stepped past his mother and through the door. “Let me help you carry them in, Pepe,” he said, looking at the laden wagon.
“No, no, Reverend Joshua.” Pepe exclaimed, looking scandalized by the suggestion. “You just hold open the door for me.” He turned and bounded across the porch to the waiting wagon.
Joshua was about to go after him when his mother caught his arm.
“Don’t, Joshua. You’ll hurt his pride.”
In Uganda, there’d been a long list of ways to cause offense, depending on gender, status, age, position—some of them punishable by death. Even after nine years, he hadn
’t learned them all. Seemed there might be some unknown rules in Sweetwater Springs, as well.
Pepe hefted a wooden box and, without being told, carried it to the built-in cabinet on the side of the parlor. At once, he left and returned with his arms full of packages. “Where do you want these, Reverend Joshua?”
Joshua gestured to the nearest settee. “Just leave them there.”
After nodding, the man left again.
His mother stared at the pile. “Those aren’t mission boxes.”
“Imagine that,” he drawled, holding in a laugh.
“Joshua Norton, whatever have you done?”
He tried to hide a smile but couldn’t. “You wait and see.”
With a clomp of footsteps, Micah rushed through the door. “Why’s there a wagon outside? What’s in the crate he’s bringing in?” He pointed at Pepe.
His mother placed a gentle hand on Micah’s arm. “It’s not polite to point.”
Micah lowered his arm but looked too curious to take offense at the admonishment.
“Run into the kitchen, dear, and fetch me an unopened jar of jam. Any flavor.”
“Yes, Grandmother.” Micah hurried off, returning with a red jar.
Pepe brought in the last crate and set it down. “I’ll get these open for you.” He came back in with a hammer and chisel and banged at the wooden blocks holding the lid closed. Once he’d loosened them, he stood and gave everyone a big grin. “Good-bye, Reverend Joshua and Mrs. Norton and Micah.”
“Thank you, Pepe.” His mother thrust the jar of jam at the man. “You and Mack and Lucia enjoy this,” she said, her cadence mirroring his.
“Gracias, Mrs. Norton. We will.” He gave her a nodding bow.
Once he was out the door, Joshua lunged for the packages. “Too bad, Father isn’t here. I ordered him a new coat, suit, several shirts, and a pair of new shoes.” He sorted though the packages, looking at the labels. “These are for you.” He handed one to his mother.
“Oh, Joshua, you spoil us.”
Unable to restrain his glee, he grinned, leaned over, and kissed her cheek. “I don’t know anyone less spoiled. And you needed new clothes.”
“Why, I just made a new dress out of the material the Maynards sent.”
“Yes, and you look very nice in it. But one new dress isn’t enough.”
As they spoke, Mother opened the packages to find a new coat in navy blue, several white shirtwaists, one with lace at the collar and wrists, two skirts—one dark blue and one brown—and two pairs of new boots, a sturdy pair for walking and the other for church and social occasions.
“Oh, Joshua, such abundance!” She clutched the coat to her chest, and her eyes grew teary. She dabbed at her face. “I declare, I’m such a crier lately.”
“You’re happy. Look—” Joshua touched the balloon sleeve of a shirtwaist “—I ordered you fashionable sleeves, even if I do think those puffs are a waste of material,” he teased to distract her from her tears.
She laughed. “Well, I will look quite fine, although I shouldn’t say so. Thank you, son.” His mother reached up and brought him down to her level so she could kiss his cheek.
“What’s in the boxes, Grandmother?” Micah pointed to the mission boxes.
“Ah, my boy.” Joshua resumed his teasing drawl. “You are about to experience one of the highlights of being a poor preacher’s son.”
Micah scrunched up his face. “But we aren’t poor.”
“No, but I was once a poor preacher’s son.” Joshua walked over to the boxes and lifted one of the lids. “Well-off people in the East send us their cast-offs to distribute to the needy. Mostly they’re rags you wouldn’t want your donkey to wear.”
“Joshua Norton!” his mother exclaimed in a shocked tone. “Where is your sense of gratitude?”
Joshua laughed and thumped his chest. “Right where it belongs.” He drew Micah to his side. “Now, son. You’ll witness your grandmother working miracles.”
This time, Mother just rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I’ll do no such thing, Micah. I’m just being practical, that’s all. Why what’s in those boxes will provide for a lot of poor people.” She pulled out the top garment and shook it out to reveal a crumpled black dress marred with white splotches.
Micah looked up at him and rolled his eyes.
“Oh ye of little faith.” Joshua tapped his son on the nose.
Mother handed the material to Micah. “See here.” She pointed to a white spot. “Someone wasn’t careful with bleach. I’ll just pop this garment in a pot of black dye and it will be as good as new. Then the next time a poor woman is widowed and doesn’t have a black dress for the funeral, I’ll take this from our new cabinet and give it to her.” She waved at the nearby wall.
Joshua winked at Micah. “Be grateful we have all this room now. Before this, your grandmother would have to store these things all over the house. Sometimes, we could hardly move, and I’d beg her to hurry up and give away everything.”
His son’s eyes glinted with curiosity. “What else, Grandmother?”
She held up a girl’s dress. The flower-sprigged fabric had faded, but when his mother turned the dress inside out, the blue pattern of the material was evident. “See, Micah. I’ll pick apart the seams, turn the fabric, and sew it back up. Some needy young lady will be very happy to receive this.”
Micah brushed the dress with the palm of his hand. “I know someone, Grandmother, who looks about this size. Her name is Mary, like yours, and she was playing with us at the ice cream social and at the parsonage build. Her dress is so tight I think she’ll bust out of it any day now.”
“We don’t say bust, dear. That’s slang.”
“Burst, then. But can we fix the dress and give it to Mary?”
“Of course.” She hesitated and faced her grandson. “But it’s not always so easy. People have their pride. Giving them charity often makes them feel ashamed. Therefore, no matter how much they need the help, they often refuse.”
Micah pulled on his upper lip. “Mary’s really good with spelling. Maybe I could work a trade with her. She can go over my vocabulary with me on spelling test days, and I’ll give her the dress in return.”
Pride in Micah made Joshua rub the boy’s back. “I think you’ve come up with a good idea, son.”
His mother pulled out a piece of material so full of rips Joshua couldn’t even tell what it had originally been.
“Oh, dear. This looks like one for my next patchwork quilt. See here.” She pointed to a rectangle of unmarred fabric in the middle as big as two of Joshua’s hands put together. “I can use this piece.”
“What’s a patchwork quilt?” Micah asked.
“You have one on your bed,” Joshua told him. “A quilt made of scraps of fabric, in all different shapes.”
“I’ll show you my latest one.” In a flurry of steps, she whisked out of the room. “It’s in a box under my bed.” Her voice trailed away. In a moment, his mother returned, a quilt in her arms. She unfurled it. “See?”
A timid knock sounded at the door.
“Oh, dear.” His mother looked around, bundling up the quilt and stuffing it into the cabinet. “What a mess we have here.”
“Can’t be helped, Mother. We’ll just have to explain.” Joshua opened the door to see a boy somewhat smaller than Micah, but as dirty and scrawny a child as he’d ever seen in America. The boy was barefoot and dressed in rags that were barely recognizable as a shirt and pants.
The boy looked up at him. “Are you the preacher man?”
“Why, yes, I am. And who might you be?”
“Alexander Swank. But my family calls me Zan.”
“Come on in, Zan.” He ushered the boy into the parlor and cocked a brow at his mother for more information about the child.
With her brows wrinkled, she shook h
er head.
Mother doesn’t know this boy, which is unusual. Few people lived in the vicinity with whom his parents weren’t acquainted.
His mouth agape, the boy stared around him with big brown eyes.
Joshua wondered if the boy had been inside a house like this before. If he lived in a small cabin or dugout, then the parsonage might seem like a palace. “How can I help you, Zan?”
“My pa sent me to fetch the preacher man to say a prayer over my grandma.”
“Is she ill?”
“Grandma’s a dyin’ and says she won’t go to heaven until the preacher man comes to say a prayer over her.”
His mother came close to rest a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Where do you live, Zan? It must be far from here.”
“Yes, ma’am. I left the house yesterday at dawn and walked all day. Then the dark came, and I slept some. Then I woke up and walked again today. Wasn’t hard. I walked along the crik and across the prairie. Then in the morning, I could see the town in the distance, so I headed for it.” He tugged on the ragged hem of his shirt. “When I got to the buildings, I asked a lady to show me where the preacher man lived, and she took me a ways and pointed to here.”
“A long journey, indeed.” Mother looked at Zan’s empty hands and dropped her arm around the boy. “You must be hungry. Let’s get you fed while Reverend Joshua gathers together his things.” She led Zan out of the room.
Joshua and Micah stared at each other.
“You know, Father. . .” Micah hesitated. “When the Baganda get dirty, it doesn’t show so much.”
Joshua didn’t know whether to laugh or sigh. “That’s true, son.”
“Do you think Grandmother can find anything in the mission boxes for Zan to wear?”
“She won’t have to. We’ll give him a shirt and pants that you’ve outgrown.”
Micah looked down at his clothes. “Good thing I grew lately, then. Grandmother Maynard put all of my old clothes in the poor box. Maybe we should have her sent that box here.”
Glorious Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series) Page 25