Glorious Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series) (10 page)

Andre gave a weak chuckle. “I’m glad to be of service,” he said, echoing Joshua’s earlier words.

“My parents tell me there’s an ice cream social tomorrow night that’s not
supposed
to be in honor of my return.”

“You don’t sound happy about that,” Delia observed.

“I feel the need to settle in before jumping into the social pond.”

“I would imagine everyone’s excited,” Delia said, settling her hands in her lap. “No doubt a small town welcomes an excuse for a party. I wouldn’t imagine that happens much around here.”

“That’s true.” Joshua realized he didn’t really mind about the party. Not if there was a chance Miss Bellaire would attend. “Although, I suppose ice cream is enough excuse for a party. At least my son, Micah, will think so.”

“Micah had no ill effects from his encounter with the nasty man with all the luggage?”

“Nothing that some cookies couldn’t cure.”

Just listening to their light discussion seemed to be doing Andre good. His eyes looked more alert. Joshua remembered the purpose of his visit, which was to bring spiritual counsel, not to indulge in a flirtation with beautiful Miss Bellaire. Not that they were flirting, but the way she affected him made it seem as if they were. He couldn’t describe his feelings.
Cheerful? Buoyant?
Carefree?

All emotions I haven’t experienced in a long time.

Joshua tried to resist his reaction to Miss Bellaire.
She’s a stranger, and I don’t know her.

Except she stood up for Micah. . . .

Joshua became more serious. “Would you like me to pray for you, Andre? Or if you are Catholic, I could have Father Fredrick attend you on his next round. Unfortunately, we don’t have a priest who is permanently in Sweetwater Springs, only one who travels through several towns and is here every few weeks.”

Andre made a small negating motion with his hand. “I’m not religious and don’t attend church.”

Delia’s eyes widened in surprise. “I didn’t know that about you, Papa. I guess the topic hasn’t come up. We were traveling and didn’t even think what day of the week it was.”

“That’s right, daughter.” Andre lifted an eyebrow. “What about you, Delia? I don’t remember your mother being particularly devout.”

“Maman wasn’t.” Delia’s tone sounded bitter. “She sometimes attended mass but more for duty’s sake, not because there was any true belief behind her actions. I’m convent schooled at the—” She seemed to catch herself. Her cheeks paled, but her voice evened out. “I’m grateful. For the education was important, but I didn’t like the strictness of the nuns and the. . .
m
eekness
they drilled into us.”

Andre tightened his jaw.

“ ‘The meek shall inherit the earth,’ ” Joshua quoted. “But I don’t think the subservient attitude you’re describing is what the Lord intended by that statement.”

Andre gave Joshua a thoughtful look. “I think I would like prayers for health, Reverend Norton. With my daughter in my life, I have a new reason to live.”

“Certainly, sir.” Joshua had a feeling he might just have passed a test.

“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 their 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

B
y 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.”

Elsebe must be the eldest
, Micah thought,
used to bossing the others around
.

“Hunting!” The little beauty smaller than Krista jumped up and down, and the littlest one of all clapped her hands like her older sister.

“Marta and Lottie.” As she said their names, Elsebe patted the small girls’ heads. “Four and three.”

The littlest one grinned. Lottie had dimples.

Micah glanced around to see if there were more girls. “I thought there were six of you?”

“Anneka is taking a nap with the baby,” Inga said. “Now, let’s play hunters.”

Micah looked toward the shed. He was more interested in studying the animal pelts than playing with girls, and he figured he knew just the way to make them leave him alone. “You all are much too white. You’ll frighten away the game.”

“Na,” Inga scoffed. “Pa’s white, and he doesn’t scare them off.”

“Bet he uses a gun.” Micah puffed up his chest and, for good measure, thumped his breastbone with his fist. “In Africa,
we
use spears and slingshots.” He pulled his slingshot from his pocket and brandished it.

“Pa has some slings in the shed.”

Micah shook his head. “That won’t solve the problem. You all are still too white.”

Inga stuck her fists on her skinny waist. “Well,
white boy
. What did
you
do in Africa when you hunted?”

“Put mud on my face and then when it dried, we all painted symbols on our cheeks and forehead. Wore headdresses.”

Inga gave a decisive nod. “Well, then that’s what we’ll do.”

Elsebe’s brow furrowed. “I don’t know about that, Inga.”

Her sister stuck up her nose. “You don’t have to play.”

Micah changed his mind
about going off on his own. He reached over and tugged on Inga’s pale braid. “Your hair, too.”

Even that didn’t stop the girl. Inga’s eyes flashed. “There’s a mud patch down by the stream.”

“Inga,” Elsebe warned.

“It’s just
mud
, Elsebe. It will wash off. Are you playing or not?”

“I don’t know.”

Inga tilted her head in the direction of the stream. “Come on, Micah. I’ll show you where the mud is and you can help me put it on. What are we going to do for symbols?”

Micah gave that some thought. “Do you have chalk?”

“Yes. For school.”

Inga pointed at the shed. “Elsebe, get the slings. Krista, go inside and fetch the chalk.” She held out her hand to Marta and Lottie. “Come on, girls. We’re going to be hunters.”

Micah looked at the pretty, determined face of Inga, and wondered what he’d just gotten himself into.
Probably trouble.
But the thought didn’t bother him too much. He was used to being in trouble.

When they reached the stream, shaded by green-leafed trees, Inga pointed to a patch of mud. “Here.” She stooped and scooped up a handful, rolling it with her fingers to show a clay-like consistency.

“Perfect.”

Krista dashed up to them, holding up a stick of chalk.

“Now what?” Elsebe’s voice quavered.

“We cover your faces and arms. Then your hair.” Watching the expressions on the girls’ faces—Inga determined, Elsebe frightened, Krista curious, and the little ones just staring at him—Micah realized he was enjoying himself. He held out his hand for Inga’s mud and brought the clump to his nose to sniff the clean dirt smell, much better than the mud in Africa, which in places tended to stink, especially in the dry season. “I’ll show you. Who’s going first?”

“Lottie,” Elsebe and Inga said together, throwing their smallest sister to the lions.

Micah shook his head. “The strongest lead.” He pinned the two oldest girls with a sharp gaze. “Which one of
you
two is going first?”

Inga lifted her stubborn chin. “I’m a leader.”

“All right, then.” Micah grabbed the end of her braid and slicked mud over the plait until the blonde hair was completely covered.

Elsebe crunched a face.

“Don’t just stand there,” he ordered her. “Start on the other one.”

Elsebe picked up a handful of mud and began to work it into Inga’s other braid.

Once he finished the plait, Micah dug up a handful and plopped the goop on the top of Inga’s head. Brown water trickled down the sides and dripped on her neck.

“Hey!” Inga protested.

“Faster this way. Otherwise, this will take us all day.” He smoothed the mud over Inga’s head, then began to dab it on her forehead. As he worked, Micah had to hold in his glee to not let loose a grin. From experience, he knew showing his amusement might cause his gang to rebel.

With two fingers, he carefully drew the mud down her nose and around her eyes, then covered her cheeks and chin.

“Feels funny,” she complained.

“Stop talking,” Micah ordered. “You need it to dry.” He grabbed some more mud and worked it into the front of her neck and down to the top of her dress.

Elsebe moved slower and finished the back of Inga’s neck at the same time he did the front.

Micah stepped back and surveyed his victim. The black mud made her blue eyes bright. He gave a nod of satisfaction. “Inga, now you do one of the little gals, while I work on Elsebe.”

Inga’s eyes lit with laughter, although she didn’t move her mouth.

That gleam of mischief pulled the grin out of him that he’d been trying to hide.

Elsebe pressed her lips together, obviously not understanding their humor.

Micah gathered some more mud and went to work on Elsebe, while Inga started on Krista. The two little ones squatted and tried to imitate their elders, getting more on their clothes than on their heads.

Unlike Inga, Elsebe wiggled, squirmed, and complained with each dab of mud he deposited on her.

“If you don’t hold still and stop your yapping, you’ll get dirt in your eyes and mouth,” Micah warned.

With a gasp, Elsebe stiffened.

Her expression looked so miserable that Micah would have felt sorry for her if he didn’t have a ball of hilarity spinning inside him. He finished covering her at the same time Inga was done with Krista and gestured toward a patch of sunshine. “Elsebe, you and Krista go stand there to dry, while Inga and I do the little ones.”

Krista skipped over to the sun.

Elsebe followed, her muscles taut with protest.