Glorious Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series) (21 page)

Joshua’s muscles ached from the unaccustomed labor. But he felt satisfaction in what they’d accomplished and how he’d developed bonds with the other men, sometimes without them uttering more than a couple of words all day.

In late afternoon, John Carter came up to Joshua, who was whitewashing the outside of the house. Micah was painting next to him and, in the process, had gotten nearly as much on himself as on the wood.

“Folks would like you two to join your parents at the schoolhouse,” John said, a gleam in his eye.

Not understanding why they should stop, Joshua shook his head.

John’s mouth quirked. “It’s a surprise. The ladies want to arrange things so when you two and your parents walk into the house, everything is shipshape.”

“Oh, they don’t have to do that,” Joshua said. “There’s not a lot of furniture to move. I’ve only bought a new bed. I figured I’d wait on the rest.”

“You were a married man, Reverend Joshua.” John eased off his hat and fanned his face. “You must remember those times when your wife felt strongly about something and gave you an order?”

Oh, yes, I remember those times.

“I’ve learned it’s best to just go along.”

Pamela and Esther were two completely different women. He suspected Pamela didn’t order John around much, so that when she did, her husband knew the matter was important to her. Joshua pretended to hesitate and swiped the paintbrush a couple more times across the boards. “Well, I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble with Mrs. Carter,” he drawled.

“Much obliged,” John said in a mock humble tone.

Joshua looked down at Micah, who watched them with an eager expression. “Come on, son. Let’s round up your grandfather, wash up, and see if there’s any pie left over in the schoolhouse.”

In an instant, Micah dropped his brush in a tin can of water.

“I’ll leave you to finish painting, John,” Joshua teased. He stuck his brush in the can next to Micah’s.

“Don’t you worry, the job’ll get done.”

His father was still sitting with Andre Bellaire. Joshua saw Delia talking to them, and his heart kicked at the sight of her. In the afternoon, she’d worked on the inside of the house, helping Gideon Walker, Pepe Sanchez, and Phineas O’Reilly with a project, so he hadn’t seen her for hours.

When Delia saw the two of them coming over, she laughed. “Oh, Micah!” She tapped him on the head in a spot free of paint. “Just a little more whitewash on you, and we can stand you on a pedestal in the garden as a statue.”

Micah looked down at himself, then grinned up at her. “Can’t do that, Miss Delia. Cuz I’d have to hold still too long.”

“That’s for sure,” Joshua agreed as he walked over to the pump and thrust his hands in the trough, scrubbing them. After several minutes, s
ome paint spots remained, but he felt clean. “Come on over here, Micah, and wash up.” He shook his hands to dry them, then returned to the group. “Father, have you heard that we’re banished to the schoolhouse?”

His father’s eyes twinkled. “So Miss Bellaire has told me. I’ve asked that she and her father join us in our exile.”

“I’ll be glad to rest,” Delia said, looking down at her dusty gown. There was a rip near the hem of her skirt, where she must have caught the material on something. She’d taken off her gloves, and held both in one hand.

Joshua reached over to pluck a wood shaving curl from her hair and handed it to her. “A memento.”

“Thank you, sir.”

As she took the shaving from him, their bare fingers touched, sending a jolt of electricity through him. From the way Delia’s eyes widened and the wary glance she sent him from under lowered eyelashes, she must have felt something similar.

Taking a quick step, she retreated to her father’s side.

Despite his knowing this was best, Joshua’s good spirits deflated.

As the group of them moved to the schoolhouse and dished up some leftover dessert, he noticed Delia seemed to avoid him, making sure she remained on the outskirts of any conversation. Yet from time to time, Joshua caught her watching him and wondered what she was thinking.

Mark Carter ran into the schoolhouse. “My father says it’s time for the Nortons to come see their house.”

“Yay!” Micah jumped up, then gave his family a guilty look.

“Yay, indeed.” Joshua dropped a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

As they hurried out the door, Joshua maneuvered until he walked next to Delia. “How did the house look inside?”

Her smile showed dimples. “Oh, no.” She shook her head. “I’m not spoiling the surprise. You’ll just have to wait and see for yourself.”

The townsfolk had gathered around the parsonage, spilling over into the cemetery and by the church.

A path of flagstones led from the street alongside the church to the front porch of the house, the whitewash still blotchy in places. John and Pamela Carter waited there to greet them. “We’ve been elected to give you a tour of your new home,” Pamela said, a broad smile on her face.

Joshua held back Micah so his parents could go in first, then the two of them crowded behind.

“Oh, how lovely,” his mother cried, both hands flying to her cheeks.

Joshua stepped inside
, breathing in the scent of new wood, varnish, and roses, to see a large parlor with gold-patterned wallpaper. On the left side, two comfortable settees in an L shape were clustered with chairs and some small tables. A perfect place for ladies to gather to plan their works of charity. In the center, a new stove was set up near the far wall.
Where did that come from? In fact, where did any of this furniture come from? I didn’t order it, although I should have thought to.

“We took donations,” John Carter explained. “Almost everyone contributed, even if it was only a penny. My wife ordered everything.”

The thought of the hardworking and, in many cases, poor people of Sweetwater Springs all contributing to the stove and furnishings made Joshua’s chest tighten with gratitude.

His father cleared his throat. “Such generosity. We are richly blessed.”

“I didn’t order everything,” Pamela corrected. “A group of the women gathered together to braid your rugs.” She waved toward the floor. “Everyone donated rags for them.” She touched a doily spread over the surface of a small, round table. “Trudy Flanigan crocheted those.”

His mother fingered the edge of a doily draped over the back of a wing chair. “Exquisite. Her handwork is second to none.”

Giving a nod, Pamela smiled. “I agree.” She ran her hand down the lace curtains, underneath panels of brown velvet. “Several women made the draperies. Alice and Dr. Cameron donated the crystal vase and the roses that are perfuming the air. Samantha and Wyatt donated the wing chairs, Harriet and Ant the inlaid table, Elizabeth and Nick the whatnot, and Caleb and Edith the lamps.” She gestured to the right, where cupboards lined the whole wall. “Gideon, Pepe, and Phineas made those to store the clothes and supplies from the mission boxes.”

“Although. . .” John cast a mischievous glance to Delia and Andre, who were lingering in the doorway. “I believe Miss Bellaire helped.”

His mother covered her mouth with her hand and walked over to cupboard.

“Careful,” Delia warned. “The varnish is still wet.”

Using the metal knob, Mother opened a door, looking at the empty space inside. She shook her head, too moved to say anything.

“Now it’s your turn, Reverend Norton.” John walked to the doorway, leading to the hall. “Come see your study.”

The eager look on his father’s face reminded Joshua of Micah when he was excited. The Reverend hurried after John.

Mother tucked her hand around Joshua’s arm and pulled him after them.

The study was the first door on the right. Although the expanded room wasn’t as big as Abner Maynard’s, it was far more spacious than the cubicle his father had used before. A huge desk with plenty of cubbyholes and drawers sat in front of a window, two leather chairs in front of it.

John pointed at the desk. “Look at the cross on the side. I’m sure you can recognize Gideon Walker’s work.” He reached up to the ornately carved cross on the wall. “Pepe Sanchez made this. You have one too, Reverend Joshua.” He thumped his knuckles on the bookcase. “Phineas O’Reilly built this. I think Gid and Finn wrestled a bit about who would make what. Each of them wanted to do it all.”

“I’m stunned.” His father took a seat at his desk, then looked over at the bookshelves containing his volumes lined up in neat rows. Reverend Norton opened his mouth to say something and choked up.

Seeing that emotion made a lump form in Joshua’s throat and his heart swell. While he knew his father labored hard because he genuinely cared for his flock and expected little in return, to witness the outpouring of affection and generosity, to see the man so touched. . . .

Reverend Norton cleared his throat. “One of the few times in my life I’m rendered speechless.”

Everyone laughed.

“This is wonderful. It will be a joy to write my sermons in here.”

“We moved your books and papers from your old office. I hope you won’t have too hard a time finding everything.” John glanced at Joshua. “Your father’s space is ready for you to take over.”

Joshua grinned at him. “Looking forward to it. With my own office, I’ll be able to make more progress on my translations.”

“We have your bedroom finished, Reverend Joshua,” Pamela chimed in. “It’s in the back of the house.”

Joshua knew the plans for the expansion as well as anyone, but still he felt a thrill of excitement to walk down the hall past his parent’s room to find his own space, set up with his new four-poster bed, spread with a quilt with red-and-blue patterned stars that he’d never seen before. A window missing half its glass let in the sunlight and gave him a view of the garden. His trunk had already been moved into the room and was set next to the bed as a temporary table.
I’ll have to commission additional furniture.

Micah ran into the room.

Before the boy could bounce against the bed, Joshua grabbed him.

Micah smacked his hand on the top, ruffling the quilt. “I think I should sleep here, and you can have the lean-to.

Giving his son’s shoulder a little shake, Joshua laughed. “I think not.”

His parents entered. “Oh, Joshua,” his mother exclaimed, her eyes wide and cheeks pink. “What a beautiful quilt. You’ll sleep so much better in here.”

He ruffled Micah’s hair. “That’s because I won’t have anyone tossing and turning all night and kicking me in the process.”

They laughed.

Pamela stuck her head in the doorway and motioned toward the bed. “The ladies had a quilting circle to make that.”

Joshua’s heart warmed at the thought of all the good women who’d contributed to the gift. “You all did lovely work. Thank you.”

“Can I send in the hordes?” Pamela asked. “Everyone wants to see the results of their hard work.”

His mother clapped her hands. “Of course.”

Delia stepped to Pamela’s side and peeked in. “They’ll swarm like ants boiling from an anthill.” She stared at Joshua’s face, then seemed to realize what she was doing and vanished from the doorway.

The others left the room, but Joshua lingered. A month ago, the pinnacle of his ambition had been to expand the parsonage to create a comfortable home for the four of them. At that time, when he’d thought of this room, he imagined himself content with the space. He’d looked forward to sleeping alone.

But now. . . . Instead of blessed solitude, the room seemed lonely.
Will I ever share a bed with Delia?
And, as he became better acquainted with her, would he still want to? He suspected the answer would be yes.

With a wry twist of his lips, Joshua realized that even if he and Delia were to marry, the parsonage would once again be too small because there wasn’t room for Andre. He knew Delia would want her father to live with her. And if they were blessed with children. . . .

A beautiful daydream.
Joshua didn’t dare let himself hope that someday he’d build a home of his own.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A
week later, after wrestling with translating a difficult verse of Acts, Joshua gave up and wandered into the kitchen, hoping his son might have the answer to the Swahili word he was looking for.

His mother was baking molasses cookies, and the spicy smell made him realize it had been a while since the noon meal.

His father sat at the table eating a cookie, a glass of milk in front of him. He looked up and smiled.

“I didn’t realize you’d returned from your pastoral visit, Father.”

“I was at the Meagers. Their new baby girl is alert and healthy.”

“Such a blessing,” his mother said. “They lost their baby boy from influenza a few years ago.”

“Because of that, they want the baby christened right away. They didn’t even want to wait until Sunday.”

“Very understandable.” Joshua sat in the chair next to his father. “I’m surprised Micah isn’t here. I don’t think he’s had molasses cookies before.”

“Micah is off exploring,” his mother said. She took the spatula and scooped two cookies off the cooling rack and onto a plate. “I believe the Livingstons have company today, so he can’t visit Andre. He came in from school, dropped his books in the lean-to, then ran out again.”

“Hopefully, he won’t get in too much trouble.”

“Now, Joshua, don’t be so hard on the child,” she chided.

Shamed that he’d jumped to judgment, Joshua held up his hands in apology. “You’re right, mother. A bad habit of mine that I need to change. The truth is. . .I’m glad he’s made friends.”

His mother handed him the plate. “There’s milk in the jug on the table.” She reached down a glass and gave it to him. After removing a last batch of cookies from the oven, she took off her apron, then sat in the chair at the table across from them.

“Thank you.” Joshua poured some milk into the glass. “Mother, how do you think Micah is adjusting to Sweetwater Springs?”

His mother pursed her lips. “Micah is—”

“I think the fact that he ran off today is a good sign.” His father set down his glass. “It’s unnatural for a nine-year-old to stick at home.”

A sudden rush of annoyance welled up, and Joshua couldn’t restrain himself anymore. “Why do you do that?” he burst out.

“Do what?” His father’s eyebrows scrunched together.

“Talk over Mother. Answer for her. When you’re around, she doesn’t have a voice. I’ve always hated that!”

His mother made a sound of protest.

Joshua rounded on her. “And why do you let him speak for you? You’re an intelligent, educated woman. You have opinions. Ideas. But you seldom express them unless you’re asked.” He looked to his father. “I think such behavior must hurt her.”

“I never thought of that.” His father glanced at his wife. “Do I cause you pain, my dear?”

“Be honest, Mother,” Joshua urged.

She fiddled with the edge of the tablecloth. “Sometimes.” Although she rushed to add, “I know you don’t intend to, dear. And you do listen to me.” She looked up. “Mostly when we’re in private.” Her hand fluttered. “You don’t often ask my opinion, unless, of course, women and children are involved.”

His father looked pained. “I’ll need to reflect on this.” He reached over, took his wife’s hand, and gave it a squeeze. “So I can be a better husband.”

A faint hint of pink colored her wrinkled cheeks.

Joshua couldn’t leave well enough alone. “It’s not just about you and Mother. Everyone in town observes you. You sometimes don’t set a good example for your parishioners on how a husband should treat his wife. If you’re supposed to represent God’s love for the church. . . .”

The Reverend gave him a wry look. “Rebuked by my own son
.”

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 in
to 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?”