Mystic Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 6)

by Debra Holland

  Reverend Joshua’s lips turned up in a sad smile. “The idea of marriage with Esther had seemed so promising. The gradual disillusionment was. . .painful.” He gave Caleb a thoughtful look. “I don’t want to frighten you away from marriage. I believe circumstances played a great part in the difficulties Esther and I experienced in the years before her death. We probably would have muddled along just fine if we’d remained in America.”

  “I will venture to say. . .a marriage with Delia Bellaire will be much different than you experienced before.”

  Reverend Joshua’s smile widened. “I believe Delia and I will find true happiness.”

  Caleb gave the minister a considering glance. “I believe you will.”

  “It seems we are no longer at odds, you and I. I’m glad.” Reverend Joshua’s expression grew serious. “I appreciate you and Mrs. Grayson keeping Delia’s secret.”

  Caleb held up his hands. “Not my business. You, as her husband-to-be, know the truth. That is a choice a man must make for himself. . .and his offspring.”

  “You said the baby’s name is Charlotte?” Reverend Joshua asked in an obvious attempt to ease the discussion away from what could become a disagreement.

  “Charlotte Victoria.”

  “Lovely. If her mother is up to it, we can christen the baby on Sunday.”

  Caleb ran a hand over his neck and squeezed, feeling the knots under his fingers. “I don’t even know what day it is.” Sudden weariness weighed him down. He twisted his head, trying to loosen the tension in his neck, before lowering his hand.

  “Monday.”

  “The doctor said she needs bed rest for at least five days. After that, she can have limited movement but still must rest. But I imagine she’ll be able to attend church. We can see how she feels on Saturday. I should take you to her.” He placed his hands on the arms of the chair to push to his feet.

  “Stay, Caleb.” Reverend Joshua’s soft tone held a note of command.

  Startled by the minister’s usage of his given name, Caleb subsided back into the chair.

  “I think there is more to the story. You skimmed over Oswald Baxter’s death.”

  “She asked me to leave him buried where he is.” Speaking of the man reminded him of his guilt and irritated him.

  “There is something to be said for unburdening your heart,” Reverend Joshua stated gently.

  “What do you want me to tell you?” Caleb demanded. “I killed a man out of careless inattention? Made a wife a widow, a baby fatherless? Have I guilt? Remorse? I don’t in hell know!” He banged a fist on the arm of the chair, uncaring that he’d just cursed in front of the minister.

  “Caleb, listen. Oswald Baxter was not a good man.” Reverend Joshua spoke with precision, as if choosing his words carefully. “I suspected so when I counseled him and Maggie before their wedding. Indeed, I urged Maggie to postpone the ceremony. But with only suspicions, I could not be more forthright. They had not been long in the area, and his character wasn’t well known at the time. And I was not very acquainted with the people of Morgan’s Crossing. Today, I’d know to ask the Morgans or Mrs. Tisdale or a few others for their opinions. Later, as I heard tales of the man’s abuse of his wife. . .well, I did feel guilt and regret for joining those two in holy matrimony.”

  Caleb gave him a sharp look, assessing the truthfulness of his words, and saw anguish in the minister’s eyes that matched his own feelings of helplessness and guilt.

  Reverend Joshua’s shoulders slumped. “Am I sorry Oswald Baxter did not have a chance to repent of his evil ways? Yes, of course. But in my experience, a man who abuses his wife does not stop, so I cannot be sad that Maggie Baxter is free of her husband. I urge you to rest your conscience in this matter.”

  “I cannot. I feel a heaviness—” Caleb thumped on his chest “—at the loss of life.”

  Reverend Joshua leaned forward. “You would not be a good man if you didn’t feel some remorse, Caleb. Bad men have no such conscience to trouble them. Nor would you be a good man if you didn’t care about the abuse Maggie Baxter has suffered. Bad men condone abuse to those who are weaker and often indulge in such behavior, as well.”

  Caleb thought about the minister’s points.

  “Your inattention could possibly have contributed to Oswald’s death, but we’ll never know that for certain. What is certain is that you saved Maggie’s life and that of her unborn child. And I believe the experience has done you good. You are a different man, Caleb Livingston. I can feel it.”

  The minister’s brows drew together. “A person might have a profoundly life-changing experience, yet if he returns to his prior circumstances and way of life, that understanding can fade like a dream,” he warned.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” After living through the nightmare and the miracle of Charlotte’s birth, Caleb doubted his life would ever be the same.

  What am I going to do about Maggie and Charlotte?

  When Maggie saw Reverend Joshua step through the bedroom door, tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. She swiped them away with her sleeve. “I don’t know why I started crying, Reverend Joshua. I was fine, really I was.”

  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.

  “You came prepared.” Maggie tried to sound playful but suspected she’d failed.

  “I carry several, for I often make people cry,” he said, his tone light.

  Maggie glanced up at him.

  His smile was kind, and compassion softened his eyes.

  “I suppose seeing a familiar face. . . .”

  “Of course.” He walked to the cradle and peered at the sleeping baby. “God has blessed you with a beautiful daughter.”

  Maggie couldn’t hold back another wave of tears. “I was so frightened, Reverend Joshua.”

  “All women are fearful when labor is upon them. But you certainly had special circumstances. Alone, without a doctor or other females. I imagine you felt terrified.”

  “Mr. Livingston was wonderful,” Maggie said, sitting up to defend Caleb if need be. “Charlotte and I owe him our lives,” she said, her tone fierce. “And don’t believe his ridiculous claim that Oswald’s death is his fault, for I will strongly oppose such a statement.”

  “So I see.” His smile widened. “I believe Mr. Livingston has taken a reasonable stance in the matter and is not overburdened with guilt.”

  “He’s not overburdened with guilt anymore.” Maggie subsided and leaned against the pillows. “I certainly nagged him enough on the topic. Stubborn man.”

  Reverend Joshua quickly brought a hand to his mouth, covering a cough that sounded suspiciously like a choked-off laugh. When he lowered his hand, his expression was appropriately grave, but his eyes danced. “I believe Caleb Livingston has met his match in you.”

  He motioned to the tray of dishes on the bed next to her. “I see you’ve eaten. Mrs. Graves is a good cook. You’ll be well fed while you’re here.”

  Maggie waved at the game table. “She left tea and cookies. Oatmeal. Said you like them.”

  “I do. Would you like some tea?”

  She shook her head.

  Reverend Joshua walked to the table and poured himself a cup of tea. A floral fragrance filled the room. Then he put two cookies on a small plate. He carried the cup and saucer in one hand and the plate in the other and returned to Maggie’s side, placing them on the nightstand in order to pull a chair over to the side of the bed. “Would you mind if I move the cradle a few feet? I’ll reposition it back before I leave.”

  “Of course.”

  The minister shifted the cradle with obvious care to not wake the baby, then sat down, picked up the cup and saucer, and took a sip of tea. “Now for a more serious discussion.” He set the cup and saucer back on the nightstand. “You have been through quite an ordeal, Mrs. Baxter, which must have taken an emotional toll on you.”

  Traitorous tears blurred her eyes again. “I’m not sorry Oswald is dead.” A sob burst fro
m her throat. “In fact, I’m grateful. It’s so sinful of me, I know.” She dabbed at her eyes.

  “The commandments tell us not to kill, which you didn’t, and to honor your husband, which I’m sure you did when he was alive.” He dipped his head to catch her eye. “Am I correct in that?”

  She nodded but couldn’t meet his eyes and hid behind the handkerchief.

  “Well, the commandments do not say you need to honor Oswald after his death if he wasn’t a man who deserved such; therefore, I do not believe you’re sinning.”

  Maggie lowered the handkerchief, feeling as if a load had rolled off her shoulders. “I should have listened when you told me to postpone the wedding.” She glanced at the baby. “I keep telling myself Charlotte was worth all the pain of my marriage.”

  “Sometimes, time alone isn’t enough to discern someone’s true character.” He let out a breath, his eyes sad.” I knew my wife for several years before our marriage. Often dined at her home and was around her on many other occasions. Character may not be revealed until circumstances change. Marriage is a very imperfect science.”

  “Yet you’re marrying again,” Maggie pointed out. “When I’ve heard you speak of Miss Bellaire, you’ve sounded enthusiastic. How do you know you’ll find lasting happiness?”

  “Besides emotional feelings of attraction, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “I guess you can say I’ve witnessed circumstances testing Delia, and I feel I can depend on her real character.” His expression grew thoughtful, as if remembering. “We will have challenges, of course. All couples do.”

  “I don’t plan to marry again, Reverend Joshua.” Maggie crossed her arms over her chest. “I plan to devote my life to raising my daughter.”

  “Very admirable.”

  She shot him a challenging look. “You won’t argue a woman’s role as a helpmate? Her destiny to marry?” To Maggie’s ears, her question sounded belligerent and not at all the way one should speak to a minister.

  “I think there’s no need for me to argue that point,” Reverend Joshua said in a gentle tone. “You will find your way.”

  Maggie tried to puzzle his meaning. Then he leaned forward and smiled at her daughter, and she did so, as well, forgetting his cryptic statement.

  Reverend Joshua touched Maggie’s hand. “Let’s talk about Oswald. Mr. Livingston tells me you don’t want him transferred to the graveyard in Sweetwater Springs. Have you changed your mind? I could conduct a funeral, or at least a burial service. Or my father could, if you prefer.”

  Maggie shuddered. “No, leave Oswald be.”

  “What about a service?”

  Maggie shook her head. “No one here knew him. If you could say a prayer for his soul. . . .”

  She let out a long, slow breath. “So sad to live the kind of life where no one mourns your death—but, in fact, is relieved by it.”

  Reverend Joshua stroked his chin. “I think you just gave me my topic for a sermon.”

  A sardonic laugh squeezed out of her. “Well, then my husband’s death has done some good, after all.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After he’d quickly bathed and changed, Caleb walked to the cabinetmaker’s shop located on a back street of the town. He’d commissioned wine shelves from Phineas O’Reilly before and knew the man was reliable and did fine work. The only problem was the carpenter’s propensity to gossip. The last thing he wanted was his personal business spread hither and yon. Hopefully, he could swear O’Reilly to secrecy.

  The front window in the false-fronted building gleamed in the late afternoon sun, showing off a display of painted statuettes—animals and figures of the Madonna carved by Pepe Sanchez, who worked at the livery. Last Christmas, Caleb had bought a crèche from the stableman to give to Edith for Christmas.

  The signage above the window in crooked letters proclaimed: PHINEAS O’REILLY, COFFIN MAKER, CARPENTER, AND CABINET-MAKER. He’d always thought it ironic that the bulk of O’Reilly’s income came from coffins and had counted himself blessed not to call upon the carpenter for that service.

  Guilt made Caleb wince. He wasn’t reconciled to the thought of Oswald Baxter lying without a coffin in an unmarked grave in the wilderness, but he needed to respect Maggie’s wishes.

  He toyed with the idea of commissioning a headstone for the man, so someday Charlotte would know the site of her father’s grave. Although, Caleb supposed he could take her there if she ever wanted to go. The place was burned into his brain and wouldn’t be hard to find, no matter how far in the future.

  I’m imagining a future with the child. Will Maggie even remain in Sweetwater Springs so I can see Charlotte grow up? I’ll do what I can to make that happen.

  Caleb opened the door and entered the shop, inhaling the scent of sawdust and varnish. The carpenter’s latest wares, a commode, a credenza, and a side table—all with decorative inlay on top—were displayed in the front room. But there was no one at the counter. Through a back door that led into the workshop, he could hear the grinding of a saw. “O’Reilly!”

  The sawing stopped. A burly man ambled through the door, wiping his hands on a short canvas apron. He wore his rust-colored hair in a tail, and his bushy beard was untrimmed. “Mr. Livingston, what can I do for you? Another wine rack?”

  “Not this time.” Caleb hesitated. “I have a commission for you, but I need your discretion. I’m planning a surprise.”

  O’Reilly rubbed his palms together. “My favorite kind.”

  “Well, this won’t be your usual gift.” He forced out the story. “While on the road to Morgan’s Crossing, my surrey and a caravan crossed from different directions. Both of us were driving too fast on hilly terrain, and his vehicle ran off the road. The driver was killed, but his wife and baby survived. The caravan, which is the woman’s home, was wrecked—at least the left side and part of the roof. The structure might still be sound.”

  O’Reilly rocked back on his heels. “You want me to cobble it back together, Mr. Livingston?”

  Does the man think I’m cheap? “Would I have you cobble something?”

  O’Reilly gave him a sheepish look. “Guess not, eh.”

  “The wagon is a ways out, almost halfway to Morgan’s Crossing—about an hour past the second wayfarer’s hut. I’ll send Jed with you—both to help you fix the vehicle enough to travel and to drive the caravan back early or late enough so no one sees it. Once it’s here, secretly park it in that barn of yours where you keep your wood and work on it there. I want the whole thing restored until it’s shiny like a new penny.”

  “Will cost you plenty of ’em shiny pennies.”

  “That I know. But I also know I can trust your expertise. It’s a Gypsy wagon. Has some detailing on it. Green and gold. A painting on the interior ceiling.”

  “You have a time limit on this project?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  O’Reilly tugged on his beard. “If I might make a suggestion. . . .”

  Caleb made a go-ahead motion.

  “If money is no object and time is short, how about hiring Pepe Sanchez away from the livery for a bit? It’s still a slow time of year for them, so Mack Taylor might not mind.” He waved toward the figurines near the window. “Pepe’s a right dab hand at painting things.”

  “Good idea.” Caleb had no doubt Mack would let his stableman go along. After all, I hold the note on that expansion he’s about to undertake. “I didn’t really notice what was painted on the ceiling—the picture was faded, and with the accident and all, I had other priorities. But from what I recall, it will take an artist to restore.”

  O’Reilly’s grin showed some missing teeth. “Pepe will like that you called him an artist.”

  “What else do you have in mind?”

  “Instead of bringing the thing here, I suggest we take it to Gideon Walker’s. It’s a tad-and-a-mousetail closer to where the caravan lies now, and if he does some of the work with me, then we’ll be finished in no time.”


  “Excellent.” Caleb nodded. “Although, the Walker place isn’t as close as you imply. As an eagle flies, maybe, if you could travel cross-country. But they live on a different road. You’ll have to drive with the caravan toward Morgan’s Crossing and then take the right-hand fork in the road and backtrack.”

  “We’ll manage.”

  “At least this way, there will be less chance of the secret getting out.”

  O’Reilly guffawed. “At least not from Walker. Iffen you don’t count his quotes and such, I don’t think I’ve heard him speak more than a hundred words together in all the time I’ve known him.”

  Caleb thought of the man who’d been a hermit before marrying a mail-order bride. “He does make a few words go a long way.” He drummed his fingers on the counter. “I’ll still send Jed with you and Pepe. Once you have the wagon moved to the Walkers, he can return and fill me in on the details, as well as let me know anything you might still need to finish the job.”

  The carpenter tugged on his beard again, obviously thinking. “I should buy extra gold paint. That stuff’s expensive, and Pepe only keeps a short supply in.”

  “Done. And Pepe can have any that’s left over. Take boxes to pack the Baxter’s belongings. Separate the husband’s clothes and such so Mrs. Baxter doesn’t have to see them until she’s ready.”

  “Shore will, Mr. Livingston.”

  Now to face the Cobbs. Caleb walked out the door and strode to the mercantile, not even tempted to stop in at the bank or continue on to his hotel, which normally would have been his first order of business upon returning to town. Although vaguely aware such disinterest was not like him, he was too focused on a mental list of what he needed to purchase for Maggie and Charlotte to pay his unusual behavior any mind.

  Lost in thought about how to explain Maggie’s situation in a way that would keep gossip to a minimum, he only nodded at passersby and didn’t stop to talk. When he reached the doors of the brick mercantile, the need to deal with the unpleasant proprietors brought back his attention.