by Tricia Goyer
“C’mon, Parson, you know what I’m talking about—a special shipment, planned by my father, coming on the Fourth…”
Isaac sucked in air as if the man had physically punched him in the gut. “The school’s?”
“You guessed it.”
“But you can’t,” Isaac protested. “What do you want with a bunch of school supplies?”
He laughed. “No school supplies are coming. One telegram changed those slates and books into glasses and barstools.”
“Your father was investing in the school—in the children’s education, the future.” Isaac clenched his fist. If he’d ever wanted to punch a man, it was now.
“My inheritance, Parson. Not yours.” Warren turned his back on Isaac and left.
Goosebumps, a result of the chilly morning, danced across Julia’s arms as she slid onto the bench at the picnic table behind the ranch. Her hand trembled slightly as she held the letter from Mrs. Gaffin. The prairie breeze rustling through the tall grass, like the musical accompaniment of those who made their homes there, followed Julia into the gray afternoon. Too nervous to open the missive, she gazed at the vast prairie broken only by the lake, dingy in its reflection of the sky. She couldn’t look at Lonesome Lake without remembering the night Isaac had guided her with a hand on her back and calmed her as they looked for Bea. What would it be like to walk through life protected by such tender attention? She’d never know.
No, please no. Everywhere she looked, reminders of Isaac pummeled her fragile heart, and she longed to be far from any place where he’d ever been. Soon she would. In fact, hopefully this letter held a quick and easy strategy for making it happen.
She glanced at the looped writing and couldn’t help smiling at the familiarity of her headmistress’s penmanship. The curlicue letters and sprinkled hearts bespoke Mrs. Gaffin’s cheery demeanor. How Julia longed to hear her cackling laugh and feel her arms receive her in an uninhibited embrace.
She slit open the envelope and unfolded the letter. Clutching it tightly in her hand to withstand the gusts, she read.
Dearest Julia,
Oh my sweet girl, I have done it again, haven’t I? You poor dear. I had no idea Mr. Whitbaum was a gold miner. When he said prospector I thought that meant he was a banker. Prospecting investments! Oh, you should’ve heard Mr. Gaffin when I told him. He feels terrible that you are in such a position, and he’s come up with the perfect plan to fix everything.
“Thank goodness,” Julia said out loud. She knew Mrs. Gaffin would want to help, but what a relief that Mr. Gaffin formulated the measures. Perhaps he’d provide the sense dear Mrs. Gaffin lacked. Julia continued to read.
And my darling Julia, of course you can stay with us when you return. I would’ve offered, but I thought you’d be married by now. You will live under our elegant roof as a family member, not as a servant. Dear Julia, how could you even think I’d want you as a servant? You are like a daughter to me. A wonderful, beautiful daughter, whom I love with all my heart. I wish I could embrace you.
Julia smiled imagining Mrs. Gaffin dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief as the emotions flowed.
Finally, I want you to know that I feel so terrible about the awful predicament I’ve put you into that I have found you a wonderful place of employment! The Butterfly Academy for Young Ladies was looking to fill a position for an assistant to the headmistress. I had tea with the headmistress just last Tuesday, and I told her all about you. She said my word was good enough and offered you the position. Julia, you will be the English and history teacher, and you’ll be in charge of the pupils’ extracurricular activities. These are very wealthy families, my dear. It’s the perfect opportunity for you to meet a nice young man.
I must finish so I can post this today, but please know that I love you, my dear, sweet, lovely girl. We will see you at the next train.
Yours,
Mrs. Gaffin
Julia set the paper on the table and placed her hand over it. Thank you, Mrs. Gaffin. A calm acceptance settled over Julia’s heart for the first time in days. Mrs. Gaffin really did return the affection Julia felt for her. She’d reside under her protection as a daughter. She’d be part of—a family. And the employment was more than she could’ve asked for.
A deer leaped into Julia’s vision followed by another and two fawns, their hooves crackling the dry grass.
Finally, Julia would be able to leave her past behind, like closing chapters in a book—her parents’ death, life in the orphanage, the pain of leaving the girls…Isaac.
Her eyes moved to the firepit next to the table. The memory of Sarah Mack’s song and the gaze she and Isaac had shared in the dancing firelight fluttered to her thoughts. And despite everything—all her striving to push it away—a part of her heart still longed for him to return to her. That’s why she sat out here each day pretending to need rest or to work on her embroidery. She longed to see his butterscotch mare clopping over the field with him mounted atop. She longed for him to spy her sitting there. If he came to her, apologized and confessed his love, Julia would gladly accept him back. She knew she would, despite her attempts to convince herself otherwise.
The deer family frolicked away, and Julia scolded herself. She knew allowing those thoughts to fuel her imagination only brought pain. O God, help me let him go.
She glanced back at the letter, her salvation.
Reading it again, a bit of uncertainty niggled at her. She checked inside the envelope. It was empty. Something was missing. Mrs. Gaffin said they had a plan to “fix everything,” but she didn’t say what that plan was. If she’d just sent Horace’s money—and perhaps a train ticket—Julia could pay him back and go home, but…
Oh, Mrs. Gaffin.
She groaned. It would take three more weeks to post another letter and wait for a reply. Three more weeks of worrying about being kidnapped by Horace. And then there was the question of whether she’d get an answer before the Fourth of July train arrived. Or the money to get on it.
Maybe she should pray that Horace would find a vein of gold up in those hills. Yes, that would keep him occupied for a while….
Julia slumped on the hard wooden bench where she sat. Although Mrs. Gaffin’s words brought comfort to her emotions, the letter had done nothing to provide relief from her situation. She realized she’d been fastening her plans on getting a letter from Mrs. Gaffin before the train arrived, assuming her former headmistress would include the money and ticket she needed. But now…
A stray, dry leaf from a distant box elder tree slapped against her face then whirled away in the murky day—just like her plans.
She glanced at her hands and decided to go back to her room. Perhaps she could finish the sampler. Even if the Home Sweet Home pattern held only ironic pleasure to her now, the repeated movement of the stitching would at least distract her thoughts.
Then, in a quick rush, an idea struck her. “That’s it.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Parson, you been staring out that window fer the last week. Don’t you think you need to get your mind on somethin’ else?” Jim, who sat on a log, hollered to Isaac inside, nudging him from his thoughts.
Lounging on the cot, Isaac’s gaze swung lazily to Giant Jim playing cards with their sentinel, Lefty, outside the cabin—the makeshift jail for him, Mabelina, and Jim.
“Can’t you think of nothin’ to pass the time? You got yer Bible, why not work on them sermons of yours?”
Lefty sucked on his ebony pipe then released the smoke from the side of his mouth. “Yeah, Parson. The way Giant Jim here’s been preaching to me, a body’d think he’s the minister, not you.”
“Just can’t help but talk ’bout the Lord. Plus, if we gotta spend a considerable ’mount o’ a time stuck like two gophers on a spit, might as well make friends.” Jim planted his cards for Lefty to see. “Full house. Read ’em and weep.”
“Aw!” Their captor took off his hat and punched it against his knee. “You call that friendly?”
“The frien
dly part is the fact that we ain’t bettin’.” Jim’s mustache arced up in a grin. “Parson, you wanna play a hand?”
“Nah, I’m just gonna rest a bit.” Isaac leaned against the wall of the dark, dank cabin. A drab moth flew to the window. He moved his attention out the door to where Virginia was nibbling on grass under the shade of the tall pine, with Calamity napping at her side.
“Suit yerself. Mabelina’s skinnin’ up a coon she trapped. We’ll cook it up fer dinner soon.” Jim licked his lips.
Isaac didn’t respond. Instead, he shifted his gaze inside, scanning the wobbly shack. Last night a windstorm had blown in, causing the structure to shudder on its foundation. Any stronger blast surely would’ve sent its planks tumbling down the hill.
Isaac exhaled a weary sigh. For all the years he’d been in Montana, he and Milo had planned and prayed. Bit by bit, doing their own part to construct a foundation to build a far-reaching ministry. To tend the spiritual landscape of this untamed land.
Their first structure was to be the school. In Isaac’s mind, its whitewashed walls, neat desks lined up in rows, blackboard, and schoolmarm’s desk were already established. But most importantly, he envisioned the children. His sisters’ brood, the Indian little ones who’d have no chance to learn without a school, the soldiers’ children, the new homesteaders’ tykes—they all depended on Isaac. And the orphans who came across the country on the train. He’d promised them an education. His stomach ached as failure’s fist jabbed him anew.
He and Milo had dreamed that their one schoolhouse would lead to others and that eventually their ministry would impact not just Chouteau County—or even Montana—but the whole West. The whole country.
He laughed at his own hubris. Had he really thought the efforts of two countrymen—an elder and a preacher—could “civilize the West”?
Ripping off a bit of loose newsprint, previously stuck to the walls for insulation, he flicked it to the floor. Now, because of the death of one of those men—and the naïveté of the other—their plans had collapsed as easily as this shaky prospector’s cabin might.
A long list of accusations wrangled through his mind. He should’ve urged Milo to put the school in his will. And in hindsight, Isaac realized how gullible he’d been about Warren’s character. So much pain could’ve been avoided if he’d only heeded the warnings. Maybe Aponi and her girls would still have their home….
More than that, Isaac had never found a teacher. One simple task. If he had, perhaps they could’ve started without a building. But he’d gotten sidetracked, and now the whole project would be delayed. Isaac shook his head. He didn’t know when, if ever, the school would be built.
The two men outside apparently finished their game, because Lefty’s harmonica sent its melodic twangs to Isaac’s ears. He moaned. If he heard “Oh! Susanna” one more time, he’d take that harmonica and chuck it into the fire. Is that the only song anybody knew around these parts?
He returned his gaze out the window and tried to tune out the annoying ditty. He’d made a decision sitting here this week. And his resolution made more sense with every moment that passed.
It was over.
All his plans, his big ideas to start a school, a hospital, even the orphan train—someone else could dedicate his life to such futile tasks. Six years of fruitless toil were enough for Isaac.
As soon as Mabelina’s trial was over, he’d pack up and go back to St. Louis. He could be gone in a week. He’d talk to the dean of the seminary and apply for a teaching position. Isaac folded his hands behind his head and lay back on the scrawny pillow. It was the perfect plan. He could train an army of future ministers—and never have to ride a circuit again.
“Suppertime!” Mabelina called from the firepit a couple yards beyond the house.
Isaac scooted off the cot and moseyed outdoors. He grabbed a tin plate hanging from a nail in the outer wall and brushed it off with his hand. Then, following the others, he took his share of raccoon stew and beans.
“You know,” Isaac started, as they settled on logs and stumps by the cabin, “today marks a week since Warren left. I say if he doesn’t come on the morrow, we pack up and head out to Fort Benton.”
Isaac expected them all to agree. Nobody would want to stay in this dingy sty any longer than absolutely necessary. But Jim, Mabelina, and Lefty all gaped at him, chewing their meat silently.
Isaac sent a questioning grimace. “You mean you don’t want to go?”
“Nope.” Jim jumped in first. “I don’t see why we’d hurry the trial when we don’t know what’s gonna happen to my sweet lady.” He scooted closer to her.
“He’s right.” Mabelina’s curly red hair outlined her face like a starburst. “Why not just stay up here? I ain’t never been so happy in my life.” She tucked her head under Jim’s neck as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder.
Isaac eyeballed Lefty, who was happily eating. “You agree, I suppose.”
“Yup. I don’t cherish seeing old Warren and them rascals again. Much rather bide my time with you folks.”
Isaac stood and chucked his plate to the ground in a huff. “I’m going to the stream.”
“That parson’s a cantankerous fellow,” Isaac heard Lefty say as he stalked off.
“Naw, he’s a good man,” Jim replied. “Just needs to figure a few things out.”
Isaac ambled down the wooded trail to the stream. Parking himself on a rotting log, he listened to the water trickle over the stones and watched the fading sunlight’s glimmering reflection.
Before long, Jim plodded down the trail and sat beside him.
“I don’t want to talk.” Isaac threw a pebble into the stream.
“I know ya don’t, but I was jest discussin’ with Mabelina, and if you want to go back to the fort tomorrow, we’ll go. May as well git it over with, I s’pose.” Jim’s head angled toward Isaac, an intent look in his eyes.
Isaac’s lips pursed, and he clenched his jaw, steeling himself as the significance of Jim’s words seeped in. Jim would sacrifice his happiness to ease Isaac’s discomfort? How can I be so selfish?
“No,” Isaac said, hearing the shame thick in his own voice.
A tinge of relief flickered over the man’s face. “All right, then, we’ll jest wait.”
“Yeah.”
A brown-feathered swallow fluttered down and landed on a rock.
“You all right, Pastor Ike?” Jim faced the stream, apparently watching the bird.
Isaac’s neck grew weak, and his head collapsed to his hands. The man’s selfless generosity triggered the thoughts, options, plans, worries, and complaints he’d indulged in all week to swirl around him like a court of accusers. He rubbed his forehead. He still didn’t know what to do next.
He picked up a stick from the dirt and, throwing it into the water, watched it swirl and jerk and finally get lodged against a fallen log.
He was that trapped stick. And he couldn’t free himself. He’d tried all week to find a way….
“I don’t know what’s got you so down,” Jim said after a moment. “But I know you ain’t behavin’ like yerself. And from what I can tell, you ain’t behavin’ right.” He picked at his fingernails. “I know I ain’t one to judge—boy, I know that—but you done told me when I did wrong and, well, I oughta tell you, too. That’s what friends do.” He gingerly patted Isaac’s back, then returned his hand to his lap.
Isaac searched Jim’s face, not as a parson gazing at a sheep, but as a friend. A friend in Christ. “I don’t know what to do.”
“You have a problem trustin’.” Jim shook his head. “A big one. You ain’t trustin’ the Good Lord with that school of yers. If He wants a school in these parts, there’ll be one. I never knew why you were so worked up about it.”
Isaac closed his eyes. Jim was right, but there was so much more at stake than just the school—not just his grandiose plans, but his entire purpose for being in the ministry. He wanted to be honest with Jim and with himself. He needed to fi
nally exhume the truth he hated to face.
“If I don’t have the school to plan, the hospital, the next orphan train,” Isaac peered at the stick wedged in the stream, “I don’t know what I’ll do.” He let out a slow breath.
Jim looked Isaac full in the face. “I already done told ya. Trust Him.”
The sky’s blue shade blended to pink and purple as the sun began its journey to rest. Isaac watched the light gray smudges of clouds sail across the sky, and felt, in their wake, raindrops landing on his hands and arms.
“Trust Him.” He whispered Jim’s words, and like the stream’s waters dancing over stones, the truth began to cleanse. He’d been so set on his own plans to shepherd his flock, he’d forgotten to rest in the Good Shepherd. As splashes of truth revealed the dirt beneath, Isaac asked himself why he’d striven so hard to make his plans happen. I wanted credit for myself.
Perhaps that wasn’t his only purpose, but it made up the part that wouldn’t let go, that failed to trust. Isaac took in a long, deep breath of the freshly rain-cleansed air. “My failure wasn’t about a school, or hospital, or anything else. You’re right, my friend. I failed to trust.”
Jim nodded slightly. “He’ll forgive you.”
Isaac bowed his head. “I guess that’s what I told you once.”
“Yup.”
As a measure of relief rushed over Isaac, he glanced at Jim’s face. It held a frown, a speck of doubt, as if he wondered whether he should continue. Then the faithful Goliath gripped his giant paws together and moved his thumb over the silver band on his left ring finger. His deep brown eyes pierced Isaac. “You say you’ll trust God with yer ministry, but can you trust Him with a wife, Parson? Even that?”
At that, Jim stood. “I’m gonna let you be. I’ll be back at the cabin if ya need me.”
Jim disappeared into the woods, and Isaac sat in silence.
Jim’s words replayed in his mind, and then Isaac shook his head. This week his aching mind had reeled over Warren, Aponi, Milo, and his own failed plans. But even more, Julia’s pained expression as she watched him leave plagued his thoughts day and night. A thousand needles pricked his heart every time he thought of it.
