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.
He turned to help Inga with the other two girls and, working together, they soon finished.
Inga shooed them to join their sisters, then stood and surveyed him, her fists on her waist. “Your turn now.”
“I know.” He grabbed some handfuls of chilled mud and smoothed them over his head and down the back of his neck. Familiarity lent speed to his task. After all, mud was mud, whether in Uganda or in Montana. When he finished, he glanced at Inga. “Miss any spots?”
She patted his cheek, then walked around him, rubbing the side of his neck to cover a bare patch. “All done.”
Micah tilted his head in the direction of the others. Together, they walked over to the girls. Already, light-colored patches showed on their faces where the mud had dried. Although the process wasn’t as fast as in the heat of Africa, he could see some spots where he could apply the chalk.
Too bad, we don’t have masks and head coverings. We could do a hunting ceremony. He and his friends had mimicked the ceremonies they’d seen the men do—out of sight of his parents, of course. His mother, especially, had done her best to squelch what she saw as heathen rituals. In church, the natives had prayed for successful hunts and then later, for good measure, secretly performed their traditional ceremonies. Micah and his friends had looked forward to the time when they could participate. Longing pierced him for everything he’d left behind. Resolutely,
he squashed the memory.
“What were you just thinking?” Inga demanded. “You looked sad.”
Micah lifted his hand to stop her. “Try not to move your mouth when you talk.” He pointed to his lips, barely opening his mouth as he spoke. “Sometimes, we divided into two groups, warriors and game. We’re missing head coverings.” He raised his hands over his head and gestured. “Kiseke had a lion. And Kimu a hyena.”
Elsebe’s eyes grew wide. “A real lion?”
“Naw. Only the warriors had those. But Kiseke and I made headpieces out of scraps of fur. Kimu couldn’t, though, because he’s from the lion clan. That’s his totem, so they’re not allowed to kill them. But when we were old enough to hunt, the rest of us planned to make real masks and head coverings for ourselves.” He tried not to let himself think that he’d never have a chance at one of the big cats.
Inga pointed in the direction of the shed. “We have furs. Pa usually takes them to town as soon as winter’s over. But with Ma so near her time, he didn’t want to leave her.”
Micah remembered the furs tacked to the wall of the shed. “Yes!” With a sudden burst of excitement, he ran back up the path to the clearing, the girls on his heels. He skidded to a stop in front of the building. At the last minute, he remembered to keep his mouth from moving much. “What are these?”
“Beaver, squirrel, rabbit.” Inga pointed to each one. “Fox, deer, moose, elk, and that’s a bear. We can’t use these, though. We have more already cured inside the shed.”
Micah immediately coveted a bearskin. “Bearskin for me.” He tapped Lottie’s head. “Squirrel. And you—” he patted Marta’s shoulder “—are a rabbit.” He pointed at Krista. “Fox.” He thumped his chest. “You, two—” he waved at Inga and Elsebe “—choose what you want.”
“Na,” Inga said. “Bear skin’s gunna be too heavy for you. Fox is better.”
“All right. Fox, then.”
Inga ran into the shed and soon returned with a pile of furs. She distributed one to each child.
“Inga,” Elsebe warned. “Pa will skin us alive if we damage those.”
Hearing the worry in Elsebe’s tone made Micah pause. “Maybe we’d better put them back.”
“We’ll be careful,” Inga said with breezy assurance.
Micah nodded, satisfied with her answer. “Do you have anything to tie these on?”
Inga nodded and dashed around the corner of the shed, returning a minute later with several long leather thongs in her hand.
“Perfect.” Micah took one from her. He draped a squirrel fur over Lottie’s head and tied the thong over the top and under her chin.
Her big blue eyes stared at him with complete trust, which wiggled something in the vicinity of his heart. She sure is a cute little thing.
By this time, the mud had dried enough that Micah could use the chalk to smudge lines on their cheeks and forehead. Then he allowed Inga to do his face.
When they’d finished their preparations, five mud-browned bedraggled warriors in dresses, pinafores streaked with dirt, stood in front of him.
Micah picked up the slings. “Now, we’re ready to go hunting.”
When he spotted Andre Bellaire showing signs of fatigue, Joshua stood. “You must rest.” He excused himself.
“As much as I hate to admit it, you are right,” the man said, his words starting to slur. “But please return tomorrow. . . . I want to hear more tales about Africa.”
“Certainly. I have plenty.”
Delia rose. “Let me walk you to the door, Reverend Norton.” She bent down to kiss her father’s cheek and tucked the covers tighter around him. “Sleep, Papa.”
He gave her a half smile, and his eyes fluttered closed.
Once outside the room, she quietly shut the door after them. “Thank you, Reverend Norton. I believe your visit did him good.”
Call me Joshua, he wanted to say. But such intimacy wouldn’t be appropriate. “I’m glad I could help.” He reluctantly tore his gaze away. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Livingston. But I suppose by this time he’s left the house. So, my next stop will be the bank.”
Joshua took Delia’s parting smile with him out of the house and up the street to the bank. Not until he almost passed an older woman without acknowledging her did he pull his head out of the clouds. He tipped his hat to the woman, who mercifully didn’t seem to expect him to know her or to stop and talk.
Don’t become lost in a pair of admiring eyes, Joshua warned himself. Remember where that led me before. I’m heading into my next marriage with my feet firmly planted on the ground, and my head fully aware of the type of relationship I’m entering into.
What about your heart? whispered a traitorous voice.
“Fondness and compatibility. Commonality of spiritual beliefs. . .” Joshua began to recite aloud a list of what he’d want in a wife, then realized he was arguing with himself and shook his head.
Since when have I thought of marrying again so soon?
Since I met Delia Bellaire.
Before he knew it, Joshua had arrived at the bank. He’d meant to study the changes of the town, and he’d been so busy with his head in the clouds, thinking of a certain lady and the improbable outcome of a marriage, that he hadn’t even noticed the building.
The brick of the bank sported a fresh coat of white paint, and “Livingston’s Boston Bank” was written in black letters on the door. Tight-budded daisies grew in the planter in front of the shallow porch.
Joshua opened the door and stepped into the building. He’d never been inside the bank before. He took off his bowler and hung it on a hat rack near the door.
An elderly clerk smiled at him. He was perched on a stool behind a high counter that ran the length of the room.
Joshua searched his memory for the man’s name and came up blank.
The clerk must have recognized his dilemma. “Horace Wittig,” he offered, almost apologetically, rubbing a hand over his bald pate. “Minnie’s my wife,” he added, obviously trying to give Joshua some context to who he was.
He had only the vaguest memory of Mrs. Wittig, a pale, unassuming woman.
“The whole community is glad to have you back, Reverend,” Horace said, genuine welcome in his voice.
The unexpected statement touched Joshua. He’d already heard the comment many times. But it meant more coming from a man he’d never spoken to before, even though he’d seen him every week in church years ago. “Thank you kindly, Mr. Wittig.”
“Are you here to open an account? Speak to Mr. Livingston?”
“Both at some point. But Mr. Livingston first, if you please.”
“Let me get the banker for you.” Horace slid off the stool, went around the counter, and knocked on an inner door.
Joshua heard a muffled, “Yes.”
Horace opened the door and stuck in his head. “Reverend Joshua Norton to see you, sir.” He straightened and scurried back to his place.
Mr. Livingston, dressed in an expensive navy suit, stepped into the room. His demeanor was polite, businesslike.
“Mr. Livingston.” Joshua offered his hand, and they shook. “If you could spare me a few moments of your time. . . .”
“Certainly, Reverend Norton. Come into my office.” With a wave, he ushered Joshua inside.
The large room was plainer than he expected given the lavishness of the man’s home. A big mahogany desk with two wooden chairs arranged in front took up most of the space in front of a barred window. Gauzy panels of fabric faded the view of Main Street and gave them privacy. In the corner, a birdcage with finches on perches took him by surprise and added humanity to the space.
Joshua took a seat. He noticed a seascape on the wall behind the desk.
The banker studied him with a penetrating look. “I’ve heard so much about you since I’ve lived here. I’m sure your
parents are overjoyed to have you and your son back home.”
“They are. Although I intend to make some changes for them, which is why I’m here.”
The banker nodded, his dark eyes solemn.
“I don’t know if you’re the person to talk to about this, but I thought you could give me some advice.”
Mr. Livingston raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”
“The parsonage is very cramped for the business of a minister, much less two additional inhabitants, and I’d like to see the house expanded.”
Mr. Livingston frowned. “I agree that it’s necessary, but I don’t know that the town can afford it right now. Many are still feeling the effects of the recession.”
Joshua held up a hand. “I should say up front that I will be paying for this myself.”
Mr. Livingston’s eyebrows rose again, but he didn’t comment.
Joshua appreciated his restraint. “I’m not saying I want anything extravagant. Another bedroom, a larger study for my father. A parlor for my mother to confer with the ladies.”
“I see no problem with that.” He straightened a ledger. “I’m ashamed to admit we should have taken care of this sooner. I’ve only been inside the parsonage once. When necessary to gather, we usually meet at my home. I thought your parents’ house needed improvements at the time, but I didn’t pursue the matter and soon forgot.”
“I’m sure that’s understandable. You’re a busy man.”
“I won’t accept that excuse, Reverend. I’ve had my differences with your father on several occasions, and I’m sure we’ll be at cross purposes again.” He grimaced. “Your father has usually proven to be in the right, and my stand was not. Hopefully, that won’t always be the case.”
Interesting. “That you’re at odds or that he’s always right?”
Mr. Livingston chuckled. “Both. However, he is a man I respect.” He hesitated. “And admire.” He fiddled with a pen in the silver inkstand on the corner of the desk, near a pile of ledgers. “I appreciate not having to listen to fire-and-brimstone sermons every Sunday.” His mouth turned up into a grin. “I hope that doesn’t offend?”
Glorious Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series) Page 11
