That simple expression made the banker seem more approachable. “Not at all, Mr. Livingston. Loving kindness is a mainstay of my father’s beliefs. . .and of my own.”
“Although, make no mistake. When the need arises, your father can make sinners quake in their pews. But luckily, he’s not so moved at every service.”
Joshua agreed with the man. He’d listened to far too many fiery sermons since he’d left home for the seminary. Abner, too, was fond of preaching them.
Mr. Livingston steepled his fingers. “Now about the expansion of the parsonage. . .We don’t have any formal town leadership, but we have an informal cadre of ranchers and business owners, as well as your father, the doctor when he’s able to attend, and now—” he frowned “—our sheriff.”
Joshua wondered if the banker disliked the sheriff.
Mr. Livingston must have seen the question on Joshua’s face. “The sheriff was one of the instances where I disagreed with your father. I’m still reserving judgment in that case.” He shot Joshua an amused look. “I’ll let you meet our sheriff and form your own opinion.”
Joshua had a sinking feeling that a run-in with the sheriff might be inevitable. “Knowing the mischief my son gets into, I might make his acquaintance soon,” he said in a light tone that belied his concern about that really happening.
Instead of responding in amusement as he expected, Mr. Livingston frowned, a flash of pain in his eyes. “Sometimes boys do get themselves in trouble that causes pain to others and puts their family’s reputation into the red.”
Joshua didn’t want to pry, but then again, he was a minister. Perhaps a stranger might be easier for the banker to talk to. “I saw a boy with you yesterday. Your son?”
“Nephew. He and his mother live with me. Got into a spot of trouble last summer. Hopefully, Ben’s learned his lesson.” His expression closed.
Joshua made a mental note to ask his parents what had happened.
The banker made a dismissing motion with his hand. “Why don’t we all meet at my home after church on Sunday?” He obviously wanted to change the subject. “We can discuss the matter of expanding the parsonage. I imagine most of those involved will attend the ice cream social tomorrow, and I can drop a word in their ears. I’ll have Mrs. Graves prepare a meal for everyone.”
“Sounds like an expedient way to handle the situation. Thank you, Mr. Livingston.”
“Caleb, call me Caleb. At least, in private.”
Joshua nodded and offered his given name.
“Do you have a plan for the expansion?”
“Somewhat. The parsonage is awkwardly configured, so it’s not that easy to figure out,” Joshua said frankly. “But I tell you, my trunks are sitting on the porch because there’s no room in the house for them, or the belongings inside them.”
Mr. Livingston frowned. “Very inconvenient. Although I’m sure they’ll be safe there. However, if you need storage in the meantime, feel free to avail yourself of my attic.”
“Thank you. That’s a generous offer. As long as the expansion happens soon, they’ll be fine where they are.”
“You probably noticed the new construction in town. My architect is here to check on the progress of the hotel and Gordon’s office building. I can have him draw something up based on your ideas. It might be best to have an expert sketch a simple plan.”
“You’re right. My parents are so used to making do that they’d be content with the addition of a single closet. And yes, I’ll offer a few opinions, but your architect should talk with them to see what they might want.”
“Of course.”
The banker sat forward in his chair, a gleam of curiosity in his eyes. “Now, I’m sure you’d like to open an account.”
“My late wife inherited money from her family, which has now come to me. Well, mostly it’s tied up for Micah. But we have a conservative sum that provides us with a living.”
“I see. Then you’ll definitely need an account.”
The banker’s words brought into reality Joshua’s changed circumstances. It was because of his wife he even had the money for house expansions and bank accounts.
I wonder what Esther would have done with the money if she were alive. She probably would have appreciated some of the luxuries that had been denied them for so long. A home of their own, certainly. But perhaps she also would have wanted to contribute toward the mission fields, to help others continue the work they’d begun.
Something to think about.
But right now, Joshua had to accept that he was no longer a poor missionary and to wisely shepherd his nest egg. Esther’s death had changed his life in so many ways. The future, which for years had seemed set onto a grim path, was now opening upon an uncertain but hopeful vista. A bank account right here in Sweetwater Springs was a first step into that future.
Several hours later, the dirty bunch of warriors trudged up the trail, victorious. Inga carried several squirrels by the tails, while Elsebe and Micah each toted a little girl who clung like a monkey to their backs. In his pocket nestled a toad he’d discovered on the edge of a small pond. Inga had warned him that he’d have to catch spiders, ants, and flies to feed it, but Micah knew he could do that.
When they rounded the shed and came in view of the house, they found Micah’s grandmother and Mr. Swensen sitting on the porch. Mr. Swensen bounced a blonde toddler on his leg, a child even smaller than Lottie. That must be number six. He couldn’t remember her name.
When his grandmother stood, Micah saw she cradled a baby in her arms. Her eyes grew wide, and she took several steps forward to the edge of the porch and stared down at them. “Oh, dear Lord,” she exclaimed.
Startled, Micah looked at the girls and saw the group through his grandmother’s eyes. Mud still covered them although also it had smudged in places, showing patches of lighter skin underneath.
Inga had stuck an eagle feather into her braid, and it dangled underneath the fox fur she wore on her head.
Mr. Swensen shot to his feet.
“Look, Pa.” Inga held up the squirrels. “Dinner. I shot two, Micah got two, and Elsebe managed to hit one, although I don’t know how cuz she squealed when she threw.”
Mr. Swensen opened and closed his mouth a few times, looking dumfounded. “What are you doing with those furs?” he demanded.
“We were careful with them, Pa,” Inga assured him. But her voice wavered.
His grandmother frowned, the first time he’d seen that expression on her face. “Micah Norton, whatever have you done? If you’ve damaged Mr. Swensen’s furs, he won’t receive as much money when he sells them. This is a serious matter, Micah.”
I knew I was bound to make her angry, he thought with a resigned sigh. But her tone wasn’t as sharp as his mother’s would have been, rising to a shriek that would hurt his ears. A stronger reaction was bound to come, and he braced himself, familiar with how adults often needed a few minutes to absorb his latest misdeeds, before bursting forth with a scolding and punishment.
But no matter how his grandmother or Mr. Swensen disciplined him, Micah wasn’t a bit sorry. He and the girls—who’d proved to be good companions, after all—had found themselves having an adventure. For the first time since they’d left Africa, he’d had fun without Kimu, something he thought would never happen. He didn’t think they’d harmed the furs. Should I offer to pay for them? Grandfather Maynard had given him money before they left Cambridge.
His face flushed with anger, Mr. Swensen stepped off the porch and circled each child, inspecting the furs.
Micah stood stock still, praying they’d done no damage.
After his inspection, Mr. Swensen nodded. “Take off and lay on porch rail.”
Relieved, Micah untied the fox pelt from his head.
“Never again play with them.” He shot a stern look at his daughters, then swept his gaze to inclu
de Micah.
“Yes, Pa,” the older girls chorused.
“Yes, sir,” Micah hurried to add as the children took off their furs.
His grandmother glanced down at the baby in her arms and gave him a little rock before looking up and narrowing her eyes at Micah. “Let me guess? You all were playing that you’re natives on a hunt.”
How did she know? His face must have revealed his puzzlement, for his grandmother laughed.
“Your father’s letters have been very descriptive, dear boy. Oh, I wish a photographer was around to take your photograph.”
Micah couldn’t believe his ears. He gaped at her.
“Oh yes, Micah. I predict this is a story that will be told many times.” She glanced at Mr. Swensen, who still looked stunned. “Little Olaf is asleep, so let me put him down in the cradle. Good thing Anna’s napping.”
“Ja,” Mr. Swensen said in fervent agreement. “She’s particular about the girls. Clean and neat. She’d get out of bed and scrub them herself.”
“Then we’ll have to find a way to tidy them up before she awakes. Heating water for the six of them will take forever. I guess we’ll have to build a fire by the creek because the snowmelt will turn them blue with cold. Good thing the day’s still warm out.”
Mr. Swensen frowned. “No need, ma’am. I chose here to settle because hot spring nearby.” He jerked his head to indicate the back of the house. “But we must build fire so everyone dries out. I have firepit we use.”
“Just what we need.”
“Inga and Elsebe.” Mr. Swensen’s voice became more authoritative. “Fetch soap and every towel and rag. You must wear your best dresses, so bring them, too. Once they are on, you must all sit still to not make dirty.”
From the dismayed expression on Inga’s face, Micah guessed sitting still was a worse punishment than being scolded, spanked, or sent to your room without supper. He could empathize.
“Don’t wake your ma,” Mr. Swensen ordered.
Elsebe lowered Lottie to the ground, and Inga set the squirrels on the porch, then they scurried to do his bidding.
Micah crouched so Marta could climb off his back. “Guess I should help carry firewood.”
“Ja, firewood. Micah help me skin the squirrels.”
His interest perked up. “I’ve never cleaned squirrels before.”
“Saved me the trouble of hunting dinner,” Mr. Swensen admitted as he scratched his beard. “We have beans, which is what we eat when my wife is confined.”
His grandmother frowned. “This time, Anna had a more difficult delivery. She must rest. You can’t exist on beans for days.”
Mr. Swensen gave his daughters a grim look. “Now I know the girls can hunt with me.”
“Yes,” said Grandmother in a wry tone. “But perhaps without the mud next time.”
Mr. Swensen eyed Micah’s clothes. “I’ve got shirt and pants in trunk from when I was youngster. You borrow them.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Mr. Swensen gestured from Grandmother to the open door. “If you put baby down. . .”
“The dear boy is sound asleep. I’ll tuck him in his cradle. Then I’ll supervise the girls’ bathing. When they are done, Micah can have his turn.”
The adults went into the house, leaving Micah with the little girls. The three plopped down on the steps to wait, but before long the older girls came out, their arms full of towels and rags. His grandmother and Mr. Swensen followed, carrying batches of clothes.
Mr. Swensen tilted his head to the side of the house. “Grab armful of wood, Micah,” he ordered.
Micah hurried around the corner of the house to see a woodpile. He picked up as many logs as he could carry, then staggered to the back where the others waited.
Inga whirled and started down a path opposite of the one they’d taken on their hunt. The others fell in line behind her.
Just as Micah’s arms started to ache from carrying the wood, they came into a clearing. Stones formed a firepit in a sandy area, some rough wooden benches on either side.
Mr. Swensen set the clothes on one. “The hot spring’s up a ways.” With his chin, he indicated the direction. “By the time water runs here, temperature’s fine.” He gestured for Micah to put down the wood, then crouched to deftly build a fire. Once the flames blazed, he stood and smiled at Grandmother. “Girls go in the water with their clothes. Are going to need to wash dresses anyway.”
Grandmother laughed, placed her armload of clothes on the bench, and waved the two males away.
Micah followed Mr. Swensen back to the house. He picked up the squirrels. “Skin these, ja?”
“Ja,” Micah echoed, following the man to the shed.
Inside the shed, across from the skins, stood a counter stained brown with old blood. One side held several knives and some garden implements. On the walls hung metal animal traps of various sizes, with jagged teeth that made Micah grimace.
“Nasty things,” said Mr. Swensen, “but necessary to survival.” Stacks of furs took up the rest of the space.
Mr. Swensen set a large pail near the counter. “For pig,” Mr. Swensen commented. “She eats ’most anything.”
Mr. Swensen picked up Inga’s squirrel, settled the animal on its back on the counter, and made a belly cut from neck to backside. “Keep shallow,” he instructed. “Don’t cut into guts.” He handed Micah the knife, his blue eyes serious. “Go ahead.”
Micah took a breath in preparation, inhaling the musky scent of the animal. He held his squirrel upside down and imitated Mr. Swensen’s motion, although not nearly as deftly. When he finished, he looked at Mr. Swensen for approval.
The man nodded. “Ja. Open body and remove insides.” He demonstrated.
Micah followed, fumbling a bit. He took longer than Mr. Swensen. The insides were slippery, and his hands soon became sticky with blood.
“Good. Now, circle-cut around each paw and tail.” Mr. Swensen positioned the squirrel so the back was toward him. “Grab head and yank off skin, downward towards tail.” He glanced at Micah to make sure he understood. “Make nicks to separate skin from meat. Pull off quick with one motion. Not cut off like with larger animal like deer.”
Micah smiled his understanding. He tried to imitate the man, but ended up with a mutilated carcass.
Mr. Swensen grinned, obviously having lost his ill humor. “Not bad for first attempt, ja? Now, remove paws, tail, and head.” He scooped the head and paws into the pail, then held up the tail. “Keep this to remember your first squirrel hunt.” He winked. “Better wash off blood before you take home.”
“Yes, sir,” Micah said, accepting the tail. “Thank you. This will make a great trophy.” He could hardly wait to show his father.
CHAPTER EIGHT
On the evening of the ice cream social, Delia dressed with care in one of her new gowns, a forest green silk with velvet bands on the sleeves and across the bottom of the basque and the hem of the skirt. A froth of lace edged the neckline, pinned in place by an emerald bar pin her father had given her.
She stepped to the oval mirror and critically surveyed herself. Matching earrings glittered in her earlobes, and she wore her hair in a chignon with trailing curls, instead of her usual braid.
Tonight, she had no need of pinching her cheeks, for her olive skin glowed pink with excitement. She was looking forward to the ice cream social and dreading attending at the same time. Reluctant to leave her father’s bedside, she was afraid to venture into her first social setting as a white woman. What if I give myself away?
Delia could imagine the scorn on the faces of the people who’d been so hospitable. But one face lingered in her mind. She couldn’t bear to see the warmth in Reverend Norton’s blue eyes turn cold, rejecting. She’d nearly let the cat out of the bag during his first visit to the mansion with talk of voodoo in New Orleans culture. Thank goo
dness, her father had signaled for silence just in time.
Delia shuddered and moved away from the mirror. She glanced around the feminine room, covered in rose-patterned wallpaper, wishing she could curl up on the pink velvet window seat and look out at the night. Gather my courage.
But there was no time. Her hostess expected her downstairs in a few minutes.
She picked up a matching green velvet cloak, her gloves, and a beaded reticule from on top of the puffy pink bedcovering, then walked into her father’s room.
Andre was propped in bed, reading by the light of the lamp. He looked up when she entered. “You look beautiful, my dear. I predict the local swains will find you more delectable than the ice cream.”
Heat crept into her cheeks. She hadn’t yet grown used to her father’s compliments. “Oh, Papa!”
He closed his book. “I want you to enjoy yourself, daughter. No fretting about me. Promise?”
“Promise.” Delia swooped down and kissed his cheek. “Just the fact that you’re feeling well enough to read reassures me.”
“I’m growing tired already. I’m sure I’ll soon fall asleep.” He patted his book. “Sometimes just a little of Marcus Aurelius is all I need. The man’s words give me plenty to ponder, yet also relax me.”
The writings of the Roman philosopher and emperor had been left out of the nuns’ curriculum, although on the train journey, Delia had listened to her father recite his favorite quotes. “Well, I’m grateful you have Marcus Aurelius to keep you company when I cannot.”
Her father chuckled. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of swains to keep you company.”
That’s what I’m afraid of.
Delia walked with Edith Grayson and Ben to the schoolhouse under the light of a fat moon. She kept glancing up at the sky, with stars as bright as diamonds sparkling in the swath of black velvet. She couldn’t believe how beautiful the night looked, and she wished she could stop and observe her surroundings.
Although spring in New Orleans was Delia’s favorite season—with its fragrance of new growth and flowers and without the sticky heat of the summer that pressed down and leached energy from one’s body—since she’d left, she hadn’t missed the city. She found the crisp Montana air invigorating and drew in lungfuls as deep as her corset would allow.
Glorious Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series) Page 12
