Glorious Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series)

by Debra Holland

  “Everyone knows who you are. I’m Ben Grayson. This is my uncle’s house. He’s Banker Livingston.”

  “My father and grandparents are in the meeting,” Micah explained.

  “Oh, all righty, then.” Ben touched his head as if he was wearing a hat and continued down the stairs, whistling as he went.

  Micah heard the older boy’s footsteps tap across the floor and the sound of the outside door opening and closing. With a rise of resentment, he realized no one was making Ben stay indoors and memorize a Bible chapter, and he was allowed to whistle on the Sabbath. Not fair!

  Once again, Micah wished he wasn’t a minister’s son. Not that he’d trade his family. But why couldn’t they be bankers or ranchers or shopkeepers? He toyed with various roles, trying to imagine what his life would be like if Father and Grandfather had different jobs.

  Rapid footsteps sounded on the first floor, heading toward the stairs, jerked him from his daydream. Uh, oh. Micah dropped down to his knees, spread out the fringe and peered underneath the bench. Just enough room. He flattened himself and rolled underneath, brushing the fringes straight.

  The black skirt and shoes of a woman passed by. She didn’t pause but continued to climb to the second floor.

  Micah heard muffled voices, then the woman’s sounded clearer. “I’ll leave you then, Mr. Bellaire,” she said, thumping down the stairs.

  He waited for the sound of her footsteps to fade away. Before he could move out from under the bench, he heard Miss Bellaire’s voice drift to him. “I’ll look in on you later, Papa,” With a light tread, she walked down the stairs. The green skirt of her dress swished by him.

  Micah decided he still wanted a glimpse of Mr. Bellaire. I bet he’s all by himself now. He waited another few minutes, listening until he decided it was safe to emerge.

  After rolling out from under the bench, he rose to his feet and tiptoed up the stairs. He took a moment to admire the large space of the second floor—about as big as the parsonage, perfect for playing games on rainy days—then slid around the corner, his back to the wall. When he reached the door, Micah slowly stuck in his head.

  To his shock, the man in the bed stared back with piercing hazel eyes. He lifted a hand. “You there. Come here.”

  I’m caught.

  Although Delia tried to appear calm, talking to the sheriff made her uneasy. If she hadn’t been masquerading as Andre’s legitimate white daughter, she would have lingered in conversation, wanting to know more about the woman and her unusual choice of profession.

  As they chatted about the weather, the lawwoman studied her with intelligent gray eyes that seemed to penetrate to her secrets.

  I’m not committing a crime, Delia told herself. Am I? I’ll have to ask Papa if we could go to jail for our deception.

  The idea was enough to make her stomach roil, and the thought of eating, especially with so many strangers made her uneasy. But since she’d already agreed to join them, Delia could hardly back out now. I’ll just have to mind what I say.

  In the dining room, everyone settled around the long table covered with a snowy cloth. Several cut-glass vases of daffodils and yellow irises were placed down the middle. Even with the thirteen gathered, there were still empty chairs. She wondered about place settings of blue and white china in front of two of the unclaimed seats.

  Mr. Livingston presided at the head of the table, and Mrs. Grayson, elegant in navy blue and pearls, glided toward the foot.

  Joshua pulled out a chair for Delia, then took the place on her right. His father sat on her left. John and Pamela Carter moved directly across from her. The sheriff was on her same side, but far enough down the table that she couldn’t see Delia. Being out of the woman’s line of sight somewhat relieved her anxiousness.

  Mr. Cobb, accompanied by a short, stout woman, hurried in.

  Delia shrank back, her heart beating rapidly, not wanting the man to see her. What if he looks at me in a sensual manner again? What if everyone else. . .Joshua, especially. . .notices? The thought made shame course through her. Surely with his wife present, Mr. Cobb won’t make another inappropriate remark about women of New Orleans.

  Mrs. Cobb explained that they’d had several customers to deal with before they could close the shop.

  While the others nodded in tepid welcome, the couple took the unclaimed seats near the end of the table, across from the sheriff. They gave a cold greeting to the lawwoman, then snubbed her.

  Delia felt a brief sympathy for the sheriff, then she reminded herself to be on guard with everyone present.

  Mrs. Graves, looking as grim as her name implied, served the first course of fish soup.

  Reverend Norton said grace, and they started to eat.

  The conversation was desultory, as some of the men talked about ranching matters, mostly in regard to which horses were foaling, with a big dark man interjecting some questions, as if he was interviewing them.

  Delia started to relax and sipped a spoonful of soup.

  Reverend Norton looked over at the beautiful redhead whom Delia hadn’t had a chance to meet. “What about your little horses? I’m sure you have anxious buyers already lined up.”

  The woman looked across the table at Delia. “We haven’t been introduced. I’m Samantha Thompson.” She tilted her head at the handsome gray-eyed man with a slightly aquiline nose sitting next to her. “My husband, Wyatt.”

  Offering a faint smile, Delia nodded.

  “Do you know everyone here?” Samantha asked.

  “No.” Delia glanced at the few she hadn’t met.

  Edith sent her an appalled look. “Delia, forgive me. I hadn’t realized you didn’t know everyone.” She made quick introductions around the table.

  After acknowledging the other guests, Delia gave Edith a reassuring smile. “I haven’t been with you for every moment. How could you know?” She glanced at Samantha Thompson. “You were saying about your horses?”

  “I brought Falabella horses. . .miniature horses, with me from Argentina.”

  Miniature horses. They sound adorable. Delia glanced at Joshua.

  At the same time, he looked at her.

  With the exchange of glances, she knew they both were thinking the same thing. Micah would love to play with little horses.

  “I’ll bet they didn’t have Falabella horses in Africa,” she murmured for only him to hear.

  Pamela Carter leaned forward. “We have a Falabella for our children. Harriet and Ant have one for their nephew.”

  Mrs. Cameron, whom Delia had met when the doctor had brought his wife to visit, beamed at her. “We acquired a foal before. . .” She touched her stomach. “Just because I wanted one of the little creatures. Perhaps our Falabella brought us luck.” She and Dr. Cameron smiled at one another.

  “And we’re buying a foal for our daughter, Carol,” said Elizabeth Sanders, whom Delia had been introduced to before the church service.

  Pamela’s eyes sparked with a sudden idea. “Lizzy’s birthday is in a few weeks. Why don’t we have a Falabella reunion? All of you can bring your horses.”

  “I’d love to see all the Falabellas in one place.” Samantha set down her fork. “But I’m afraid the dams couldn’t leave their foals.”

  Pamela’s expression fell. “Oh, that’s right.”

  “But. . .” Samantha wrinkled her forehead, obviously thinking. “Maybe if I sent one of the cowboys ahead with them. . .made a journey of several days.” She glanced at her husband for confirmation.

  Wyatt nodded. “Harry can camp out with them.”

  Samantha gave a sudden smile. “Why, I believe the reunion can be done.”

  “Wonderful!” Pamela laid a hand on her chest. “The children will have so much fun.”

  As more people entered the discussion of Lizzy’s party, Delia spooned up her soup and watched the group, trying to
understand their relationships. Obvious warmth and friendship flowed among most of the couples. Their expressions and tone, the gentle teasing, told her more than their words. However, no one appeared to have the same closeness with Caleb and Edith, who seemed more aloof, and no one interacted with the unpleasant Cobbs. Sheriff Granger didn’t participate in the discussion, but even without being near the lawwoman, Delia sensed she was taking everything in.

  Mrs. Graves brought in the main course—a hearty roast beef that sent an enticing aroma into the air. Mashed potatoes and gravy, new peas and honeyed carrots accompanied the meat.

  Several guests complimented Mrs. Grayson on the meal, and she inclined her head with a brief smile.

  Pamela Carter asked Joshua a question about Africa, and the talk veered from horses to a discussion of the church services he’d conducted there and how they were different from the ones in America. Between bites of food, Joshua described his mission. Everyone listened attentively and asked intelligent questions.

  Just the sound of his voice telling a story about one of the Ugandan gods made Delia’s stomach settle, and she found herself hungry, after all. She tried not to stare at the minister too much, restraining herself to the kind of polite glances she’d give anyone next to her who was talking.

  When the pieces of pie were brought out, the topic changed to the parsonage. Joshua explained what he had in mind, using his finger to sketch out the plan on the tablecloth.

  After having seen the Norton’s tiny home, Delia agreed with the need for expansion. But even if she hadn’t, the rich sound of his voice would have convinced her.

  When Joshua finished, for some reason everyone looked at John Carter.

  The rancher set down his fork. “I think it’s well past time. The town has grown, and the calls upon the services of Reverend and Mrs. Norton have increased.” He tipped his head to them. “Besides the room for yourselves, there should be a space for activities such as ladies’ auxiliary teas, meetings for a church council. . . .”

  Elizabeth Sanders laughed. “We don’t have a ladies’ auxiliary, John, or a church council. But you’re right. We should. And now that I think of it, the lack of a comfortable space to meet has definitely been a drawback. Without some arranging, the school isn’t set up for adults. We cannot always call upon Caleb and Edith’s generosity, and traveling out to my house or Pamela’s or Samantha’s is not easy for everyone.”

  Mrs. Cameron frowned. “And my house, which is in town and could accommodate social activities, often has patients.”

  Mrs. Gordon, the schoolteacher, gestured to the guests. “We’re closer to town than those of you who are ranchers.” She cast a mischievous look at her husband. “But our parlor has a few large pieces of furniture to accommodate Ant’s frame, and, thus, they take up a lot of the available space.”

  Her husband sent her a crooked grin of affection.

  Mrs. Norton clasped her hands together. “Oh, how it would be lovely to have a ladies’ aid society or ladies’ auxiliary. We could meet once a month, or perhaps more often in good weather. Think of what we could accomplish.”

  “Well,” drawled the sheriff. “I guess that settles the need for a bigger parlor.”

  Everyone except for the Cobbs and Edith Grayson laughed.

  Nick Sanders thumped the table with his knuckles. “I don’t think you should completely undertake the funding for the expansion, Reverend Joshua. At the least, we should gather everyone together to help you build.”

  John Carter nodded. “Instead of a barn raising, a parsonage raising. . .well, parsonage expanding.”

  “We could make a day of it,” Wyatt Thompson said with a thoughtful look at his wife.

  “I’m sure the ladies will contribute the food.” Dr. Cameron playfully rubbed his stomach. “At the Christmas party—” he glanced at Delia and Joshua “—you should have seen the tables groaning with the best the ladies of Sweetwater Springs could provide. Once the word gets out, that enticement alone will be enough to bring men from far and wide to help.”

  I wonder if I could make jambalaya? Delia was grateful she’d accepted the gift of spices from her grandmother’s cook. The good woman had been concerned that Delia couldn’t buy them in the West.

  “A building party,” Elizabeth said with an exchange of mischievous glances with Samantha and Pamela.

  Murmurs of agreement went around the table.

  Pamela Carter waved her hand to indicate everyone at the table. “Mrs. Norton, you are not to worry about a thing. We’ll take care of all the details. . .organize the food.”

  Mrs. Norton’s teary gaze traveled around the room. “Oh, how kind of you all.”

  Seeing the woman’s expression made a little tickle of emotion in Delia’s throat.

  “We can use the schoolhouse,” Mrs. Gordon offered. “Like we did for the Christmas party.”

  Caleb set down his fork. “The architect, Will Phillips, gave you the list of materials you’d need,” he said to Joshua. “So as soon as they arrive, we can go forward.”

  Delia sat back and listened to the plans. Longing welled up in her to participate. . .to be part of this community. As much as she wanted her father to speedily recover his health, she wouldn’t mind spending weeks in Sweetwater Springs and becoming more acquainted with these people. Not the Cobbs, of course, but—she slid her gaze to the side—to one man in particular. Surely, it wouldn’t be selfish of her to wish to spend some time with Joshua. Father and I will leave eventually anyway. The thought made her heart ache.

  Outside the room doorway, Micah froze.

  Mr. Bellaire lifted a hand and waved him inside. He lay in a bed bigger than that of Micah’s Norton grandparents’.

  Stiffly, Micah took a few steps inside, hoping the man wouldn’t yell at him. What will my father say? Will the sheriff arrest me? He regretted the curiosity that had brought him here. Now, all he could hope for was to escape the mansion before the meal downstairs concluded. Race home before his father and grandparents arrived.

  “And who might you be, young fella?”

  “I’m Micah Norton.”

  “Ah. I’ve heard of you, Micah. Please come in and keep an old man company.” He set the tray holding the remains of his meal on the bed next to him.

  Since Mr. Bellaire didn’t sound angry, Micah relaxed his shoulders. Maybe I’m not in trouble, after all. He walked over and sat in the big blue chair nearest the bed.

  “Your father’s been telling me stories about Africa. I’ll bet you have some good ones, too.”

  “I know ones my father doesn’t.”

  “Of course. You’re a different person from him, with your own experiences. Now, tell me. What do you miss the most?”

  Micah’s throat closed up. No one had asked him that question before. They all seemed to think he’d be better off in America and needed to forget about everyone in Uganda whom he loved.

  The man watched him with calm hazel eyes and didn’t seem to expect him to speak. “I was much older than you when I moved from New Orleans to New York. You couldn’t imagine two cities more different. And the people. . .all Americans, but you’d think we lived in two separate countries. The change was quite a shock to my senses.”

  Micah understood shocks to senses.

  “At first, I didn’t like anything about New York, and I was desperately homesick for my family and friends, the food, the slower pace of life. . . . But I was there because my grandfather was ill and needed me to run his business. So, I couldn’t go home.”

  Listening to the man made Micah forget his sadness. “What did you do?”

  Mr. Bellaire was silent for a while, his gaze unfocused. “I gave myself a challenge.”

  Micah tilted his head, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  “I challenged myself to find one thing.” He held up a finger. “Just one that I liked about New York.”<
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  “Was it hard?”

  “Surprisingly not. For you see, I didn’t say it had to be a big thing.”

  “What was the first?”

  “I moved there in the winter and had never seen snow.”

  Micah shook his head. “I haven’t, either.”

  “Well, if you’re living in Montana, you’ll come to know more than your share.”

  “I suppose so. I want to play in it. Make snowmen, go sledding. . . .”

  Mr. Bellaire grimaced. “I was too old to play. As for the answer to your question about the first thing I liked in New York. . . . I was walking to my hotel. The snow was this dirty gray slush. The sharp wind whistled between the buildings and seemed to penetrate right through my clothes. I’d never been so cold. I’d forgotten all about my challenge. My head was down to shield my face from the wind, and all I could think was hurrying to my grandfather’s house to sit in front of a fire and have a brandy. Then I saw it.” Eyebrow lifted, he paused for dramatic effect.

  Micah bounced on the chair. “What?”

  “A red feather, a spot of bright color on top of the snow as if it had just fluttered down. I stopped and picked it up. I glanced all around, hoping to spot the bird—a cardinal, I suppose. But I didn’t see it. In fact, the whole twenty years I lived there, I never saw a red bird.”

  “Was the feather very big?”

  Mr. Bellaire smiled and held up his hand, using his thumb and forefinger to make a measurement. “The feather was like my own little miracle. It gave me hope. After that, I was able to find one new thing each day that I liked about New York, until eventually I felt at home in the city and didn’t want to return to New Orleans.”

  Micah thought he’d never stop feeling he wanted to go home to Uganda, to Kimu, to his nanny. . . .

  Mr. Bellaire’s smile was understanding. “Is there anything about America you like?”

  “Ice cream!”

  Mr. Bellaire burst out laughing. He held a hand to his chest. “You, Micah Norton, are a better tonic than what the doctor gives me.”