Glorious Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series) (25 page)

“Mazie Adams made a batch of soap and dropped off several bars yesterday.” She glanced over her shoulder and looked at the boy. “I’ll send one along for your ma. Soap like Mazie’s is not easy to come by unless you want to pay money in a store.”

Zan didn’t look convinced. “We need to get back to my grandma before she dies so you can say a prayer over her.”

The boy’s single-mindedness was admirable for one so young. Joshua pulled up a chair next to the boy. “We’ll take a horse, Zan. You can ride behind me, so we’ll make much better time than you did when you walked. We can spare a few minutes for you to bathe.”

“But what if my grandma dies before you say a prayer over her?”

Joshua placed a hand on the boy’s back and rubbed, feeling his bony spine and ribs. “If your grandma dies before I get there, she’ll still go to heaven.”

The boy shot him a skeptical look.

Joshua adopted the storytelling manner he’d learned worked best with the Baganda. “Your grandma’s soul will rise from her body. She won’t be tired or hurting anymore. Instead, she’ll be happy and filled with peace. Angels will surround her and fly with her to heaven, where she’ll be with God. But she still will love you and your family and watch over you, even though you can’t see her.”

As he listened, Zan’s eyes grew wide. “Then why does Grandma need you to say a prayer over her?”

“I’m not sure, but I think it’s because hearing one will bring her comfort and make it easier to leave her body and her loved ones behind.”

The boy gave a sage nod and took a bite of bread.

“I’m going to change and gather with I need to take with me.” Joshua looked at his mother. “I probably should take a bedroll and some other things in case we have to camp for the night.”

His mother smiled at him. “I finished the crazy quilt just in time. Take it with you and leave it with the Swanks.”

In admiration, he shook his head and his throat tightened. His mother was the perfect helpmate for a minister. His thoughts flashed to Delia. How would she fit the role. . .fit him? Could she handle the unexpected human crises, large and small, thrown at a minister’s wife?

Somehow, he thought she could.

If only I knew for sure.

Delia heard a sound at the open door to her father’s room and looked up from her embroidery. Caleb Livingston poked in his head, a boyishly eager expression on his face that made the man look much more approachable.

“I’ve just spoken to the construction manager of my hotel, and he’s informed me that the structure is safe to bring guests to tour the facility. Would you two like to come with me?”

Andre, who’d been lying on his bed, started to sit up. “Absolutely.”

Delia placed a hand on his shoulder. “Absolutely not, Papa. You were just telling me how tired you are after your long walk. I know you’d like to see the hotel, but you must rest. I’m sure Caleb will take you on a visit another day when you’re feeling stronger.”

Her father shot Caleb a rueful look, but obediently lay back down. “My daughter, the tyrant.”

She laughed and swooped in to his cheek. “
Absolutely
,” she teased. “But only when it comes to your health.”

Caleb cocked an eyebrow. “I see she is. Yet, your tyrant is correct. I’ll take you on a tour when you feel up to it.”

Andre waved a hand at them. “Delia, go with him.”

Not wanting to spend time with Caleb, she started to protest about leaving him.

“I insist, daughter. I’ll be eager to hear your impressions.”

“Very well, Papa,” she said, resigned to spending time with their host. She leaned over and placed another kiss on Andre’s cheek. “Sleep well.”

“A nap will do me good.”

Delia rose. “I’ll go put on my bonnet,” she said to Caleb.

He stepped back so she could pass.

Once inside her room and out of Caleb’s sight, Delia paused to exhale, wishing she could spend time with Joshua, rather than the banker. Earlier, Micah had dropped by for a few minutes to tell them his father had been called away. The boy had also said, half in obvious regret, half in pride, that since he was “the man of the house,” he needed to stay with his grandmother and couldn’t linger.

Delia hadn’t realized how accustomed she’d become to Joshua’s daily visits, and the fact that she missed him didn’t bode well for her heart. She moved into her room and picked up her hat from the bed. As she set the bonnet on her head and tied the ribbons at a jaunty angle under her chin, she resolved not to think about Joshua and to try to enjoy herself.
He’s not for me
, she reminded herself with a feeling of sadness.
No man is for me.

Perhaps spending time with an attractive, educated, wealthy banker will help take my mind off a certain minister.
Delia pulled on her gloves and slid the strings of her reticule over her wrist.

I can only hope.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T
he horse made far better time than a small boy on foot. Dusk was just settling and an almost-full moon rose on the horizon as Joshua reined in outside a hillside dugout on the bleak prairie. Sod bricks surrounded a plank door and a small opened window covered by mesh. A tin smokestack poked through the top of the hill and a trail of smoke drifted into the purpling sky.

Joshua handed down Zan and then groaned when he dismounted, tottering a few steps. He’d ridden a mule quite a lot in Uganda, but that was another lifetime ago, and his leg muscles weren’t used to hours in the saddle.
If I’m staying in Montana, I’ll have to start riding more.

He’d been spending every day indoors with either his parents or the Bellaires, although recently Andre had graduated to walks outside, holding on to Joshua’s arm for support. He wondered if Delia rode. . . .

The door opened. “Zan, is that you, boy?” a male voice called. A thin, bearded man stepped outside, peering at them. “You the preacher man?”

“Aye, Pa, he is.” The boy scampered over for a hug from his father.

“Reverend Joshua Norton,” he answered, extending his hand.

The man took a step forward to shake. “I’m mighty glad you made it, Preacher. I’m Sam Swank.” The man’s hand was calloused and strong. “My ma, Ann Swank she is, has set her heart on hearing your words before she dies.”

“I’ll see what comfort I can provide.”

“Zan, go stake out the preacher’s horse with the mule and give him a good rub down. You know what to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

Joshua unstrapped the bedroll containing a wool blanket and the crazy quilt. He unrolled the bundle, handed Sam the folded quilt, and
retied his coat and the wool blanket to the back of the saddle. Unbuckling the first saddlebag, he set it on the ground and went around the horse for the second one.

“Let me help you, Preacher.” Sam slung the bulging, heavy leather pouch over his shoulders.

The boy led away the gelding, and the men went into the house, each carrying a saddlebag.

Joshua stepped inside the small rectangular space and smelled the tang of buffalo or cow chips burning in the stove. The right side of the room looked to be the sleeping area. A bed carved out of the earth was on one side and a bigger bed formed of dirt was dug from the back wall. He’d been in plenty of African huts the size of this, but being under the heavy sod made the space seem oppressive. Dugouts were notorious for fleas, and Joshua hoped he wouldn’t end up with too many bites.

An elderly woman rested on the narrow bed. Her long gray braid trailed over the side and almost touched the floor.

In the middle of the room, a younger woman in a drab gray dress sat in a rocking chair next to the stove. She had a boy of about three in her lap. “Zan?” she whispered, an expression of appeal on her careworn face.

“He’s here. Safe.”

She let out a low sigh, her body relaxing its tight posture.

Sam Swank gestured at the woman and child. “My wife, Hildie, and our little Bucky.” He hooked a thumb at Joshua. “This here’s Preacher Norton.”

“Mrs. Swank.” Joshua nodded a greeting.

“Call me Hildie,” she said wearily. “Two Mrs. Swanks in such a small house tends to get confusing.”

Joshua looked around. A table where Sam set a saddlebag, with two benches, and a chair on one end took up most of the space on the other side of the stove. Niches carved into the wall held supplies, cooking implements, and dishes. A few garments hung
on pegs drilled into the wall. The wan light through the single window and a lantern on the table provided the only illumination. The dirt roof was only a few inches from the top of Joshua’s head, and he was grateful he wasn’t taller. In fact, he was feeling thankful for the comparatively elegant, spacious living conditions back home.

Hildie stood and walked over to him, the boy on her hip. “We’ve been hoping you’d make it, Preacher Norton. We weren’t sure you’d ride all the way out here just for us.” She looked away, obviously embarrassed. “It’s not as if we can get into town to attend church. We don’t even own a Bible,” she admitted in a low voice.

“God understands,” Joshua said quietly.

Hildie let out an audible breath. “Sometimes, I’ve wondered.”

The old woman stirred and let out a small moan.

Hildie moved to her side. “The preacher’s here, Ma Swank, just like you wanted.”

Joshua gestured to the chair at the table. “May I move that by her?”

“I’ll get it.” Sam brought the chair to the bedside.

Joshua took a seat and placed the saddlebag on the floor next to him. The light was too dim to read from the Bible or his prayer book, so he didn’t bother to bring them out. He reached for the woman’s brittle-thin hand and squeezed. “Mrs. Swank? Ann? I’m Reverend Joshua Norton. I understand you want me to pray for you?”

Ann Swank turned her face to him, her dark eyes lambent in the dim light. Her skin was wrinkled, but he suspected some were pain, not age, lines. “Last rites.”

Her voice was so low Joshua had to bend to hear her. His heart sank. She wanted the Catholic ritual, and he couldn’t perform it for her. “Do you have a favorite chapter of the Bible?”

“The Lord is. . .my Shepherd. . . .”

When her voice trailed away, Joshua continued to recite the familiar words of Psalm 23. As he spoke, he watched a spark light in her eyes, and the pain lines smoothed. Her lips tilted up. For a moment, she appeared younger, and he wondered if she was actually old, or just aged by a hard life.

Zan came in the door.

His mother set Bucky on his feet and lunged to hug her oldest son, squeezing him to her.

“Ma,” he protested, squirming, but he didn’t push away from her embrace.

Hildie held Zan back by his shoulders to study him. “Alexander Swank, what are you wearing?” She fingered his shirt.

The boy looked down as if he’d forgotten his new clothing. “These are Micah’s.”

Joshua decided to intervene. “Micah is my son. He’d outgrown those clothes. My mother gave Zan a quick bath and made him change. Oh, and she stuffed him full of food, too.”

“Had me a piece of apple pie, Ma,” Zan said, the marvel of such a treat still in his voice.

Hildie hugged her son again, then looked at Joshua, gratitude in her face. “Please thank your mother for me.”

Zan tugged on her sleeve. “There’s more, Ma.” He pointed to the saddlebag on the table.

She looked bewildered. “More?”

Joshua patted the old woman’s hand. “I’ll be back in a few moments and recite another Psalm for you.” He picked up the saddlebag and rose. “My mother sent along some food. We are blessed that our parishioners drop off provisions all the time, often the donations are far more than we can eat.” That was somewhat of a truth, although a bit stretched, but he wanted to allay any prideful objections. “Rather than let the food go to waste. . . .”

Sam passed a hand over his face, as if to hide emotion. “That’s right kind of you, Preacher. And your ma, too.”

Joshua pushed the bags to one side of the table. He and Zan had eaten the picnic meals prepared by his mother, so the saddlebags weren’t as stuffed as they’d been when he’d left the house.

The four mobile members of the Swank family gathered around the table, anticipation on their faces. With eager eyes, they watched Joshua unpack the provisions.

Feeling almost like Saint Nicholas, he pulled out the loaf of bread, followed by the fruitcake, and set them on the table. Then out came the bags of beans and rice, the dried meat, and the small sack of raisins.

“What dat?” Bucky pointed at the raisins.

“Something good,” Zan said, grinning at his brother. “We had us some on the way.”

When he finished setting out the food, Joshua pulled out the bar of soap, wrapped in a scrap of pink fabric. He placed it in Hildie’s hand. “According to my mother, this is the best soap in town. The maker just gave us a batch.”

“Soap,” she said on a sigh, bringing the bar to her nose and sniffing. “Smells so good. We haven’t had anything but lye soap in the longest time. Using this will be a real treat.”

“I had my bath already,” Zan piped up. “Don’t need to use any of that for a long while.”

Joshua laughed. “Mothers have a different view of how often bathing is necessary than little boys do.” He unfolded the quilt. “My mother made this and sent it along for you.”

Hildie put a hand to her mouth, and sudden tears glistened in her eyes. She lowered her hand and touched the quilt with one finger, tracing the outline of a red triangle. “Such pretty colors.” Blinking quickly, she looked up at him. “This is like Christmas.”

“Better than Christmas, Ma,” Zan piped up.

Joshua supposed this family didn’t have much in the way of holidays.

“You don’t know, son. You’ve never had a proper Christ—” A quick look of regret crossed her face.

Joshua suspected Hildie was sorry for suggesting her husband was a poor provider.

Sam touched his wife’s shoulder, the forgiveness clear, then he glanced at Joshua. “Your ma is plumb generous to strangers.”

“That’s the type of woman she is,” Joshua said, feeling blessed to have Mary Norton for a mother. “Although, she would be quick to tell you it’s because people are generous to her.”

Hildie gathered up the quilt. “Let’s go spread this over Ma Swank.”

Joshua followed her.

Stretching out her arms, Hildie held the quilt for her mother-in-law to see.

With a feeble hand, the old woman patted a gold patch. “I’ll. . .be a. . .queen.”

Sometimes so little can mean so much.

Once again, Joshua took a seat by Ann Swank’s bedside and took her hand. He recited chapters of the Bible, his quiet voice echoing through the small chamber.

Sam moved a bench for him and Zan to sit behind Joshua, and Hildie and Bucky swayed in the rocker. As the night outside darkened, the room dimmed. The family’s silence was absolute and reverent, as if they soaked up every word. The humble home took on the sacredness of a temple.

A sense of awe began to fill Joshua, and his body vibrated with the presence of God.
Wherever two or more are gathered, there the Lord is
, he reminded himself.

Mrs. Swank’s eyelids grew heavy.

Joshua took her hand and bowed his head in prayer. Out loud, he asked for blessings for her family and spoke of the joy she’d experience in heaven. He ended by reciting the Lord’s Prayer.

As he spoke the familiar words, “F
orgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,” Joshua had a sudden realization, and he silently added to the prayer.
As Thou, oh Lord, forgives us, so we need to forgive ourselves.

Thus, I need to forgive myself for how I handled my marriage and my son, for failing to make Esther happy, for failing to keep her alive and well.

When he finished, Joshua raised his head, feeling as if a burden had lifted from his shoulders. . .and his heart. With two fingers, he traced a cross on Ann Swank’s wrinkled forehead.

A small smile remained on Mrs. Swank’s lips, and her expres
sion was tranquil. “Thank you. . .Preacher. Now. . .I can. . .die. . .in peace,” she said, her words halting and breathless.

For a few seconds, Joshua gazed at the old woman, feeling a connection with her, with these people. He glanced back and saw the small circle of family all holding hands, as if they, too, had been touched by his words.

In that moment, Joshua realized that this pastoral visit hadn’t been about him and what he had to give to this family but about the power of God flowing through him.
I am only a vessel. It doesn’t matter if I’m personally empty or full.
The thought brought him a deep sense of spiritual comfort.

Slowly, he stood. “Blessings on this household.” He sketched the sign of the cross in the air, then stooped to pick up the empty saddlebags.

“Surely, you’re not leaving now?” Hildie exclaimed, sitting forward. “It’s night time!”

“The moon is bright. The stars are out. I’ll enjoy the ride home.” Joshua walked out the door, and the family followed him, murmuring their thanks.

Zan ran to get the horse and saddle him.

“You’ll be careful, Reverend Norton, won’t you?” Hildie asked, an anxious tone to her voice.

Sam Swank glanced over his shoulder toward the house. “Perhaps. . .when my ma passes, we’ll be able to get to town on a Sunday,” he whispered, as if not wanting Mrs. Swank to overhear him.

“Oh, Sam,” his wife said on a happy sigh, placing a hand on her chest. “That would be so lovely. And we could see the preacher’s ma. Thank her for the kindness.” She glanced at Joshua. “You’ll speak of our gratitude to her?”

“Of course.”

Zan led the gelding to him.

Joshua tightened the girth, buckled on the saddlebags, and swung into the saddle. He waved good-bye to the Swanks and headed for home.

Although setting out in the dark when he didn’t have to was probably foolish, the truth was
Joshua hadn’t wanted to spend the night. Sleeping on the floor, wrapped in his blanket, and being attacked by fleas would not make for a peaceful rest. Or worse, have the Swanks give up their bed because he was company, and then they’d have to sleep on the floor, and he’d feel guilty. The route along the river had been clear enough. He shouldn’t have any problem finding the way home.

But even as he told himself the mundane reasons he’d left, Joshua knew the truth—he had a lot of thinking to do. Throughout a lifetime—even as a minister—there were few moments when one felt the tangible presence of God. In the Swank’s humble abode, not too different, he surmised, from the stable in Bethlehem, he’d been given a gift. The Lord had renewed his spirit, and Joshua savored the feeling of gratitude and humility as he rode through the night.