Love Finds You in Lonesome Prairie, Montana (11 page)

“Of course he won’t mind. Isaac likes you—just as he likes everyone,” she quickly added. “And besides, he won’t be back for a month, remember?”

“Calamity, c’mon girl.” Isaac’s half-blind sheepdog, who’d been faithfully waiting by the door of the hotel, scurried toward him, bumping into his leg as she reached him. The pleased dog let out a low bark, and Isaac knelt as she nudged against him. “Wanna sleep on the prairie tonight, girl? We’re riding out east.” He scratched her ears as she panted. “First, I need to check on Aponi.”

Isaac strode toward the opposite edge of town to his late friend’s house, thinking over the day’s events. Calamity kept up with his long strides.

Isaac shook his head as he thought about the scene at the hotel. Miriam’s hints had annoyed him more than anything on the good earth. Had Julia not been standing there, Isaac would’ve rebuked his sister. That’s what she needed. A good old-fashioned rebuke. She knew Isaac had promised God he’d stay single. Plus, like him, Miriam knew very well the danger of leaving a woman alone night after night while her husband was gone. They’d both seen what had happened to their mother while their father was away fighting in the Indian wars.

No, he’d not risk a wife getting hurt or killed during his absence. He’d never marry. Isaac had accepted the fact years ago.

Reaching Milo’s home, Isaac sighed.
Not Milo’s house anymore, Aponi’s
. He hesitated briefly as he took in the only two-story in town, and then walked up the porch steps and knocked. Warren, Milo’s stepson, opened the door. His eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. He reminded Isaac of an eight-year-old caught taking a pinch from his pa’s tobacco pouch.

Isaac had hoped for a chance to see Warren. He’d prayed that Milo’s death would jostle the young man’s earthly focus, making him think about things eternal. God often used the soul’s darkest hours to draw folks into close communion with Himself—like a shepherd who holds a wounded lamb in his arms. He hoped this would happen with Warren.

“It’s good to see you.” Isaac shook the stout man’s hand. “How you holding up?”

Warren stepped onto the porch, closing the door behind him. He bowed his head, the corner of thick lips turned down. “Well, it’s hard, you know. We miss him.”

Isaac patted the man’s back as a pang of grief hit him. “I do, too.” He paused, waiting to see if Warren wanted to talk, but the man fidgeted, shifting his weight.

“So, can I help you with something, Parson?”

Isaac let his hand drop. “I’d like to talk to Aponi and the girls before I head out of town. Maybe we can all share a pot of coffee?”

“Sounds good, but I’m sorry. I don’t think the womenfolk are up to it.”

The thought of Aponi not inclined toward a cup of coffee with any soul who knocked on her door unbalanced Isaac’s sense of stability. If Aponi’s hospitality couldn’t withstand Milo’s loss, Isaac wondered what else in his world now rested on unstable ground. He dreaded leaving town without at least praying with her.

Isaac glanced at the wooden crate he’d noticed earlier in the day. More crates were lined up against the house. Lifting one of the lids, he discovered a tanned leather jacket Aponi had made for Milo atop a stack of books. Milo had worn the jacket for years. In fact, Isaac couldn’t remember many times—aside from worship and sweltering hot days—when he
hadn’t
seen his friend wearing it. Seeing it now sparked fresh mourning, as hard and sharp as the northeastern wind.

Isaac eyed Milo’s stepson, unsure how to read him.
Lord, help me minister to Warren.
“Well, if the ladies aren’t game, why don’t you and I sit down? I’d love to talk to you about the school. The train with supplies’ll be here in a couple months.”

A slight grin appeared on the young man’s face. “My father told me. The lumber.”

“Yes, and schoolbooks, slates, even a chalkboard. The children will love it…. Your father would’ve loved it. It was very generous of him to offer to pay for it all.”

“That it was.”

Isaac edged toward the door. If he could get inside, perhaps he’d have a chance to talk to Aponi and the girls. “Well, how ’bout that coffee. Got some for a parson heading out of town?”

“Maybe we should go over to the Log Cabin. Get a table.”

“Nah, we can use your kitchen. If I head over there we’ll have lots of interruptions from folks wanting to talk.”

Warren reluctantly moved aside.

Isaac’s gaze adjusted to the dim parlor, and he immediately realized why Warren had wanted to take the conversation elsewhere. The walls, normally bedecked with paintings, a cuckoo clock, and peg lamps, now stood empty. Most of the crates were nailed closed, but inside some half-f crates, Isaac spied not only Milo’s things but also his family’s belongings—children’s winter boots and wool coats, a supply of medicines, a chamber set, girls’ clothing.

But worse, six small cardboard valises with dolls perched on top rested next to the door. Another satchel held books and a photographic portrait of Milo and Aponi. A tightness, like a lariat around a steer’s neck, constricted Isaac’s chest.

Warren hurriedly moved to the kitchen, and Isaac followed. The scent of biscuits baking in the woodstove filled the room. A brown broth simmered in a pot on the cookstove. “Why are the girls’ things packed up? What are the satchels for?”

Warren leaned against the table. “Well, I know this may be hard for you to hear, Parson. I didn’t want to tell you….”

Isaac reached for the back of a tall wooden chair. “What is it?”

“I’m sending the girls to boarding school and Aponi to the reservation.”

Isaac released a heavy breath, unable to believe Warren’s words.

He visited the Assiniboine reservation often. He’d prayed for the tribes’ sick children and performed funerals for those who’d embraced Christ. And each time he went, he left with a heavy ache in his heart for these once mighty people, so stripped by the broken promises of the white man. The reservation was too small to provide enough game. And the U.S. government had forced warring tribes—the Assiniboine and Blackfoot—to live on the same land. The rivalries persevered, and skirmishes often broke out.

The poor condition of the reservation was one of the reasons he and Milo had wanted to start a school—for both white and Indian children.

But as bad as the reservation was for Indians, boarding schools were worse. Indian children slept on the floor, many in one small room, without enough heat. Forced to do chores for the white children, they endured severe punishments for even a slight misstep. Isaac pictured Milo’s beautiful girls, so happy and secure. How could Warren do this?

A low wind whistled through the maples in the back yard. Next to Aponi’s herb garden a row of white dresses, descending in sizes, flapped in the breeze on a clothesline.

“Why, Warren?” It was all he could ask.

Warren’s eyes darted out the window, refusing to meet Isaac’s gaze. “I’m the executor of a will that was never finished. It’s my responsibility to take care of them.”

“And you think this—these decisions are fulfilling your responsibility?”

“I don’t know how to care for a woman and six girls. I figure they need a good place to live, food, and an education. It’s all I know to do.”

Isaac trudged to the cookstove. Out of habit he picked up the wooden spoon from a peg on the wall and stirred, more like a family member than a guest. “But why make them leave their home?”

“Gotta sell it—at least the goods—to pay for the school.”

“But Aponi teaches them. The girls are smart, more cultured than any others in town.”

Warren shook his head. “No, Aponi can’t teach them all in the same way a school would. And after what has happened—I don’t think she can shoulder the responsibility alone. I promised my father I’d give them the best.” He pulled a hunk of jerky from a jar in the cupboard and stuck it in his mouth.

“But they treat Indians horribly. You know that.” None of Warren’s reasons made sense. Isaac pivoted toward him. “We’ll have a school in a few months. Wait. Let them attend there.”

“You think so?” Warren’s voice raised, impatience tingeing his tone. “You and my father had all these great plans for a school, but do you have a teacher? A building’s not much use without a schoolmarm.”

Isaac clenched his fist. He’d said the same thing to Milo.

God provides for the sparrows, doesn’t He?
Milo had said.
He’ll bring a teacher at the right time.

The back door opened, and Aponi entered. The wind swept in with her tired steps. Strands of her raven black hair flew from her braids, and then they stilled as she closed the door behind her. Aponi’s head was bowed, her shoulders wilted.

She strode in and then glanced up, for the first time noticing Isaac. “Parson.” The word released in a shaky breath as she rushed to him and grabbed his arm. “My girls. Warren say they leave.”

Isaac rested his large palm over the woman’s small hand. Her hand felt dry, rough from years of scrubbing laundry, cleaning floors, digging the garden, teaching her girls to tan hides. Dedication Isaac witnessed every time he saw her.

As quickly as Aponi gripped his arm, she released it. Embarrassment replaced the anxious look in her eyes, and it was obvious she wasn’t accustomed to showing such emotion. Once again setting a brave face, she took a rag and wiped crumbs from the table, dented and stained from countless meals with toddlers and children.

The table clean, Aponi retrieved the biscuits from the oven and stirred the stew. Then she stood before the two men. Her eyes, aimed toward Warren, brimmed with determination. “I get them back. I not let my girls stay at white man’s school.”

With a quick shake of his head, Warren blinked, then turned and faced the window again.

“Aponi, I’m not giving up on our school—the one we planned—and neither is Warren.” Isaac hoped this was true. “In a couple months the supplies will be here. Then your girls can go to school there. They could be back by Christmas.”

Aponi’s eyes shifted toward Warren. “Christmas?”

Isaac wished he could stand up to Warren, chase him out of town, and let Aponi and her daughters remain in their home. But he hadn’t the right to intervene. And neither did Aponi. An Indian woman, even when married to an American citizen, held no legal standing. Isaac knew of several Indian wives who’d been abandoned when their husbands found more “suitable” white women to marry. The men didn’t even have to file for divorce. Most just unloaded their wives and children, who’d served and cared for them, at a reservation, never to see them again.

“Christmas,” Isaac repeated, hopeful.

Aponi nodded, yet she didn’t look convinced.

Isaac silently walked to the crate on the porch and took out Milo’s jacket. Returning, he displayed it to Aponi. “Your hands made this.” He pointed to the fine stitching, the soft, perfectly stained leather. “You served your husband well, every day of his life—even on the last day….” He handed the coat to Aponi. “When you hold this, remember how he loved you. How proud he was of you. And, Mrs. Godfrey, continue to be his good wife, no matter where this life may lead you.”

A single trail of tears lined Aponi’s high cheekbones. “I serve my true husband, Christ. I always served Christ.” She closed her eyes, took in a breath, and then opened them. “I go to reservation. Let Warren have Milo’s house.” Her voice was strong, almost fierce. “My God take care of me and my girls, wherever we go.” And a faint hint of hope, a hope of a home eternal, settled in her eyes.

“Hold on, Julia!” Miriam warned. She guided the horses out of the ravine called Lonesome Lake Coulee. Straining forward, Julia’s backside still hung off the buckboard. With all her strength, she gripped the rough plank—slivers digging into her fingers—and slid back on.

The horses surged forward, and soon they were back on level ground.

“Oh,” Julia muttered. “What more will this day bring?” Though the sun hid behind looming clouds, she knew by her hunger that it must be around dinnertime. The day felt like it would never end, and assured Isaac wouldn’t return, she looked forward to settling into the parsonage.

In her neighborhood church in Manhattan, the parishioners maintained their minister’s house. Though not large, it was clean and painted, even boasting an indoor bathroom with a bathtub.
How I’d love a bath.
Julia longed to clean the dust off her body and soak for a while. She’d even take the time to heat the water.