Love Finds You in Lonesome Prairie, Montana (4 page)

She kissed the headmistress’s hand. “You’ve done the right thing.”

Relief softened Mrs. Hamlin’s face. “I didn’t want you to be disappointed in me, Julia. I hope you don’t think me too selfish.”

Julia regarded the dear woman’s eyes, bordered with lines of laughter and love. “Of course not. I’m happy for you. For the girls.”

Plans and details for the coming days flooded Julia’s mind. She’d have to pack their things. What would they need? And who would see them safely to their new homes? Suddenly, nothing in her world seemed more important than traveling with the girls on the train, being their guardian one last time. She’d never have peace until she scrutinized the families for herself, made sure each girl was put into the care of upright, stable, and kind parents.

“Now.” Mrs. Hamlin lifted the heavy package, handing it to her. “Your gift.” The woman’s double chin bulged as an excited grin filled her round face. “You didn’t think I forgot you, did you?”

Julia received and opened the box. A beautiful blue wool flannel skirt, a new white silk blouse, and a light wool tan jacket—perfectly suited for travel—were arranged inside a sturdy leather valise. Also in the box was a fancy tan and blue parasol. Julia’s heart skipped. “Does this mean…?”

“You’re going with them!” Mrs. Hamlin handed her a ticket.

Julia embraced her again. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I couldn’t imagine letting them board the train without me.”

“You’re welcome, dear.” She clapped her hands. “I know how much you’ve wanted to go out West.”

Julia smiled. “I only wish my father could take the trip with me. He always wanted to, you know.”

“He’d be so proud of you, Julia.” Mrs. Hamlin touched Julia’s cheek. “You go, my dear, and experience all the things he never had the chance to.”

“I will…and then I’ll come back to New York City, and you.” An idea emerged in Julia’s mind. “Mrs. Hamlin, when I come back, may I work in your new house? I could do whatever you wanted. Cook, clean, wait on you.”

Mrs. Hamlin’s eyes sparkled. “Of course. Of course you may stay with us. You know how I love you.”

“Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t return to you.” As long as Julia could cling to that assurance, she’d be able to face what was to come.

“But,” Mrs. Hamlin clutched Julia’s arm and tugged her closer, “I think you may not want to come back. You may find something even better on the prairie. Something involving romance, adventure—even love may surprise you.” Mrs. Hamlin let out a loud laugh, and Julia giggled along, unsure why.

Julia shook her head. “No, all I want is to see the girls safely to their new homes and then come back here…to
my
home.”

A clang sounded from the kitchen, and their cook emerged. “Soup! Soup!”

“Oh my,” Mrs. Hamlin said. “You’d better get those girls fed. We’ll talk some more later.”

“But…I have more questions.” Julia touched Mrs. Hamlin’s arm. “When is your wedding?”

Mrs. Hamlin folded up the brown papers. “Uh, let’s see, what’s today? Monday? Oh! It’s tomorrow! Yes, I love Tuesday weddings, don’t you? So much to do! Actually everything’s done, thanks to my dear Mr. Gaffin.”

A knock pounded on the door, interrupting them.

Julia eyed Mrs. Hamlin then stood and opened the door. A middle-aged couple appeared before her, their chins tilted upward and their eyes fixed beyond her as if she didn’t exist. The man wore a fine black suit with tails, and the woman’s dress rivaled anything Julia had ever seen, even in the Montgomery Ward catalog.

“We’re here for a Mrs. Hamlin,” the man announced. “Looking at the house.”

Julia showed them in and then motioned to the headmistress. “She’s right here.”

“Oh! You’re the folks thinking of buying the place.” Mrs. Hamlin shook their hands, then turned to Julia. “They want to make it into a dog and cat hospital. Isn’t that lovely?”

A week had passed since her conversation with Mrs. Hamlin, now Gaffin. The moon’s dreamlike beams cast faint shadows on the street as Julia sat on the cool stone steps outside the orphanage.

The church bells chimed midnight. Though her own cobblestone street was quiet, the rumble of hooves and wagons and the shouts of impatient hansom cab drivers blended in a comforting dissonance from a few blocks away. Sounds she’d fallen asleep to for the last eleven years.

A crisp breeze swept through, and Julia rubbed her arms to fight off the chill. An old newspaper fluttered and caught on the breeze. It landed against the boardinghouse across the street, leaving
The New York Times
plastered on the stone wall.

Julia remembered an article she’d once read in the
Times
about a woman who had traveled from Albania to the United States with her five young children, all under the age of eight. She’d longed to escape her abusive husband, a leader in her home city’s government. When she arrived on Ellis Island, the authorities arrested her for kidnapping and wrenched her children from her. The article said they had to pry the woman’s fingers from her baby, who was screaming from the pain of his mother’s grasp. The picture in the paper showed the woman crouched on the ground, her hand reaching out as if to reclaim her children by sheer will.

Heaving sobs shook her shoulders. Each night since Julia had learned that the orphanage would be closing, she’d sat on these steps in the humid May air and wept. Tonight she wiped tears from her cheeks and shuddered, struggling to calm herself. In a few hours she’d march her thirty-two girls to Grand Central Depot. At nine o’clock they’d board the train, and in the weeks to come at each stop along the way, it would be her duty to hand her girls—whom she loved as sisters, daughters—into the care of unknown families.

I don’t know how I can do this.
She longed for her father’s strength—his sturdy build, his warm smile, the safety she so clearly remembered feeling in his arms—and her mother’s wisdom and sound advice.

“Trust the Lord.” Julia twisted a strand of her long dark hair around her finger as she repeated her mother’s words. “You may not always understand His ways, but He will never leave you.”

Julia pulled in a shaky breath.
God
,
please don’t leave me.

This was the last night she’d spend in New York for a long time. She stood and gazed at the brick buildings lining the cobblestone streets. So familiar. In her mind’s eye she traveled one last time through her weekly routine. She imagined the vendors who knew her by name when she shopped down by the waterfront. Her Saturday afternoons with the girls at Central Park. And church on Sundays. She glanced at the tall steeple of their church looming above the city buildings like a shepherd watching its sheep. She’d miss it.

This was also the last night she’d be able to weep over losing the girls. Once on the train, she’d smile, laugh, sing, and play. She’d be strong and brave and never let her dear children see a hint of her concern. She’d be their mother.

One last time.

“Oh, Lord, no!” Isaac flew to his friend’s side.

Milo’s wife, Aponi, dashed to her husband. No tears flowed. Only quick determination showed on the woman’s face. Her hands, skilled from years of caring for wounded and ill neighbors and travelers, tore through Milo’s several layers of shirts. A bullet wound, ripped and ragged, trickled blood onto his chest. Aponi gasped despite her obvious attempts to remain controlled. From Milo’s strained breaths, it was clear the bullet had punctured his lungs. Isaac just hoped it had missed his heart. Blood pooled on the floor.

“Move chairs, girls.” Aponi pressed the skirt of her fashionable Sunday dress into the wound in the left side of his chest as she directed her daughters. “Ruth, watch little ones. Alice, boil water. Dusty!” she hollered at the bartender. “Whiskey!”

Isaac knelt next to her, silently awaiting her instruction.

“Need bandages,” she said in a deep, focused voice, without shifting her eyes from her husband. “And your shirt.”

Isaac took off his only preaching shirt and handed it to her, smoothing his undershirt. Yet he knew Aponi’s attempts to stop the bleeding wouldn’t be much help if Milo’s internal organs were damaged. It was the bleeding in Milo’s insides—if there was any—that would take his life.

Pressing his shirt on top of her dress, Aponi tilted her face toward Isaac. Her gaze pierced his. “Pray, Parson Ike. Pray.”

“I am praying.” He glanced up to see Horace, Giant Jim, and Mabelina sitting at one of the poker tables holding hands. Their eyes were closed and Giant Jim’s mouth moved. “And so are they.” He pointed to the table. “We’re all praying.”

He gazed into his friend’s pale face and panic gripped him. He couldn’t lose Milo.
Please, Lord.

Years before, Milo had attended the same seminary as Isaac, but the Lord had called the successful sheep rancher to support the church rather than to lead it. How would Isaac survive without his mentor’s advice, love, and support?
Please, Lord. I need him.
Need his wisdom, sound judgment, friendship.

And Milo was also the only person who respected Isaac’s decision to stay single. What a relief to have one person in Montana Territory who didn’t badger him about finding a wife.

Mary, one of the near-grown daughters, rushed to her father’s side with a water bucket and washrag in her bronze hands. She mopped his forehead. “You will be fine, Papa. You will be fine.” A strand of long black hair slipped from her braid to her moist cheek. She pushed it behind her ear, wiping the tears as she struggled to speak words of comfort.

Isaac longed with every impulse to comfort Mary and the other girls.
O Lord, please don’t let these children lose their father.
He knew the years of loneliness that losing a parent would bring—knew the missing never went away.

Isaac laid a hand on Mary’s arm. “You’re doing well, Mary. You are a good nurse.”

After a moment, Milo’s eyes pried open and he uttered a name. “Warren.”

Milo’s stepson rose from his place at the corner table. All color had drained from Warren’s face. “Dear God.” It was an exclamation rather than a prayer. Milo motioned with his hand and the stocky, young upstart approached and knelt next to the wounded man.

“I’m here.” Warren awkwardly patted his arm. “What do you need, Father?”

“We never finished my will.” Milo’s voice was hoarse. “Promise me you’ll take care of Aponi and my girls. Make sure they have enough.” A rasping cough seized him, before he finally added, “And the school. I promised to pay for the supplies. Take care of that.”

“I promise.” Sweat dripped from Warren’s forehead onto Milo’s neck. “Don’t worry.”

“Isaac,” Milo called next, dismissing Warren.

Isaac leaned in. “Don’t give up, my friend.” His throat felt thick. “We have too many plans. I can’t do it without you.” He grasped the sheep rancher’s hand—a hand rugged from years of laboring with sheep in the fields, a hand gentle from shepherding God’s people with kindness and love.

His and Milo’s plans emanated from their passion to redeem this land. Both men knew the only way to “civilize” the West was for God’s sanctifying work to change men’s and women’s hearts. They’d spent many prayerful hours laying out a plan. First, Isaac would preach the Word at every opportunity—something he craved to do.

Second, the orphan train. Isaac had persuaded the Children’s Aid Society to send a crop of destitute city children right here to Big Sandy via the train depot, and the first group would arrive in less than a month. He’d hoped many families would take in the children, and many here and in the surrounding townships had promised they would. Caring for orphans had been Milo’s dream.
Let him live to see the children arrive
…
please, Lord.

Their final dream was the school. How many hours had they spent planning it? The school that would be a refuge for prairie children and Indians alike. The school that would keep children with their families rather than away in boarding institutions. The school that provided another step toward spreading the gospel to the western territories.

“Isaac…finish all we started….” Milo struggled for breath.

“I won’t give up, my friend,” he said, but doubt gripped him. Without Milo Godfrey, could there be a school? Would everything else crumble as well?