Love Finds You in Lonesome Prairie, Montana Read online

  BY TRICIA GOYER

  & OCIEANNA FLEISS

  SummeRSIde

  PRESS

  Summerside Press, Inc.

  Minneapolis 55438

  www.summersidepress.com

  Love Finds You in Lonesome Prairie, Montana

  © 2009 by Tricia Goyer and Ocieanna Fleiss

  ISBN 978-1-935416-29-6

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  All scripture quotations, unless otherwise noted, are taken from the The Holy Bible, King James Version (KJV). Scripture quotations marked ESV are taken from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version® (ESV), copyright © 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission.

  The town depicted in this book is a real place, but all characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people or events are purely coincidental.

  Cover and interior design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group www.mullerhaus.net.

  Back cover photo of Bear’s Paw Mountains taken by John Wickland, www.johnwickland.blogspot.com.

  Published in association with the Books & Such Literary Agency, Janet Kobobel Grant, 52 Mission Circle, Suite 122, PMB 170, Santa Rosa, CA 95409-5370, www.booksandsuch.biz.

  Fall in love with Summerside.

  Printed in USA.

  Dedication

  For John, whose love for God first caught my eye

  and touched my heart.

  Tricia Goyer

  For my Michael, who shows me the love of Christ every day.

  Ocieanna Fleiss

  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks to Keith Edwards from Big Sandy, Montana, who opened up his home to us and shared his stories. To Hank in Fort Benton, who cracked open the historical archives for our research. What wonderful help we received! Also thanks to Amy Lathrop for all the reading, input, and help, as well as Annette Irby, Dawn Kinzer, and Veronica McCann, who saved us from several blunders and challenged us to strive for excellence.

  Thanks to our wonderful agent, Janet Grant, and the awesome Summerside staff: Carlton Garborg, Rachel Meisel, Jason Rovenstine, and Connie Troyer.

  Tricia Goyer and Ocieanna Fleiss

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my amazing family: John, Cory, Leslie, Nathan, Andrea. And Grandma too. Thanks for loving me and supporting me on this journey.

  Tricia Goyer

  I want to add an extra thanks to my old friend Carlton Garborg, who contacted me on Facebook and set this dream in motion. I’d like to thank my mother-in-law, librarian Nellie Fleiss, who made herself available to seek out my toughest research questions. And to our church intern, Matt Barker, for his help with Isaac’s sermon—substitutionary atonement’s a good thing to remember! I don’t know if I could’ve finished this book if it weren’t for Rosalyn Kay introducing me to Kangen water, which annihilated my migraines. Also I’m incredibly grateful for my friends at Emmanuel Orthodox Presbyterian Church and HIS Co-op (especially Lorena) as well as others who supported, encouraged, and prayed unceasingly for me. Thanks to my mom, who would’ve been so proud of me. For my sweet kids, Benjamin, Gabrielle, Christian, and Abigail, who put up with Mama being busy, and especially to my husband, who sacrificed more than seemed humanly possible for me to finish this book. Finally, to my faithful savior Jesus Christ, who fully paid for all my sins with His precious blood.

  Ocieanna Fleiss

  Not to us, O LORD, not to us,

  but to your name give glory.

  PSALM 115:1 ESV

  AT ONE POINT IN LONESOME PRAIRIE’S HISTORY, A DEBATE arose between locals about changing the name of the vast cattle and sheep land to Paradise Prairie. The country grass spreading out limitlessly toward the horizon and the glassy lake may have seemed paradise-like to some. And it was certainly a more pleasant name. But an old homesteader named Hard Scrabble Ole wrote to the Bear Paw Mountaineer saying anyone who wanted to change the name to Paradise was foolish. “I find it purty lonesome out har,” he wrote, “twenty mile from any place in a 10 x14 shack that just got tar paper on outside and an ol’ cook stov. It Lonesome Prairie alright.” His argument won, and the name Lonesome Prairie stuck. Although Lonesome Prairie no longer exists as a town, we found a wealth of information from the enthusiastic locals, proud of their area’s homesteading and ranching history. If you trek to north central Montana today, you’ll find it much as Hard Scrabble Ole described it, “purty lonesome.”

  Tricia Goyer and Ocieanna Fleiss

  Chapter One

  “Feels like I’m sleeping in a covered wagon with all this shaking.” Nineteen-year-old Julia Cavanaugh forced her eyes open. “At least that’s what I think it would feel like.” She spied one of the orphans under her charge—twelve-year-old Shelby—shaking her flimsy mattress. Her iron-framed bed squawked as it shook.

  “Wake up, Miss Cavanaugh. Mrs. Hamlin just left with Mr. Gaffin, and we all think he’s gonna ask her to marry him. Do you think so?”

  The sun streaming through the tall, second-story window of the Open Door Home for Destitute Girls, a privately owned orphanage on upper Manhattan, told Julia the day had started without her. An orphan herself, now running the place for the owner, she brushed a strand of dark hair from her eyes.

  “Oh, Shelby.” Julia wiped the sleep from her eyes and smiled into the freckled face staring eagerly at her. “Give me a moment to wake before you go asking such things.” Julia stroked the girl’s cheek, her heart seeming to double within her chest with love for the youngster.

  The embroidery sampler she’d fallen asleep working on still lay at the end of her bed. She picked it up and eyed the image of a small house she’d copied from Godey’s Lady’s Book. Above the house, she’d stitched the words Home Sweet Home in fancy script. Gazing around the broad room lined with small metal cots and bustling with little-girl chatter, Julia noted the embroidered pillowslips, carefully pressed—albeit dingy—curtains, and dandelions smiling from scavenged jam-jar vases. She’d done her best to make the room pleasant for the girls—and herself. She glanced at their faces and smiled, gladly embracing her role as caretaker.

  A less-than-subtle “ahem” from Shelby reminded Julia she’d been asked a question. She glanced at her young charge, still perched on the end of her bed. “What did you ask?”

  “Finally.” Shelby eyed her with mock frustration. “I said, do you think they will get married—Mrs. Hamlin and Mr. Gaffin? Haven’t you noticed the way they look at each other?” Shelby’s cheeks hinted of red. Her golden hair was already fixed in a proper bun, her hands and face washed, and her simple dress clean and pressed despite its patches and stray threads.

  “Shelby Bruce.” Julia shook her head, as Shelby’s two-year-old sister Beatrice wiggled onto Julia’s lap with a squeal. She planted a firm kiss on the top of Bea’s head.

  “Married? I don’t think so,” Julia continued. “Mrs. Hamlin would’ve told us—told me—if she was being courted. Mr. Gaffin’s just an old family friend.” Julia wondered where on earth the girl got the notion that their headmistress wished to marry.

  Although they have been spending a lot of time together. Julia pushed the thought out of her mind as little Bea shuffled to a stand, planting her pint-sized feet on Julia’s thighs. “Fammy fend!” She pointed a chubby finger at her older sister, Shelby.

  “All right, Bea.” Julia plopped the toddler on the floor and swiveled her toward the small bed she shared with Shelby. “Time to straighten your bed.” Then Julia eyed the twins. “Charity, Grace, would you two virtuous girls fetch fresh water f
or the basin?”

  Shelby pushed away from the bed, wrinkled her brow, and thrust her hand behind her as if to support her back—a perfect imitation of their middle-aged headmistress. “Now where did I put my spectacles?” Shelby clucked her tongue as she waddled forward.

  Laughter spilled from the lips of the girls around the room.

  Encouraged, Shelby scratched her head. She plopped down on her bed then hopped up again as if surprised, pulling imaginary spectacles from under her rump. “Oh!” she squealed. “There they are.”

  The laughter grew louder, and Julia pursed her lips together to smother the impulse to laugh along with them. She planted her fists on her hips. “That’s enough. All of you know what must be done before breakfast.” The girls’ laughter quieted to soft giggles hidden behind cupped palms as they scattered to do their chores.

  Shelby lingered behind, her form now straight and her eyes pensive. “Maybe she forgot to tell you, Miss Cavanaugh.” The young girl gazed up at her. “The way they look at each other—it’s like my ma and pa used to, that’s all.”

  Julia folded a stray yellow-blond curl behind the girl’s ear. “Don’t worry, my sweet. If Mrs. Hamlin was getting married, we’d be the first to know.”

  Julia hoped her own gaze didn’t reflect the sinking disquiet that draped her. Mr. Gaffin was a rich world traveler. If there was any truth to Shelby’s suspicion, Julia couldn’t imagine he’d let Mrs. Hamlin continue to work with orphans. Perhaps they’d get a new headmistress.

  Or maybe the girls would be separated, moved to new homes…

  If Mrs. Hamlin got married, all their lives would be radically changed. And if Julia had to leave the orphanage, she had no idea what she would do. She swept that painful thought away and steadied her gaze at Shelby. She couldn’t hide her true feelings from this girl. Julia took Shelby’s hand and answered as honestly as she could.

  “I don’t think she’ll get married, but if she does, God will take care of us, like He always has.” Julia lifted her chin in a smile. “And really, Mrs. Hamlin may be forgetful, but no one could forget that. I sure wouldn’t.”

  Ardy, a shy Swedish girl, removed her dirty sheets from a small bed and then approached, taking Julia’s hand. “Don’t ya think you’ll ever be gettin’ married?”

  “Actually, there is something I’ve been wanting to tell you all….” Julia leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees.

  The two girls eyed each other in surprise, and Shelby’s brow furrowed.

  “Come closer.” Julia curled a finger, bidding them.

  “What is it?” Shelby asked, her eyes glued to Julia.

  The girls leaned in. “I’d like to tell you…that there’s a wonderful man who’s asked me to marry him!”

  The squeals of two girls erupted, followed by the cheers of nearly three dozen others who’d been quietly listening from the stairwell.

  “There is?” Shelby reached forward and squeezed Julia’s hand.

  Julia let out a hefty sigh and giggled. “No, you sillies. Well, at least not yet. Someday. Maybe.”

  Shelby pouted “But you said…”

  “I said I’d like to tell you I had a man. I’d sure like to, but of course since I don’t, I’m happy to stay here with all of you.”

  The girls moaned.

  The squeak of the front door down on the first floor of the Revolutionary War–era home-turned-orphanage drew their attention. They waited as Mrs. Hamlin’s familiar chortle filled the air, along with a bash and clang of items—hopefully food and supplies that she’d picked up.

  “Julia!” Mrs. Hamlin yelped. “Julia, dear, where are you?”

  “Coming.” Julia hurried down the stairs to help the older woman.

  Julia neared the bottom of the steps and paused, trying to stifle a laugh at the sight of the twinkly eyed woman sprawled flat on her back. Scattered boxes and bags covered the donated rug.

  “Mrs. Hamlin! What on earth? Why didn’t you get a steward to help you?”

  “Oh, I didn’t want to be a bother.” She cheerfully picked herself up. “I was in such a hurry to show you all what I’d bought. And to tell you my surprise. Such a wonderful surprise.” Julia eyed the boxes and noted they were from R.H. Macy & Co. More than a dozen boxes waited to be opened, and she couldn’t imagine the cost.

  “I found just what the girls need, and on sale!” the headmistress exclaimed.

  What they need is more food—vitamin drops, too—and maybe a few new schoolbooks. But Julia didn’t dare say it. And somehow God’s hand of providence always provided.

  “New clothes, I gather. That is a surprise.”

  “But only half of it, dear.” Mrs. Hamlin rubbed her palms expectantly. “I also must tell you my news. The best news an old widow could hope for.”

  Julia followed Mrs. Hamlin’s gaze toward the idle youngsters who’d gathered on the staircase to watch. Her eyes locked with Shelby’s, then she quickly looked away. “News?” The muscles in Julia’s stomach tightened.

  “Girls,” Julia shooed them away with a wave of her hand, “you know better than to eavesdrop. Off to chores with you. We’ll have breakfast soon.”

  The girls started to scurry off, but Mrs. Hamlin halted them with her words.

  “No, no,” her high-pitched voice hailed. “Come back. This news is for all of you.” They circled around her, and she tenderly patted their bobbing heads.

  “What is it?” Julia wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Mrs. Hamlin’s cheeks so rosy or her eyes so bright.

  “I’m getting married!”

  Chapter Two

  It wasn’t the first time a rowdy frontiersman had brandished a gun during his worship service. Parson Isaac Shepherd tried not to take it personally. His jaw tensed, and he laid the black, frayed ribbon across the page he was reading from the Psalms. He shook his head as he placed his leather Bible on the bar behind him. Not another interruption. It seemed he never made it through a whole sermon. Next time, I’m gonna start with the call to repentance. Switch things around…all they ever hear is the setup.

  Preaching in livery stables, ferry docks, open fields, as well as saloons—like this afternoon—brought complications. But the exhilaration of seeing these rough folk growing in their faith made him even prouder than the time he rode ol’ Sven Flatness’s bronco for ten seconds. It’s why he’d come. Why he’d chosen the lifestyle of an unmarried circuit preacher.

  Then there were days like today.

  “I swar, Parson Ike.” Forty-year-old Horace Whitbaum, who looked as though he’d never bathed in his adult life, raised a toothless plea. “I never done jumped his claim. I don’t even know whar ’tis.” The desperate prospector’s hands, rough from years of mining the hills of the Montana plains, reached for the rafters, unleashing a pungent odor from his armpits.

  “You did take my claim. I seen ya.” Another scruffy man with patched shirt and trousers, Giant Jim Newman, directed his Colt Peacemaker at Horace’s heart.

  Isaac gazed at the nervous faces of the dozen faithful parishioners sitting along two lone benches on the mud-splattered, ash-sprinkled, beer-splashed floor. Young Jed Robertson and his mail-order bride huddled their new baby in their arms. Beside the Robertsons, Mr. Milo Godfrey, Isaac’s only ordained elder in the seventy-mile circuit, sat with his Indian wife and seven daughters. Isaac wondered which girl Mrs. Godfrey would try to marry off to him this week. Didn’t seem to matter to her that the oldest wasn’t even seventeen yet. Though the girls were nice enough, everyone should have known by now that Isaac wasn’t the marrying type.

  The man sitting in the corner, Milo’s stepson, Mr. Warren Boyle, was the only one not seemingly troubled by the episode. Years earlier, Milo had married a young widow and adopted her son, Warren. After his young bride died, he’d raised the strong-willed boy as his own, but Warren had never embraced the Christian faith. Still, Milo loved the young man and even made him partner in his business. Not a church-going man, Warren laid low at the far table nursing a w
hiskey. Even with the shouting, he didn’t look up to see what the commotion was about.

  Giant Jim’s black mustache waggled over his lip as if he were winding up for a spit. “I swore to kill that villain dead as a can of corned beef, and I aim to do it!”

  “Jim.” Isaac spoke firmly as he approached the towering man. “Go ahead and shoot him if you want to be strung up at sunrise. The vigilantes will be on you faster than a hungry hawk on a lame jackrabbit. You know for yourself they’d hunt down anyone, guilty or not, in hopes of a bounty. And from what I hear, that new circuit judge doesn’t take too kindly to bar fights. So if you don’t want the so-called law to take you away on the next train, you better put the gun down.” Isaac positioned himself between Jim and Horace.

  Giant Jim ignored Isaac’s warning. Instead, his black eyebrows scrunched into an arrow as he glared at the preacher. Though Isaac tried not to show his fear, his chest squeezed tight like a lariat around a steer. Lord, protect us. Protect Your flock.

  “Listen to Parson Ike,” Horace sputtered, cowering behind Isaac, his grimy hand on the parson’s shoulder. “I swar. I don’t even know whar yer claim be.”

  Isaac broadened his stance and patted Horace’s hand, attempting to calm him.

  At first Horace had been one of the “drinkin’ saints.” Those were the folks already planted on barstools when the preaching started, who hung around out of laziness. Then, after a few months, the grungy forty-niner had meandered up after the sermon with a question.

  “If yer Jesus died on the cross fer my sins, why can’t I jest do wat I want?”

  From then on, Isaac had enjoyed surprisingly deep discussions with the hard-edged man. Horace’s growth was just another reason Isaac marveled at the far-reaching, saving power of God. It also affirmed his decision to decline the assistant parson’s position offered to him when he was fresh out of seminary in St. Louis.