Glorious Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series) by Debra Holland Read Free Book Online

financial security with the father she’d quickly come to adore. She hadn’t thought past escaping Marcel Dupuy, hadn’t known what living as a white woman would feel like. Even during the few days they’d spent in St. Louis, where her father insisted she acquire a whole new wardrobe, she’d kept looking over her shoulder, not yet feeling secure. They dined in nice restaurants and attended the theater. She remembered her first sip of champagne—the bubbly taste of the liquid on her tongue, biting as it slid down her throat. Everything had seemed a dream—one from which she might awake and find herself back in New Orleans.
    “Are you happy, Delia?”
    Her father had asked her the question before, and she’d always dutifully answered that she was, although the main feeling she’d carried for the first few days with him was an intense sense of relief and gratitude. But now. . . ?
    Delia straightened her shoulders and took as deep a breath as her corset would allow, feeling lighter than she could remember in a long time—perhaps ever. I feel full of champagne. “Oh yes, Papa!” She squeezed his arm. “I’m looking forward to beginning our new life together.”
    Her father patted her hand. “So am I, daughter.” He hesitated, his gaze scanning her face. “I know everything is different for you.”
    “Yes, but I find I’m settling into the pretense,” Delia said with a wry twist of her mouth.
    A look of pain crossed her father’s face, making her regret her words. “You are my beloved daughter. That is not a pretense.”
    She smiled up at him with warmth. “And you’re my beloved papa.”
    Instead of relaxing and returning her smile, Andre rubbed his chest. “Thank goodness, I found you in time.”
    The remark was one her father had made before, but now there was a heaviness to his words that made her study him. He appeared tired, his skin paler than usual, with shadows under his eyes. “Are you well, Papa?”
    His brief smile seemed forced. “Fatigued. All this traveling wears on one.” He took a few more steps and stopped. “Delia. . .”
    The gravity in his tone worried her.
    “Before we left New Orleans, I made provision for you in my will. If something happens to me, you’ll be taken care of.”
    Fear clenched her heart. “Don’t talk that way, Papa, as if you are dying.” She tried to speak lightly and ran a soothing hard over his arm. “You’re just tired.”
    But even as Delia spoke the optimistic words, she couldn’t help the dread that clutched at her heart.

    With his fist tight around the coin, Micah trotted along the train platform, on the lookout to avoid running into anyone. The old lady had hobbled away, and he hurried to catch up with her. His mouth watered. If the cookies tasted as good as they smelled. . . . He could hardly wait to try one.
    In Uganda, cookies had been an uncommon treat. The only thing he liked about America so far was having dessert every day.
    His steps faltered as he remembered the few occasions he’d have a chance to split a cookie or piece of candy with Kimu. His friend would take a bite, and his eyes would grow big. He’d flash his wide smile—the one that always made Micah grin back at him—the gratifying feeling he received from the other boy’s pleasure worth the sacrifice of the rare sweet. How I miss Kimu.
    A dissatisfied-sounding grumble made Micah glance up.
    A portly man, his face buried in a train schedule, carried a suitcase, with a valise tucked under each arm, held in place only by his elbows. He tried to read the print without lifting the elbow that pressed the bag against his side.
    Micah stopped, wondering if he should offer to help.
    Still looking at the paper, the man gasped and made a sudden, sharp swerve, bashing into Micah and, in the process, losing his grip on the bags.
    Knocked off his feet, Micah tumbled to the ground, somehow ending up beneath the big man’s luggage, a valise on his lap. Micah managed to retain his