Healing Montana Sky (17 page)

But today, the wind rippling through the grass made him think of the ocean—the endless body of water that he would never see.
Cast adrift.
The nautical term came to his mind. He couldn’t remember from where he knew it.
Moby-Dick
, perhaps? Or maybe
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea
? The library in his hometown had been quite extensive. Having plenty of books was one of the things he missed about living alone on the prairie. Not that Sweetwater Springs had a library, anyway.

The two words suited his mood, and he repeated them.
Cast adrift.

Erik turned and looked toward his barn and his house—once his stalwart anchor—or so he’d assumed. Prior to Daisy’s death, he’d always approached his home with a sense of wellbeing. He’d taken pride in his accomplishments—of carving a farm out of the raw prairie with his own back and hands.

But now, the dreams he’d woven about the place had turned to ashes. For he suspected, his wife, not his farm, had been his anchor.

Weeping at Daisy’s gravesite had relaxed the tight band of sorrow around his chest. He took a deep breath, needing air in his lungs before he could once again begin to journey the rest of the way home.

As Erik walked, his legs felt wooden. Guilt alone spurred him on. He’d run out on Antonia and Henri, leaving them to think who-knows-what about him. He’d left the work undone. . . .

The press of his responsibilities weighed on him. For the first time in his life, Erik wanted to turn and run away—just head out toward the horizon and never look back.

Just thinking such thoughts made him feel more guilt. He was a father, a husband, a farmer. His new family and his livestock depended on him. The usual routine of farm life, as backbreaking as the work could be, had always brought him a sense of stolid comfort.
I’ve certainly been a man who liked his routine.

I wonder if I’ll ever feel that way again.

Stopping by the springhouse, he crouched to splash water over his face and rinse his hands at the tiny stream rather than bothering with the pump at the well. He took the dipper from the hook on the wall and scooped up a long drink. Standing, he drank. Then he flung the rest of the water on the rosebush and rehung the dipper on the hook.

With a heavy breath, Erik headed to the barn.
I still have a lot of mucking out to do.
The thought made him tired. Seemed as if he’d been up for days, not only a few hours.

Just outside the door, the sound of clapping and a peal of laughter stopped him in his tracks.
What in tarnation?
He plunged into the gloom of the interior, and his eyes took a minute to adjust.

With a bent-kneed walk, Antonia headed down the aisle, pushing his wheelbarrow.

Jacques sat in the front on a pile of straw, holding on to each side, a wide smile on his face. He chortled, and then let out another gleeful shriek.

His mother kept the handles of wheelbarrow low, so the baby wouldn’t tip, even though that angle must be punishing on her muscles.

Henri, too, looked almost happy. He bobbed up and down and clapped his hands.

Erik couldn’t help feeling a flicker of their pleasure. Immediately, he chastised himself
. How could I possibly have any good feelings when Daisy lies cold in her grave?

Antonia headed the wheelbarrow toward Erik.

For the first time, he saw her with a wide smile and a light in her golden eyes and was struck by the realization that another woman existed within her—different from the grief-stricken one he’d briefly gotten to know.
This
Antonia, although not classically beautiful, had a vibrancy and strength that was almost more appealing than beauty.

Feeling guilty, Erik suppressed the thought.
Guilt, guilt, guilt. Everywhere I turn, I feel guilty!

When Antonia caught sight of him, she gasped and halted, setting down the wheelbarrow. She straightened, her shoulders stiffening, as if expecting a reprimand.

Instead, the reprimand came from her youngest son. “Maa!” Jacques protested. “Maa!” He banged on the side of the wheelbarrow.

Watching the light drain from their faces made Erik feel like an ogre.
Do they see me as a somber authority figure?
He didn’t like the idea. Of course, he thought of himself as a serious-minded man. But he liked a laugh as much as anyone. He tried to remember the last time he’d laughed but failed.
But I smile a lot. Surely, I must.

Antonia gestured to an open stall. “Camilla’s in there in her cradle.”

Erik made himself smile. “I’ll bet my daughter wishes she were old enough to ride with Jacques,” he said, striving for a joking tone.

Her shoulders relaxed. “You don’t be mindin’?”

He rubbed a hand through his hair, vaguely wondering where his hat was.
Did I even put it on today?
“They are only boys. They need to have fun. Especially now.”

“Thank you.” The words sounded heartfelt.

“Felt good to see you all happier, even if just for a moment.”

She let out a sigh. “Hard for them, this be. Yet, to laugh when their father be dead feels wrong.” Her voice dropped. “Jean-Claude be always laughin’. Tellin’ stories and makin’ us laugh.”

Envy stabbed him. His reaction took him by surprise.
Am I jealous of a dead man? Of a man who made his family happy?

Erik didn’t like the idea. A childhood memory came to him—his pa pushing him around the barnyard in the wheelbarrow when he was just a tyke. How he loved the feeling of flying. Even better, how good—special, even—he’d felt because his busy father had taken a few minutes to play with him. The memory made him smile at Henri. “How ’bout when I finish mucking out the stalls, I put you in the wheelbarrow and push you around? We’ll go fast.”

Henri’s eyes widened with obvious pleasure, but his gazed darted back and forth between the two adults.

Antonia nodded at her son, her smile warm. A moment later, she turned that smile on him.

Something eased inside Erik. After all he’d done wrong in the last two days—mistakes that would haunt him all his life—he’d finally done something right. Maybe it wasn’t much when stacked against his mistakes, but the feeling brought him a little comfort.

Antonia exchanged a conspiratorial look with Henri. “Perhaps, the chores be done, eh? Or the muckin’ out at least be done.”

He moved to peer into Shandy’s stall. Sure enough, Erik saw clean straw on the floor. “Well, I’ll be.” He stepped back and gazed at Antonia in astonishment. “You did that?”

She motioned between her and Henri. “We done it.”

His throat tightened, although this time not from grief. Mucking out was man’s work. Or so Erik had always assumed. His ma and sister never labored in the barn. Course there was plenty of boys around for that—he, his three brothers, and his pa. And Ma and Kirsten had their hands full just keeping the family fed, much less all the other chores womenfolk were responsible for. Daisy had only fed and watered the livestock and milked the cows during the couple of times he’d been sick. But she’d never mucked out. He doubted the idea to do so would have even occurred to her.

“Thank you.” Once Erik forced out the words, talking didn’t seem so difficult. “That’s a lot of hard work.”

“I be not afeared of hard work, and the wheelbarrow be makin’ the chores a real treat.”

He couldn’t imagine mucking out was any kind of treat. “Why don’t we take the wheelbarrow into the yard where there’s more space?” Without waiting for an answer, he leaned over and picked up Jacques. Before the boy could squawk about being taken from his ride, Erik lifted him high in the air.

Jacques squealed with laughter.

The boy’s open-mouth grin went right to Erik’s heart, planting the seeds of a father-son bond.

Antonia glanced into the stall at Camilla. “She be sleepin’.”

“Then we’ll leave her be for a few minutes.” He hefted Jacques and cocked an eyebrow at Antonia. “Boy or wheelbarrow?”

“Well, you have my boy. I be takin’ the wheelbarrow.”

He tilted his head, motioning for her and Henri to precede him.

Antonia pushed the wheelbarrow out the door.

Henri followed, glancing over his shoulder at Erik and Jacques.

Once outside, out of habit, he looked at the sky. In the distance, pewter-gray clouds had built up. They’d have rain soon, hopefully light enough that he could still plow. He handed Jacques to his mother and stepped between the shafts. He grasped them firmly. “Climb aboard,” he told the older boy.

Gingerly, Henri lifted his leg over the side of the wheelbarrow and scooted up and over the edge. Once he settled in the middle, he stuck his legs forward and grasped the sides.

“Here we go.” Erik started at a walk, taking care to avoid running over any rocks. “You doing all right in there, Henri?”

The boy nodded.

Erik wished he could see the child’s face.
Is he smiling?
“Want to go faster?”

“
Oui
!”

Erik picked up the pace.

“Faster!”

At his small stepson’s command, Erik obliged, breaking into a run. He charged past the house and up the road a ways before slowing to catch his breath.
I’ve become an old man. I used to run for miles.
He thought with nostalgia about the boy he’d once been.
When did I become so staid?

Henri twisted to look back at him. “Again!”

“Let me catch my breath, Mr. Impatient. Then you watch out.”

Eyes bright, Henri gave an eager nod.

It did Erik’s heart good to see the lively expression on the boy’s face—to know he’d been the one to make the boy happy. He took a deep breath, preparing to break into a run. “Hold tight, now.” He took off, racing as fast as he could, only slowing when he neared Antonia, who held Jacques in her arms.

She watched them with a sad smile on her face, her eyes bright with tears.

When they stopped, Erik tried to hide how out of breath he was.

“Did ya see me,
Maman
?”

“All the way.” She sent Erik a grateful glance. “You made him smile. Such a gift for me to see.”

“He made me smile, too,” Erik admitted. “And, in these dark days, genuine smiles will probably be few and far between for us.”

Jacques pointed at the wheelbarrow and squirmed to get down.

Antonia set him on his feet. But before the boy could drop to his knees, Erik scooped up Jacques and placed him in front of his brother. “Hold him tight now, Henri,” he commanded. “We’ll go slow.”

Erik picked up the wheelbarrow and began to walk.

Jacques let out a squeal. “Baa!”

Erik winked at Antonia and angled the wheelbarrow toward the road, grateful for the temporary respite from mourning.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

T
wo days later, the rain came in a gentle shower. Erik had borrowed Antonia’s mules and chose to stay outside plowing the field. He wore a floppy-brimmed hat and a slicker to protect him from the worst of the wet, but she’d made him promise to stop if he became too chilled.

Inside the house, Antonia kept a fire burning in the stove, and the room, as big as it was, remained a comfortable temperature and didn’t smell as smoky as she was used to. She’d forgotten how a stove was a more efficient way to heat a house than a fireplace
.

She did a final rinse of Daisy’s nightgown and the bedding that Mrs. Norton had soaked. Antonia had been too busy the previous day to tackle the chore. Once she’d wrung out the water, she laid them over the porch rail protected by the roof for later when the rain stopped and she could hang them on the clothesline.

The babies soon became tuckered out. She nursed Camilla until she was almost asleep and then placed her in the cradle.

Jacques was delighted to be allowed to nap on Erik’s soft bed, and he quickly fell asleep.

Antonia placed pillows on both sides of his body so he wouldn’t roll off, and then stood for a moment, watching him, love expanding her chest. She searched for Jean-Claude’s features in his chubby face. But this sturdy son took after her side of the family. He had her father’s build, as well as his bark-brown eyes, and the curl to his dark hair.

With a sigh, she returned to the other room and washed the breakfast dishes, while Henri dried, and then she unpacked her belongings and further explored the house. She stopped before the shelf of books and took one down. She’d never held a book before and reverently turned the pages, looking at the incomprehensible print and wishing she could understand the meaning of the words.

Henri drifted close to peer over her arm. “What’s that?”

“A book. There be stories in here.”

“
Père
told us stories.”

“Aye, he did. And if we could write ’em, they’d be in a book like this. Other people could read ’em and learn his stories.

Henri’s puzzled expression didn’t clear.

“I cain’t explain better. You need schoolin’ to know what be here.” She tapped the open page of the book. “I ain’t never had none. But things gonna be different for you.”
Now be a good time to tell him about school.
“You’ll have chances I ain’t had. You be goin’ to school where you can learn to read and figure numbers. Tomorrow, you be startin’. Mr. Muth, um Pa, will drive you to town in the mornin’ when he takes the milk and eggs to the store.”

“Be you comin’?”

“No. Only children go to school.”

He lifted his chin and crossed his arms. “Then I ain’t goin’. I be stayin’ with you and Jacques and Camilla.”

“Oh, yes, you be goin’,” Antonia said firmly to counteract her son’s unusual display of stubbornness even though she longed to pull him into her arms for a reassuring hug. Truth be told, she didn’t know if she could bear to be parted from him, either. “You ain’t growin’ up like me, with no book learnin’. People put great store in education, and I ain’t got none.”

He hung his head.

Placing her hand under his chin, Antonia lifted his face until his gaze met hers. “Soon you be learnin’ your letters, and then you be readin’ this book to me.” She put enthusiasm into her tone. “That be a fine treat, aye it be.” She released his chin and ran the tip of her finger over some of the words in the book. “Just think, someday you be knowin’ all these. I’ll be right proud of you, Henri.”

Before he could respond, a knock sounded at the door.

Startled, she replaced the book on the shelf and hurried to open the door. Just before Antonia reached for the handle, she glanced down at her Indian garb, and with a stab of embarrassment, wished she had time to change. Squaring her shoulders, she opened the door.

A woman with a dripping bonnet and damp coat stood there, clutching a big burlap package to her chest, the handle of a basket over her arm. Behind her, a mule was tied to the railing. The rain had let up to a sprinkle, so she must have ridden a ways to be so sodden.

“Land sakes!” Antonia exclaimed, astonished to have a female visitor. “Come in out of the wet.” She stepped back and held open the door.

“Sure, and this is nothing. I grew up in Ireland, and we had our share of wet days,” the woman said with a beautiful accent. “Although, when I was twelve, our family immigrated to Virginia—a much warmer climate.”

“Go stand by the fire,” Antonia ordered. She grabbed the hat rack by the door and moved it near the stove. “Hang your hat and coat to dry, and I’ll find you a cloth to wipe yourself with.”

She glanced at her son. “You be seein’ to her mule, eh?”

Henri jerked a quick nod and scampered through the door.

Antonia walked over to close it behind him but stood a moment watching his actions to make sure he was comfortable with the mule.

Henri petted the mule’s nose, before unwinding the reins and leading the animal toward the barn.

She closed the door. Feeling nervous about her very first
company
, Antonia hurried into the bedroom for a towel.

In his sleep, Jacques had moved from the middle of the bed to end up next to one of the pillows.

Antonia tugged him back into the center, checked on Camilla asleep in her cradle, and took Daisy’s good towel from the trunk, grateful to have something nice to offer to the woman. She returned to the other room and handed it over.

“Thank you.” The woman dabbed at her face. She had beautiful dark-red hair, with only a few threads of gray. Her brown woolen dress hung on her thin frame as if she’d recently lost weight. “You’ll be thinking me foolish to venture out on such a day, and you’d be right. I’m Henrietta O’Donnell, and we are your nearest neighbors—thataway.” She waved in the direction of Sweetwater Springs.

“Right pleased ta meet you.”

“When the Nortons stopped by to tell Rory of Erik and Daisy. . .and you being a newcomer to these parts, why, I just had to come over and make you welcome.” She picked up the basket from the table and handed it to Antonia. “Irish soda bread and oatmeal cookies. Fresh baked.”

Flabbergasted, Antonia looked from the basket to Mrs. O’Donnell. “You came all this way in the rain for a visit?”

Henrietta laughed, giving animation to her face. “Oh, no. There wasn’t a sign of rain when I left the house, else my dear Rory would have forbade the journey.”

Since Jean-Claude had never forbidden her anything, she stiffened. The idea of Mr. O’Donnell telling his wife what-for didn’t sit well with Antonia.

Her thoughts must have shown on her face for Mrs. O’Donnell patted Antonia’s arm. “I’ve been quite ill, you see. Even though I’m on my feet and out and about—why, I’m just back yesterday from a visit to my daughter—my family worries about me. My husband’s cossetting is driving me out of my mind.”

“Be you dry enough, Mrs. O’Donnell? Your husband wouldn’t be thankin’ me if you come sick again.”

“Call me Henrietta. Us being such close neighbors and all. My coat and hat bore the brunt of the wet, and with this nice heat from the stove, why, the rest of me will soon be as dry as toast.”

Hoping her neighbor had judged rightly, Antonia glanced toward the pantry, thinking about its contents. “Can I be gittin’ you something to eat? To drink?”

“A cup of tea would be lovely.”

Tea?
Antonia had a moment of panic. She’d brought some herbal teas with her. “I be havin’ sassafras, chamomile, or mint. Is that what you mean?”

“No need to fret yourself.” Henrietta pointed at the shelf near the stove. “China tea is in that blue tin canister. In fact, why don’t you let me brew the tea for us? I imagine I’m more familiar with Daisy’s kitchen than you are.” Her voice caught.

Antonia saw the pain underlying the woman’s friendliness.
Should I be pretendin’ there be not a bear in the room, or shoot for the head?
But as much as she didn’t want to talk about death and grief, she’d never been someone to shirk her duty or keep her tongue behind her teeth when plain speaking might be better. “Daisy’s death be a powerful loss,” she said in a quiet voice. “Suspect you’ll miss her, eh?”

Henrietta’s eyes filled with tears. “I couldn’t believe the horrible news.” She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes. “If only I’d been home. Maybe I could have helped.”

Antonia recognized that kind of guilt.
How many times since the death of my man be I wishin’ I’d a told him I’d a hankering for fish that day? He’d a headed a different direction and never come upon the grizzly.
“Daisy be awful tiny,” Antonia offered, remembering when she paid a respectful visit to the body and from the size of her nightgown. “Don’t know if even Doc Cameron could have saved her.”

“I worried about her being so small-hipped. But I never said a word. I didn’t want to put any fears in her head that she didn’t already have. A woman has enough to worry over at such a time.”

Antonia remembered birthing her boys and shivered.
A woman always fears dyin’ when givin’ birth.
“Would you like to see the babe?”

Henrietta gave her a tremulous smile. “I would, indeed.” She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed her eyes before blowing her nose. “Dearie me. My daughter’s with child, and I was so excited for the news and didn’t allow myself to worry. But now. . . .” She shook her head. “At least, living on the Thompson ranch, Sally’s not isolated. Two other women live there, and plenty of men to fetch the doctor.”

Antonia motioned for Henrietta to follow her into the other room and pointed at the cradle.

“Ah.” The woman stooped to touch Camilla’s hand. “So tiny. Sure and she’s a perfect babe,” Henrietta whispered. She placed a hand to her mouth, obviously overcome with grief.

Not knowing what to say, Antonia left the room to give the woman privacy. Sadness overwhelmed her, and she dropped into a chair, thinking about neighbors and friendships. Many people would carry the memory of Daisy. If he chose, Erik could speak with others who’d cared about her.

Only me and the boys be a mournin’ Jean-Claude.
Living isolated, moving every few years to follow the game. . .they didn’t have friends, although Jean-Claude did try to visit the Indians at least once a summer, bringing gifts of game. She wondered what the tribe would think of his absence this year.

Antonia took a shuddering breath to control her feelings and stood, moving to take down the tea canister. When she pried open the lid, she peered inside to see small brown leaves that emitted an earthy scent and figured she could brew this the same way she did chamomile.

Footsteps sounded behind her, and she turned to see Henrietta enter the room.

The woman’s eyes were red, but her face looked composed. “This will not be an easy time for you or Erik, Antonia. . .may I call you by your beautiful given name?”

She nodded.

“How may we help you two?” Henrietta walked over and took the canister from Antonia’s hand, then moved to the stove. She briefly touched the side of the teakettle, gauging the warmth.

Watching her neighbor prepare tea, Antonia thought about the woman’s question and couldn’t come up with an answer.
Nothing can fix the pain this newly patched together family be sufferin’.

Henrietta brought over cups on saucers and gave one to Antonia. She set the other on the table and took a seat. “Have a cookie. These are Rory’s favorites. I had to leave half the batch at home, or I might never have gotten away from the house.” She opened the cloth lining the basket to expose cookies ringed around the bread. She offered the basket to Antonia.

“These be a rare treat for me.” Antonia took one and bit into it, savoring the sweet oat taste and remembering back. The last time she’d had cookies and pie was at her wedding to Jean-Claude. When she sipped the tea, the flavor lingered, delicate and fragrant.

In silence, the women drank their tea and finished a cookie.

Henrietta set down her teacup. “My dear Antonia, since we are to be neighbors, and, I hope, friends, I would like to be frank with you.” She paused, obviously waiting for a response.

Not sure what to say, Antonia responded with a wary nod.

“Mrs. Norton gave Rory a quick recounting of your circumstances.” Henrietta raised a hand to ward off a potential protest. “Not in a gossiping manner, you must believe. But because she knew that the more information we had, the more we could be of assistance.”

Antonia took another sip of her tea.

Henrietta made an up-and-down gesture in Antonia’s direction. “I know you had to buy a gown for your wedding. And I suspect you have no other dresses?” She made the comment a question. “And Mrs. Norton mentioned your son was dressed in Indian garb.” She held up a hand. “Not in any critical way, mind you. If there’s a woman who doesn’t care about appearances it’s Mary Norton. But she knew I might have a solution.”

Ashamed, Antonia looked into her teacup, seeing the dregs of the leaves plastering the sides and bottom. “We have no other clothes.”

“So I suspected. I’m sure you’re used. . .as we are. . .to making do. Why, for Christmas, I made over an old silk dress from when I was young for my oldest daughter Sally. Served as her wedding dress as well.”

Not sure where this conversation was headed, Antonia placed her teacup on the saucer.

Henrietta took a deep breath. “Well, I think there must be something we can do to alter Daisy’s wardrobe to fit you.” She wrinkled her nose. “Even if the colors that suited her won’t show you in the best light.”

Antonia didn’t care about colors. Just having some work clothes so she wouldn’t ruin her gold dress was enough for her.

“Now, I know for a fact Daisy had leftover material from one of her skirts, for she planned to make the baby—if it was a girl—some dresses from it. If we let out the side seams and attach that cloth to the hem—put some braid or tatting over the join. . . . You’ll still have to buy a shirtwaist, though. Or the material to make one.”

Henrietta made the idea of making over Daisy’s skirt sound easy, and her neighbor might be right. Hemming and such, Antonia could do. But making a pattern and sewing a shirtwaist was beyond her experience.