Healing Montana Sky (21 page)

Once the whole load was done, Antonia poured a measure of soap shavings into the tub and tossed in the colored clothing, mostly Erik’s shirts. She gathered up the wet laundry and stepped off the porch, walking around the house to the clothesline.

Two lines ran from the side of the house to an upright pole with a cross piece on top. The sprouting garden lay on the other side. With her arms and back already aching, Antonia hauled the damp load to the clothesline, sopping the bodice of her dress.

Earlier this morning, she’d hung up the bedding and Daisy’s nightgown, making several trips back and forth from the porch rail to the clothesline. Now, she realized that with her arms full, she had no available hands to drape the garments over the ropes and growled in frustration.

Once again, she searched her memory of those long-ago washing days and recalled the women using baskets to hold the laundry. Shaking her head over missing such an obvious solution, Antonia backtracked to the porch where a big wicker basket hung by a handle on the wall. Awkwardly, she managed to one-handedly take it down and then dumped the clothing inside.

She walked into the house to check on the babies. Reassured the two slept soundly, Antonia went out to the porch, lifted the basket, and hauled it to the clothesline. There she flung the garments over the rope and smoothed them out. She returned to the house to start all over again with the colored clothing. And she still had Erik’s heavy work clothes to tackle last. They would require longer soaking and scrubbing.

Several hours later, Antonia stepped away from the clothesline, digging both fists into her sore back muscles, and stretched, surveying her handiwork with a feeling of satisfaction. On the two lines, clothing, diapers, and bedding waved in the breeze.
I be sure glad washday only comes once a week!

Something tickled her memory, and she followed the thought back to the past and groaned, remembering.
Ironing day comes after washday!
At the fort, while laundry was a communal chore, shared by all the women, each family was responsible for ironing their own clothing and bedding.
Ironing be even more tedious than washin’, for I cain’t be lettin’ my attention stray, else I scorch something.

In frustration, Antonia wondered if she even needed to iron at all. Out here on the prairie, no one would even know. And maybe Erik wouldn’t notice wrinkled sheets.

Antonia glanced at the sun, realized she’d better get supper started, and headed for the house. As she climbed the steps to the porch, she told herself she’d rest for a few minutes and watch for Henri’s return. She angled the rocker so she could view the road, and, with a weary sigh, sank into the seat. She hoped to see the tiny figure of her son walking home from school, but he wasn’t in sight.

Just as she began to rock, Antonia heard Camilla’s cry and knew the baby had probably awakened Jacques as well. Her boy could sleep through most things, but not that insistent wail.

Feeling exhausted to her bones, she tilted the chair back one more time. She was a strong woman, used to working hard and taking pride in her accomplishments. But dealing with grief and her changed life, sleeping poorly, fretting for her son, caring for two babies, and doing all the chores of a farm wife had taken their toll today. She wondered how long before her body adjusted to this new life.

Out in the pasture, she saw Erik driving the cows to the barn to be milked. She pushed to her feet, knowing she had two sleepyheads who’d want snuggling and need changing, probably at the same time, and she had supper to make.
God should have made mothers with more arms—a set for each child.

Newborn Camilla needed her care, and, indeed, Antonia wanted to do everything she could so the baby would thrive. Yet, she felt guilty for neglecting Jacques, who was used to far more of her attention than he’d received lately. She hadn’t even found time to sit and play with him. She fretted about her small son—his father dead, a new home, and his brother gone all day.
Most of the time he seemed his usual happy self, but all these changes were bound to affect him.

To her relief, after she changed them, Antonia was able to bring both babies out to the porch and fit them on her lap. Camilla didn’t take up much space, and Jacques was content to lay with his head on her shoulder while she rocked. Soon he’d wake up all the way, eager to play.
Hopefully, Henri be home by then, so I be free to cook supper.

A gust of wind, stronger than the afternoon breezes, blew across the yard, setting the skirt of her dress fluttering. Erik must have finished the milking for she spotted the cows back in the pasture.
Tomorrow
, she remembered from one of Erik’s casual mentions,
I’ll be makin’ butter.
Trepidation fluttered in her stomach.
Something else I never be doin’ afore.

In the distance, she saw Henri headed her way, one arm carrying books and his slate. Her heart gave a heavy thump of relief and anticipation. She wanted to run to her boy and throw her arms around him, but the two little ones anchored her to the rocking chair.

The wind picked up, causing Henri to hold onto his cap. He left the road, crossed the yard, and saw her. He waved, which, when a gust tugged the brim, almost cost him his cap. Smacking a hand on his head, he broke into a run.

“Look, Jacques,” Antonia said, setting him on the floor. “Henri be home. Go to your brother.”

“Ha.” Jacques flapped a hand in Henri’s direction.

Henri ran up the steps, stopping only to rub his brother’s head before rushing to her.

Antonia rose to give him a one-armed hug. “It’s good to see you,
mon fils
. Come inside, have a bite to eat while I cooks up some supper. I be waitin’ to hear how your day be.”

As she was about to guide the boy to the door, one of Daisy’s chemises blew by, followed by a shirt of Erik’s. “Oh, dear.” Releasing Henri, Antonia hurried into the house and deposited Camilla in her cradle, returning to fetch Jacques. “Watch the babies,” she commanded Henri, setting her youngest son on the floor. “I be grabbing those clothes.”

Racing outside, she snatched up Daisy’s still-damp chemise, now covered with dirt, and then hurried toward Erik’s shirt, which was also filthy.

“Antonia!”

She glanced up to see Erik hurrying toward her. He didn’t have the milk buckets, so he must have taken them into the springhouse.

“There’s a storm coming up.” He pointed in the direction opposite Sweetwater Springs.

She turned to look. A fat swirl of dark-blue clouds covered the horizon. Weary and too busy looking the other direction for Henri, she hadn’t even noticed the storm’s approach.

A jagged flash of lightning cut the sky. Another of Erik’s shirts flew off the clothesline and headed in their direction, only to crumple to the ground.

Erik glanced from his shirt to the dirty clothes in her hands. “Next time use clothespins.”

Clothespins?

The wind gusted harder and more clothing sailed from the lines. In dismay, she watched them land in the dirt.
All my hard work be for naught!

Erik picked up his shirt and thrust it into her hands. “I need to get the cows into the barn before the storm hits. You’ll have to take in the laundry by yourself.” He turned and ran toward the pasture.

The power of the wind kicked up, sending dust swirling into the air.

Squinting to protect her eyes, Antonia moved against the gusts that billowed her skirts and slowed her progress. Gasping for breath, she reached the house, hastening across the porch to open the door. She threw in the clothes, uncaring where they landed, for she’d have to wash them again anyway.

She grabbed the laundry basket to hold the clean laundry still hanging on the lines. Once she stepped around the corner of the house, the full force of the wind slapped her, almost tearing the basket from her arms. With one eye on the approaching storm and the other on her task, she pulled off the clothes and linens, dropping them into the basket.

Finished, she lifted the basket, and the wind at her back pushed her toward the house. Once through the door, she deposited the basket in the corner.

Henri watched her with anxious eyes.

“A storm’s coming, son. I need to be gittin’ the rest of the laundry in, while Pa’s roundin’ up the cows. Keep watchin’ the babes.”

From his spot on the floor where he sat with Jacques, Henri nodded his understanding.

Antonia carried the basket outside, but left it on the porch where the rail would keep it from blowing away. She bundled up her skirts with one hand, cursing that she’d even worn the unwieldy dress today, and dashed into the yard, chasing down her laundry.

A blur of white cloth blew past her. Antonia made a grab and missed, watching as the pillowcase plastered against the fence to the pasture. She ran to peel the cloth off the barbed wire.

With a stick, Erik herded the cows across the pasture toward the barn.

Even without counting, Antonia could tell some animals were missing, and he’d have to go back for them. Turning away, she hurried to catch one of Daisy’s petticoats.

The afternoon darkened. When she looked to the horizon, she spied a monstrous cloud with an eerie greenish tinge around the edges that had blackened the sky, moving toward them faster than she could believe. The hackles on her neck rose.

Thunder rumbled. Lightning forked, far too close for safety.

Antonia whirled to look for her husband and saw him running toward Annabelle Lee and her two calves. He’d told her how much that cow meant to him. “Erik!” she yelled to get his attention, hoping he’d hear her. Cupping her hands around her mouth, she tried again. “Erik!”

He glanced over.

She pointed toward the storm. “We got to be gittin’ in the house
now
!” She prayed he’d choose common sense over his livestock.

He veered away from the cow and sprinted toward the gate.

Relieved, Antonia turned to run toward the house. There was a leaden pause to the air as the wind abruptly died. Without warning, rain pounded down so hard she couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of her.

With an ear-piercing screech, the wind roared back to life, tangling her sodden skirt around her ankles. Imprisoned by the heavy material, she couldn’t catch her balance. She tripped over a stone, falling to the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of her.

Thunder crashed overhead. Simultaneously, lightning struck the pole of the clotheslines, so close Antonia could feel the heat. A scream of terror wrenched from her throat. The vivid light seared her eyes, and a deafening noise made her ears ring. An acrid smell filled her nose, and she couldn’t breathe. Or maybe that was the weight of fear pressing on her chest.

“Dear God, Antonia!” Erik grabbed her under her shoulders and yanked her to her feet. Once he had her upright, he circled her waist with his arm and held her against his side.

Bending into the wind, they headed for the house. The several dozen steps to get there seemed to take them forever. Finally, they reached the scanty shelter of the porch.

“Inside!” Erik ordered, pushing her toward the door and followed on her heels.

She stumbled into the house.

Erik slammed the door behind them.

“Maman!”
Henri cried, throwing himself at her.

She tightened her arms around him. “It be all right, son.” Her voice sounded husky, and her knees trembled.

Erik pulled the two of them into an embrace, burying his face in her hair. “The lightning blinded me. All I knew was it struck near you. When my vision cleared, and I saw you on the ground. . . .” He groaned into her hair. “I thought. . .I thought. . . .” He shuddered, obviously unable to say the words.

“My skirt tripped me.” Held against his solid chest, Antonia could feel him shaking, or maybe that was her. She slid her free arm around his waist, needing to be even closer to him. “If I hadn’t fallen, I be hit for sure.” Tears welled. “I would have left my babies behind.” She buried her face between his shoulder and neck so her tears wouldn’t spill over, but despite her best attempts they did, running down his skin.

“Shhh, shhh. You’re safe now. God sent an angel to tangle your skirt, that he did. To keep you here for your family who needs you.”

Antonia inhaled a sharp breath and raised her head, looking at him. “You be right!” The thought of such divine intervention filled her with awe, chasing away the vulnerability she’d felt since the storm hit
. Thank you,
she sent the simple prayer heavenward.
Thank you, thank you!

They huddled together for long moments, seeking comfort as the thunder roared overhead. The house filled with bursts of white flashes, and the walls shook from lightning thudding into the ground. The babies started to cry.

Erik straightened, but not before he pressed a kiss to Antonia’s forehead and another on her cheek. He released her to lean over and give Henri a big hug. Then he picked up Jacques, holding the boy close and kissing the top of his head. He handed the child to her, as if knowing she needed to feel her baby safe in her arms.

Finally, he lifted Camilla out of her cradle and rocked her, kissing his daughter’s forehead and rubbing her back to soothe her.

Seeing Erik’s obvious care for them—his need to reassure himself of each family member’s well-being—touched something inside Antonia, melting the edges of the ice she’d carried in her chest since Jean-Claude’s death.
We be formin’ a connection—a blessin’ blown in on the winds of a storm.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

H
olding only Camilla wasn’t enough. His daughter had stopped crying, and Erik shifted her into one arm so he could drop the other around Antonia’s shoulders and pull her to his side. To his surprise, Henri moved to face them, circling their legs with his thin arms and pressing his face into his mother’s stomach.

They stood together for another few minutes, listening to the sounds of the storm, until Erik had somewhat recovered. He squeezed Antonia’s shoulder, released her, and tried to lighten the tense mood. “Losing two wives in one week would have been too much, don’t you think?”

Antonia gave a shaky laugh, leaning into him and resting her head against his shoulder.

Her height made the position feel intimate. “Everyone in town will start thinking I’m Bluebeard.”

She lifted her head to look at him. “Who be this Bluebeard?”

“He’s from a fairytale by Hans Christian Anderson. How about I read you the story after supper?”

“Supper!” Antonia pulled away from him. “You must be plumb starvin’.” She glanced down at herself. “We be wet. And now we got the babies damp. Best change first.”

With sudden concern, Erik lowered Camilla and fingered her dress. “A bit damp. I think if we change her right away, I’ll have done her no harm.”

Antonia ran her palm over the soft chamois shirt Jacques wore. “He be fine.” She set him down and reached for Camilla. “Her first.” She took the baby from him and headed for the bedroom.

“Keep an eye on your brother,” Erik told Henri. He waited until the next lightning strike passed and dashed outside to close the shutters on the windows, so he could block out the sight of the lightning, at least in the main room. He didn’t dare move off the porch to shutter the bedroom window. No sense making himself a target.

He hadn’t put on his coat, and the howling wind flapped his shirt and whipped his hair over his eyes. Once he covered the windows, he was left in pitch darkness and had to feel his way toward the door.

Erik had never forgotten how, when he was a child, lightning had killed one of their neighbors as he hurried home from the fields carrying a metal rake. The man died instantly, burned to a crisp, leaving behind a widow and three small children.

The thought of how close Antonia had come to the same fate struck fear inside him once again, making him dizzy. He thrust his hands into his pockets to still their shaking and gulped for air.

Erik had never been much of a praying man, but this week he’d made up for that, petitioning the Almighty, nay, battered with his fists on heaven’s very gates, demanding the Lord save Daisy. Afterward, left broken by grief and guilt—ignored, he felt—Erik had gone as far as questioning the very existence of God.

Leaning his back against the wall for support, grateful he wasn’t a widower again, he sent up a prayer of thanksgiving. Then he thanked the Lord for his new family, who were proving to be such an unexpected blessing. His feelings for them were tangled up with his grief for Daisy and perhaps would always be.

Comforted by the act of praying, Erik was able to move again. He carried the rocking chair into the house, figuring the little ones needed extra soothing.

Light glowed from a lamp on the table and another on the counter in the kitchen area where Antonia worked. A candle protected by a glass chimney burned on the small table next to the big chair.

Antonia must have felt the need for extra light tonight.
Erik didn’t blame her. He set the rocking chair in the available space in the living area and hurried into the bedroom to change. Wearing dry clothing, he emerged and walked toward Antonia and the children.

She had changed into her Indian garb and had unfastened her braid, brushing out her hair and leaving it loose in a dark fall to her waist. She held Camilla in one arm, while Jacques whined and pressed against her leg, chubby fists clenching her tunic.

Henri stood on his mother’s other side—not holding on, but looking like he wished to.

With her free hand, Antonia tried to assemble the ingredients for their meal but was hampered by the children made fretful and clingy from the constant barrage of thunder and lightning.

Antonia turned and frowned in obvious frustration. She held out his daughter. “Fussing, she be, not likin’ the ruckus outside.”

“None of us likes the ruckus outside,” Erik said in a wry tone, taking the baby from her.

She waved him toward the rocking chair. “Make yourself be useful, Pa. You can hold both Jacques and Camilla at the same time, so I can be about the business of cookin’ supper.”

Holding his daughter in one arm, he stooped to wrap his other arm around Jacques’s middle and lifted the boy.

Jacques wailed at being taken away from his mother. He kicked and arched his back, holding out his hands toward her.

Erik clamped the boy tight to his side to keep him from slithering out from under his arm and hurried to the rocking chair. He maneuvered the two babies so they each sat on one of his legs, their heads resting on his arms. Once he started rocking, both Jacques and Camilla settled.

To keep Henri occupied and out of his mother’s way, Erik called the boy over and had him bring the slate and sit on the floor next to him. He asked Henri to draw the letters and numbers he’d learned in school today.

With no available hands, Erik could only verbally instruct Henri when his stepson made a mistake. But, for the most part, the child did fine on his own. He seemed to have gotten
A
through
H
down, although his
B
faced the wrong way, and his
1
through
10
looked good.

Although his insides still hadn’t settled, and he was in the midst of one of the worst thunderstorms he’d weathered in the last few years, Erik still enjoyed the homey domestic scene, perhaps more so because of what had gone before. He looked forward to reading
Bluebeard
to an audience unfamiliar with the story, although if Henri stayed awake, he might have to stop before some of the grim parts.

Antonia seemed to have recovered her customary equanimity. She hummed as she worked, stirring something in the frying pan, not even flinching when thunder boomed overhead.

He couldn’t help marveling at her calm. Daisy had always hated storms, ducking at each flash of lightning as if she were about to be struck and complaining all the while—as if she held him accountable for the weather. More than once, Erik had lost his patience and informed her that he did
not
possess the power to calm the wind and rain.

He tried not to think of the elements pounding on Daisy’s lonely grave. The image of her lying cold under the earth made his heart heavy.
She’s not there
, he reminded himself.
She’s safe and warm and happy in heaven.
But he couldn’t quite shake his melancholy at the thought of his wife in a box under several feet of dirt, and he wondered if Antonia had similar thoughts about Jean-Claude’s solitary resting place on the mountain. Somehow, that seemed even more tragic, for at least Daisy was laid to rest nearby.

He worried about the fate of Annabelle Lee and her two calves unprotected in the field. The thunder and lightning were enough to put off the cow’s milk. He hoped the lightning wouldn’t strike the barn. A fire, even if quickly drenched by the rain, would deal a devastating blow to his finances—one that could cause him to lose everything.

The rumbling thunder didn’t cease, as if the storm had decided to settle over their farm and stay awhile. Sometimes, the wind pushed down the stovepipe, making the stove belch ashes and noxious fumes into the room.

Antonia seemed to take the hazards in stride. Once she turned and sent him a rueful smile. “Cookin’ in a fireplace durin’ a storm be far worse, eh? I usually give up and have jerky or pemmican or some such.”

He admired her, this new wife of his—the matter of fact way she’d gone about making a new life for her family, her obvious love for his daughter, the small ways she’d begun to take care of him. . . . Yes, in a short time, Antonia had become very dear—as confused and guilty as such emotion made him feel.

Sometime during the night, the storm left as abruptly as it had come. In the early morning darkness, with just a hint of light to make gray shadows in the room, Antonia awoke in Erik’s arms, feeling languid and warm. He laid on his back, with her body tucked against his side, her head on his shoulder. Inhaling the scent of his skin, already familiar, and feeling the softness of the bed underneath them, she felt cocooned and safe.

Jacques slept at her back, and Henri behind him, the four of them snug like peas in a pod. Since the thunder and lightning made everyone uneasy, they’d piled together on Erik’s bed, the children quickly falling asleep. Later, when she’d nursed Camilla, she’d put the child back in her cradle.

In the hush of the morning, still only half-awake, Antonia tried to keep guilt at bay and allow herself the luxury of a few dreamy moments.
Be it wrong to pretend that I love this man, and he loves me? Be I betrayin’ Jean-Claude, or be I takin’ what comfort I can find?

She hadn’t slept in Jean-Claude’s arms for a long time—not since Jacques was born, anyway. The baby had slept between them. Now she regretted their assumption that plenty of time lay before them to wake in each other’s arms. They’d even joked about when Jacques was weaned that he’d share a pallet with his brother. For the first time since Henri’s birth, they could sleep without children and, perhaps, Jean-Claude had laughed, quickly make another.

Erik stirred, tightening his arm around her.

Antonia let out a ragged breath, resolving to savor this time with Erik, not fret over a past she couldn’t change. Gradually, she drifted back to sleep.

A short while later, she felt Erik move from her side. She opened her eyes and saw him already half-dressed, his back to her, as he shrugged himself into his shirt. She wished the room had more light to better view the muscles of his broad back.

When Erik finished, he turned toward the bed and caught her watching him. “Morning,” he said softly, sitting on the bed to take her hand. He pressed a kiss to her palm.

The touch of his lips on her skin sent tingles rushing through her.

“Are you all right after last night’s storm?”

“I be fine.” Antonia shifted closer to him and had to suppress a wince, when her muscles throbbed.
Maybe not be so fine.
But she didn’t want to complain. The plowing and planting Erik had recently done probably made him just as sore.

“Good.” He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “I’ll bring in some milk for breakfast.”

Antonia sent her husband off to the milking with a smile and lingered in the warm bed for a few more minutes. Last night, she and Erik had resolved that Henri wouldn’t attend school today. The road would be too muddy for the wagon, and the way was too far for him to ride alone. But still, all too soon, she’d have to be up and about her day—for one thing, she had most of the laundry to do all over again. She suppressed a groan at the thought.

The need to use the privy finally pushed her out of bed. Without bothering to dress, she shoved her feet into her moccasins, and, still wearing her nightgown, went outside. She picked her way through the mud and around puddles until she reached the outhouse. Afterward, she washed up, left her muddy moccasins on the porch, and dressed in her Indian garb.
I might never again wear a dress around here. Only when I go to town.
She hoped Erik would not care what she wore.

Aiming to cook breakfast, Antonia hefted the ham from the pantry, cutting off several slices to fry. When the slabs sizzled, a cloud of sweet scent rose into her face, and her stomach clenched with hunger. Once finished, she cut small pieces for Jacques and Henri and then gobbled up a few for herself like the chickens after grain.

Far sooner than she’d expected, Antonia heard Erik’s footsteps on the porch, sounding heavy and slow, not at all like the firm stride she’d heard when he’d left the house.

He walked inside, his shoulders slumping and his features drawn, looking much the same he’d done on the day Daisy died. Without even bothering to take off his hat and coat, he strode to the big chair and dropped into it, lowering his face into his hands.

Her stomach clenched with dread. She moved the pan to the cooler part of the stovetop and rushed over to him. “Erik?” She placed a hand on his shoulder.

He didn’t answer, only moved his head back and forth, his face still buried in his hands.

“Erik.” Her tone sharpened with fear. “Tell me what be wrong!” She removed his hat, dropping it on the floor.

He let out a shuddering breath and raised his face to her. “Lightning struck and killed Annabelle Lee and one of her calves. I know I should butcher them right away so we can use the meat, but I couldn’t face it, Antonia. Not yet. It’s too much.”

She sucked in a sharp breath of understanding. She knew that cow was his favorite. Another painful loss for him. Not the same as a wife, but perhaps felt all the more deeply because he was already vulnerable from grief.