Healing Montana Sky (3 page)

With awe, Erik held the slippery mite in his hands, noting that he had a daughter. “A girl!”

Thank you, dear Lord.
Tears of joy pricked his eyes, and, unashamed, he blinked them away. He met Daisy’s gaze, seeing the joy on her pale face.

He used the damp cloth to wipe the baby’s face and nose, and then gave her a gentle smack on the tiny behind. She let out a feeble wail, and he laughed in relief. “That’s it, love, my Camilla.” Erik held the baby up so his wife could see, careful of the dangling umbilical cord.

Daisy watched the baby with dreamy eyes. Her lips moved in a slight smile. “Beautiful,” she whispered.

Erik turned back to the task of pinching the umbilical cord, severing it, and tying it off.

He wiped his daughter’s head, face, and body with a damp cloth, his movements careful.
She’s so tiny and feels so fragile.

He started to lay the baby on Daisy’s chest, but something about his wife’s still body sent a jolt of fear through him. Cradling the babe with one arm, he saw the pool of blood between his wife’s legs. Fear shafted through him.
Too much blood!

Erik set the baby on top of the blanket in the cradle in the corner next to the bed.

Camilla flailed her arms and legs.

Erik tucked the blanket over the baby’s body. Moving to the bureau, he grabbed two flannel diapers from the stack that Daisy had put on top and used one to sop up the moisture between her legs. Red soaked the cloth.
If the bleeding doesn’t stop, she’ll die.

Time passed in a blur. Erik massaged Daisy’s stomach and kept changing the cloths as one became too sodden.

Daisy remained still, her lips bloodless, her skin as pale as marble. Slowly, the life light faded from her blue eyes.

Erik touched his hand to the side of Daisy’s neck and didn’t feel a pulse. Dropping to his knees by the bed, he placed an ear to his wife’s chest. He heard only silence, instead of the familiar thump-thump.

“Daisy!” Erik jumped to his feet and grabbed the hand mirror from the bureau, holding it to her mouth, hoping against hope to see fog from her breath.

Nothing.

“No!” Erik dropped the mirror, barely hearing it shatter as it hit the floor. He collapsed on the bed next to her, pulling her body to him. He gently closed her eyelids and kissed her forehead. “Come back, love. Please don’t leave me. Don’t leave our baby. She needs you.
We
need you.”

He hugged Daisy tighter, holding her for a long, sad moment. He lowered her to the pillow. “Thank you for our child, my love. I promise I will raise her to be a credit to you.”

A whimper made him leap to his feet, bend over the cradle, and scoop up the baby, blanket and all.

I need to get to town, to the doctor, or our daughter will follow her mother to the grave.

Antonia had been to Sweetwater Springs a total of three times. Once when they’d first moved to the vicinity of the town, and twice before Henri was born, when Jean-Claude had taken his furs to sell, and they had a chance to buy supplies. On those trips, she’d met no one, although she’d exchanged smiles with other women walking on the street or in the store. She vaguely recalled the shopkeeper, remembering the older woman as an unpleasant person.

Now, walking into town, leading the two mules, she was conscious of her grubby state and her Indian garb. She’d washed up at the last stream, but she still smelled like campfire smoke. The only dress she owned was from her girlhood and was threadbare and far too small, even with letting out all the seams. The other two she used to own had eventually worn out. Since they tended to spend summers with the Indians, it had been easier and more practical to adopt the clothing of the squaws—a long tunic that today she wore with leggings. Yet in this town full of white folks, she’d already drawn some astonished or condemning stares.

Feeling vulnerable, Antonia turned her face away from a man who leered at her, only to see a building under construction on the opposite side. The sounds of hammering slowed, and she didn’t dare look to see if the workers also watched her.

Where should we go?
On the three-day walk to the town, Antonia had plenty of time to think about what she could do to support her children. If Jean-Claude were alive, they could get by for almost a year on the sale of the furs. But with paying for shelter, food she hadn’t grown or hunted, town clothing. . . .
Cain’t last more than a season.

As far as she knew, jobs for women were scarce. She could cross off the list teacher or anything else that required an education. She couldn’t read or write. Washerwoman? Perhaps, although she had little practical experience with anything but using lye soap in a stream on the scant garb they wore that wasn’t leather. Seamstress? She glanced down at her tunic. She didn’t think there’d be much call for leatherwork in town. Saloon girl? Jean-Claude would turn over in his grave if she went anywhere near a saloon.
What will I do?

Exhaustion weighed on her as heavy as her grief. Jacques had fussed much of the night, keeping her up trying to soothe him.

After the freedom of the mountains, walking through town felt uncomfortable, and Antonia had difficulty breathing. Even though the dirt street was wide, the buildings, both brick and the false-fronted wooden ones, seemed to press in on her.

“
Maman
,” said Henri, clutching his brother astride the mule.

Her son sounded worried. Antonia paused and reached up to touch his knee. “All will be well,
mon fils
.” She wished she could believe her words.

Antonia stopped in the middle of the dirt street. Although she should head toward the brick mercantile building to sell the furs, something about the white frame church drew her. Her childhood of following the army with her soldier father had made for a mixture of religious experiences, but in marrying Jean-Claude, she had become Catholic. Perhaps she could slip into the church and say a prayer, asking for guidance for herself and offering words for Jean-Claude.
Maybe my prayers can make up for burying him without a priest.

She glanced up at the boys, sitting on the mule. Jacques slept in Henri’s arms, and her older son watched her with solemn golden eyes. He had a smudge of dirt on one cheekbone, and a sprinkling of freckles across his nose had popped out from the last few days in the sun, away from the tree-shaded mountains. They’d be fine by themselves for a few minutes while she went inside to pray.

Antonia led the mules toward the church, conscious of tiredness weighing her down and the numbness in her heart. She stopped at a hitching rail at the side of the building. Before she could loop the reins over it, an elderly man in a black frock coat and clerical cravat strode up to her.

Antonia studied his austere, white-bearded face. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she knew she wouldn’t be allowed to pray in the church.

He stopped in front of her and gave a slight incline of his head.

Antonia braced herself. She’d be lucky if they weren’t run out of town for being heathens. She made to turn around, but the man held up a hand, and she stopped, unable to meet his gaze.

He lifted his hat in greeting. “I’m Reverend Norton. Were you looking for me?” He studied her with piercing blue eyes.

“I be hopin’ to go inside and pray.” She glanced up at the boys. “My husband. . .he died a few days ago. Killed by a grizzly, he be.”

His expression softened.

Antonia wondered if she’d misjudged him.

The man gestured to a small house behind and to the right of the church. “You’ve had a hard time of it, then. Why don’t you come to my home? My wife can provide a meal, and I can offer an ear, some prayers, and, if needed, some advice.”

At his kindness, sudden tears sprang to her eyes. She ducked her head to blink them away. “Mighty kind, preacher.” Her voice sounded husky. “I be Antonia Valleau. My older son be Henri, and the baby be Jacques.”

He smiled and tipped his head toward the little house, white-framed like the church. “Leave the mules and bring the children.”

Antonia lifted Jacques down from the mule. The baby stirred but didn’t awaken. He’d always been a good sleeper, something she was deeply grateful for.

The minister slipped his hands around Henri’s waist. “Down you go.” He lifted the boy to the ground.

Henri looked up at her for assurance.

“Follow the preacher,” she told him.

They traipsed up the stairs and into a small main room. A slight woman wearing a blue dress appeared, drying her hands on a spotless apron. She had a sweet wrinkled face and white hair drawn back into a tight bun. She gave Antonia a welcoming smile.

Embarrassed by her Indian garb, Antonia shyly bobbed her head.

Reverend Norton gestured to the woman. “My wife, Mrs. Norton. Mrs. Valleau has just lost her husband.”

Mrs. Norton frowned, concern in her blue eyes. She reached out and touched Antonia’s arm. “You poor dear. I’m so sorry to hear that. Do you want me to take the children while you talk with Reverend Norton?”

Henri pressed against Antonia’s side.

“They be not used to strangers.”

Mrs. Norton gave an understanding nod. “Of course. Hopefully, they’ll warm up to us. In the meantime, I’m sure you all are hungry. Let me dish up some food.”

“Thank you kindly.”

Reverend Norton opened the door to the right, ushering her into a small, cluttered room.

Henri, clutching the hem of Antonia’s tunic, followed.

She took a chair across from the paper-and-book-covered desk, settled the baby against her, and patted the chair next to her for Henri to sit.

Her son climbed up gingerly, unused to chairs. In their cabin, they’d sat on crude stools padded with pelts and slept on furs on the floor. She hadn’t sat in a regular chair since she was fifteen, about ten or so years ago, and had married Jean-Claude and set off for a life as a trapper’s wife.

The minister sat on the desk chair. He glanced at her, white eyebrows raised, waiting for Antonia to begin.

The kind expression on his face encouraged her to talk. The words came out haltingly, but then sped up. Soon, she’d told him the whole sad story, pausing when she had to grope for a word. She’d grown so used to mostly speaking French with Jean-Claude, although she tried to use English with the boys so they’d know both languages.

He nodded and stroked his beard. “Your entire life has changed in the last days.”

“I be so angry with him!” The emotion burst from her. “Jean-Claude killed them bears all the while we been in the mountains. Be he careless?”

At her outburst, she saw Henri’s face go chalky. She warned herself to hush, but the feelings pulsed so inside her.

“I’ve observed that anger is a common reaction to a death caused by an accident,” said the reverend. “Or in this case, a wild animal. I bet you wish you could give him a good scold.”

Antonia stared at the minister. “How be you knowing?” She blushed, realizing whom she was talking to. “I be sure you’ve been doin’ this often.”

His expression grew somber. “Far more than I would like.”

“Be. . .be it always this raw? Like knives stabbing into my heart?”

“No. But for a while, the pain will be overwhelming. At some point, which is different for everyone, some of the edges of your grief will cease to be so sharp.”

Antonia shifted back in her chair.

Jacques stirred in her arms, made a little noise, and subsided.

Henri leaned his head against her shoulder.

She dredged up memories of preachers from her childhood. “You be not tellin’ me he’s an angel up in heaven? Me be thinkin’ you’re supposed to.”

Reverend Norton gave her a wry smile. “Many ministers do say those kinds of things. Not that they say
—” he hastily added “—Jean-Claude’s an angel, for the angelic host isn’t human—but they’ll tell you his soul is at peace in heaven. A true statement. . . .”

She wasn’t sure what the preacher meant but didn’t want to ask.

“However, I’ve found that the only time that statement helps is when the deceased has suffered before he or she died. Then the thought of the loved one no longer suffering does bring comfort. But your husband was a healthy man—one whom you expected to have many happy years with. . .to raise your sons together. You don’t want him in heaven yet. You want him with you here on Earth.”

Antonia swallowed the lump in her throat, feeling less weighed down by anger and guilt. “Yes,” she whispered. “I thought I be selfish.”

“No, my dear Mrs. Valleau. Just human. And the Lord who created us certainly understands our humanness.”

Comforted by his words, she rubbed her hand over Jacques’s silky hair.

The sleeping baby didn’t stir.

“Thank you. The pain be still there, still be as strong, but mayhap I be a bit more able to bear it and all.”

“Talking is very helpful. You’ve lived a very isolated life. And women, as I’ve observed and my dear helpmate has explained, need the companionship of other women. They need to talk about their feelings.” A look of humorous bewilderment crossed his face. “So much so that it often makes my head spin.”