Healing Montana Sky (34 page)

Embarrassed, Antonia allowed him to assist her to her feet. Finding her backbone, she drew herself up and straightened her shoulders. “My apologies, Mr. Livingston. You must think me the most weak-minded of females. It’s just that. . .that. . .my husband and Mr. O’Donnell have traveled to the mountains to log for the winter’s firewood. They are four days late getting home, and I’ve been fearing the worst.” She bit her lip, forcing the words out. “The last time I had a husband who was late, the worst
had
occurred.”

“I understand. Please—” the banker waved to the rocking chairs “—sit.” He removed his hat.

Antonia managed not to betray how her knees trembled. She perched on the edge of the seat, holding the chair steady so it wouldn’t rock. “Please forgive my reaction, Mr. Livingston.” She laid a hand on her chest. “Now I feel quite foolish.”

“Pay it no mind.”

“You are kind.” She gave him a direct look. The man was handsome enough to turn a woman’s head.
If a woman didn’t already love her husband
. The revelation about her feelings for Erik shocked her.

He gave her a half smile. “Kindness is
not
something I’ve ever been accused of before, Mrs. Muth. Bankers can’t afford to be kind.”

“
Everyone
can afford to be kind,” she corrected.

“Perhaps you will not think so when you learn why I’ve traveled here.”

Inside, Antonia still felt shaky, although her mind was beginning to clear. “Whatever the reason be,
does
not take away kindness. That is
not
how it works.”

“No.” His smile was wry. He gestured to the second rocker.

Mr. Livingston doesn’t look like a man who sits in rocking chairs.
Antonia nodded for him to sit.

He settled himself on the edge of the seat, having to find his balance, and set his hat on his legs. “How long did you say your husband has been gone?”

“Seven days. He meant to be away only three.” She gripped the edge of her apron.

His jaw tightened. “In a discussion several Sundays ago, your husband indicated he intended to keep you appraised of the thievery situation in Sweetwater Springs over the last six or so months.”

Antonia gave a hesitant nod, wondering if she would need to defend the Blackfoot again. “He did inform me.”

“He also mentioned that you are a crack shot with a rifle. Seemed quite proud of the fact.”

Mr. Livingston spoke as if he couldn’t understand Erik’s attitude, but pleasure bloomed in her.

“If Mr. Muth hasn’t been in town in the last week, then he hasn’t heard the news buzzing about the place concerning the Indian thievery. The word has gotten out, and gossip and panic are rife, with the Cobbs being the instigators of the anti-Indian sentiment.”

Antonia clenched her hands.

“I can’t say I blame them.”

She bit her lip.
What does this mean for my Indian friends?

“The town leaders held a meeting yesterday to discuss the situation. The sheriff isn’t sure if the stealing incidences have escalated, or if more reports being made are because people now assume events of missing livestock are due to the redskins.”

Oh, no!

“The sheriff’s chasing her tail with having to check out each one. Unfortunately, many livestock disappearances appear to be from natural causes—wandering off, or animal predation, which is wasting her time and slowing the investigation. She also fears some unscrupulous people may be stealing from their neighbors and blaming things on the redskins, or perhaps are even butchering and eating their own livestock and then reporting them as having been stolen.”

Antonia wanted to surge to her feet and pace across the porch. She forced herself to remain still, but her fingernails dug into her palms from the effort. “That is unfair to the Blackfoot.”

“Recently, the majority of the reports seem to be heightened in this area. Shots were exchanged at the Hansen place.” He waved in a northeastern direction. “Sheriff Granger spoke with your neighbors, the Knapps, on Sunday to warn them to stay alert. I’ll stop by Mrs. O’Donnell’s on the way home, so she knows to be on guard. The sheriff is sending out riders to cover the rest of the area.”

“I thank you for your concern, Mr. Livingston. We will be watchful.” She decided not to mention her connection with the Blackfoot and made a mental note to keep Henri close to the house.

“Good.” He let out a breath. “Now for what really brings me out here. . . . Normally, I would speak to your husband, so as not to trouble you. However, since I’ve already troubled you. . .”

She gestured for him to continue.

“Mr. Muth took out a loan to build that.” He lifted his chin, pointing in the direction of the barn. “He has quarterly payments due on the amount he owes, and if he’s late, then there is an extra penalty. The money was due yesterday, Mrs. Muth. And thus, your husband is in arrears.”

Arrears?
“What is the meaning, sir?”

“Behind and owing a penalty,” he explained.

Antonia had been so focused on the fact that Mr. Livingston might have brought her bad news about Erik’s death that it hadn’t occurred to her that because the man was a
banker
, he thus must be here about
money.
“Oh,” was all she could say, while she gathered her scattered wits about her. “I didn’t know.” She wished the words unsaid as soon as they left her mouth.

“And why should you? Ladies have no need to be involved in business.”

His tone was still kind, but the assumption made her hackles rise. “How much does he owe?” she asked.

He hesitated. “Perhaps I should save this discussion for when Mr. Muth returns.”

Antonia thought of Jean-Claude’s money.
Will it be enough?
“I will pay you, Mr. Livingston,” she said in a firm tone. “But I need to know the amount.”

With obvious reluctance, he named the sum and the penalty.

Antonia held in a gasp. Her chest tightened.
That will take almost everything I have.
“Has Mr. Muth ever been late before?”

“There have only been three quarterly payments so far. But he paid on the due date with each.”

“In that case, sir. . .” She spoke every word clearly. “My husband would have paid on the due date this time, too. But since he’s delayed in the wilderness and may be unable to travel. . .if I pay what’s owed, will you forgive the penalty?”

He sat in silence, studying her.

“Just this once, please.”

“Due to the circumstances you both have undergone. I will waive the penalty. Indeed, I owe it to you for frightening you so.”

“Oh, thank you, sir,” she said in relief.

His lips quirked. “Just don’t bandy that fact about.”

“We will be silent.” Antonia rose. “I will get the money for you. Shall I bring you anything? Tea?” She gave thanks that they’d replenished the supply on their last trip to town. “Water?”

He stood and gestured toward the well. “Water will be fine. I’ll get it myself. And if I could water the horses?”

“Of course. Let me bring you a cup.”

Back straight, Antonia walked into the house and to the bedroom, her knees still shaky. She kept the money in a beaded pouch in the bureau.

The babies slept—Camilla in the cradle she was almost too big for, and Jacques sprawled on the bed. But even as she watched, he stirred.

She pulled out the money, counting the bills, her fingers shaky. With the money in her hand, she moved into the kitchen to grab a tin cup and then walked outside. “Here is your money, Mr. Livingston.” She gave the funds to him, not by tone or posture conveying how loath she was to part with her savings, and her growing resentment with Erik for putting her in this position. “I apologize that you had to drive all the way out here to be paid what’s owed you. That be. . .isn’t right.” She held out the cup.

The banker counted out the bills. Grasping her hand, he removed the cup. “I appreciate the chance to quench my thirst.”

Did he think I’d be runnin’ him off the place, offer no hospitality?
She reconsidered.
Well, if the banker’s visits always brought bad news to those already lacking funds, perhaps he had reason to believe such.
Antonia hesitated, then rushed out the words. “You be a good man, Mr. Livingston. You remember that, hear?”

In the house, Jacques cried out.

The banker tipped his hat to her. “Tend to your child, Mrs. Muth. I’ll avail myself of your water and be on my way.” He turned and walked down the steps and across the yard.

For some reason, Antonia thought the well-dressed man had a lonely set to his shoulders, for all he walked so upright. She turned to go to Jacques before the boy woke up his sister.

As she shut the door, Antonia felt like she was wrung out from all the emotions she’d just experienced—from terror, to love, to resentment, and now anger welled up inside her. She couldn’t believe Erik had been so disappointed with how she’d withheld her lack of education, drawn back from her even, and yet he’d gone and done the same thing with keeping the loan a secret.

You wait ’til you git home, Erik Muth. You’re goin’ to git a piece of my mind for keepin’ such important business from me!

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

T
hat night, Antonia had a hard time sleeping. The full moon beamed through the windows, making the room lighter than she was used to. Camilla was fussy, waking every few hours. After nursing the baby, she lay awake, her thoughts torn between worry about Erik, the reevaluation of her newfound love, and anger with him.

She wanted him home safe so she could fall into his arms in relief and then give him a scold that would make his hair stand on end.

Finally, she’d given up on sleep, getting out of bed, changing from her nightgown to her tunic and slipping her feet into her moccasins. Taking a blanket from Erik’s bed, she moved across the floor and stepped outside.

Schatzy slept in a straw-filled box on the porch.

She woke the puppy, who wiggled with joy and licked Antonia’s face. Wrapping the blanket around her, she settled on the rocking chair, with Schatzy who could barely fit on her lap. She watched the moon-washed setting and inhaled the scent from sweet clover blooming around the porch. Gradually, she allowed the rhythm of rocking and petting the dog to lull her into drowsiness. After about twenty minutes, chilled, Antonia crouched to put the dog back into the box.

The puppy whimpered, wanting more attention.

“Stay.”

The dog had learned that word and curled into a ball.

Antonia gave Schatzy a final pat before going into the house. Yawning, she didn’t bother to change again; instead she sank down on the bearskin next to Henri, kicked off her moccasins, and spread the blanket around her. Within minutes, she was asleep.

The bark of the dog startled her awake.
Erik!
Antonia sat up, her anger with her husband forgotten in the wave of relief washing over her. But something about Schatzy’s bark—a deeper, more threatening sound accompanied by growls—told her something else had disturbed the animal. Dashing across the room, she grabbed the rifle from over the door.

“
Maman
?” Henri sounded scared.

“Get up
now
, Henri, and come here.” Antonia handed him the rifle and took down the second one, grateful they kept them loaded. “Hold this for me.” She peered through the window, careful not to expose her full face. Dawn had broken and replaced the milky moonlight with a sky tinged with pink.

As she half expected, Antonia could see shadowy figures creeping toward the henhouse.
They must be desperate, risking the dog waking us.

“Stay here, right behind the door,” she ordered her son. “But be ready to hand me the rifle if I say.”

“Oui, Maman.”

Antonia opened the door and stepped onto the porch, her bare feet silent on the wood. She raised the rifle, aimed, and shot, plowing two bullets into the dirt, right in front of the men.

Five days after they were due back, Erik pulled up the wagon in front of the O’Donnell homestead, setting the brake and tying off the reins. They’d taken advantage of the full moon, leaving hours before dawn and driving through Sweetwater Springs before most people had awoken.

He was so antsy to reach his farm, having missed Antonia and the children more than he’d thought possible. He was starving and filthy and couldn’t wait for a meal and a bath. But first, Erik needed to drop off Rory, water the horses, and unload half the wagon.

“Home at last,” Rory said with a tired sigh and a grin. The man sat next to Erik, a sapling on his lap, the roots wrapped in burlap—one of several pine saplings the two had brought as gifts for their wives. He propped the tree on the seat and jumped down from the wagon.

The door of the house flew open, and the twins and Charlie raced out, calling, “Da! Da!” They ran into his arms.

Rory laughed, hugging his children.

Envy stabbed Erik. He wanted that kind of welcome when he returned home but wasn’t sure either Antonia or Henri was the type to run to greet him.

Henrietta followed behind her brood, a hand braced on her chest.

Rory extracted himself from the tangle of children and opened his arms to his wife.

“Thank the saints!” She ran into her husband’s embrace and burst into tears.

Rory held his wife close, patting her back. “Now, now. I’m sorry to be a frettin’ you with our lateness.”

The children all started talking at once.

Erik relaxed on the seat, giving the man a few minutes to enjoy his homecoming. Hearing the word
Indians
uttered by one of the twins made his ears prick. He leaped off the wagon, strode around the horses, and toward the family. “What’s this about Indians?”

Henrietta pulled away from Rory and mopped her eyes with the bottom of her apron. “Such a time of worry, what with you two being late and wondering what might have happened—if you were injured or killed,” she scolded. “I can only imagine what Antonia must be going through, given what occurred with Jean-Claude.” She shot Erik a sharp glance. “And with the threat of the Indians, I didn’t dare go check on her, nor send Charlie.”

“Shandy cut himself on a spar.” Erik gestured to the cloth wrapped around the gelding’s foreleg. “We had to doctor the wound and to wait for him to heal.” He brushed the air in an impatient gesture for her to hurry up with telling the story of the Indians. “We drove straight through town, not speaking with a soul.”

Henrietta pushed back a lock of hair that blew across her face. “Mr. Livingston came by with news that the town is in an uproar about Indians stealing livestock. A few days ago, there was a shooting. I haven’t gotten any more news.”

Livingston!
Erik held in a groan, realizing he’d missed the payment for the barn and would now also owe a late fee. Shame burned through him. The banker had driven out to collect.
The man must think I’m unreliable.

Did he tell Antonia about the loan?

“Mr. Livingston said that there are thieving Indians in the area, that the sheriff is searching for them, and warned us to be on guard. Charlie’s been keeping watch with the rifle, but it’s a big job for a boy.” She huffed out a long breath. “I declare, I haven’t slept a wink.”

Rory and Erik exchanged worried glances. His neighbor waved at the wagon. “Everyone, let’s help getting the wood unloaded. Just dump the wood on the side. We’ll stack it later. Charlie, fetch some water for the horses. We won’t take the time to unhitch them.”

“Aye, Da.” Charlie ran to the well.

“Henrietta.” Rory pointed to the seat. “If you could take my bag. And I’ve brought you some pine trees. Let me grab them.”

She clasped her hands in front of her. “Trees. How lovely of you.”

Erik reached under the seat and removed the Winchester from the box he’d made to store it. He transferred the saplings to the floorboard and laid the rifle on the seat.

With everyone pitching in to help, the group made short work of unloading half the wood supply. No sooner had the O’Donnell family tossed the last piece aside than Erik drove the wagon in a wide circle, heading back down the track that led to the main road and home.

His stomach tight with fear, he was tempted to speed the horses. But he knew they were tired from pulling the heavy wagon such a long way.

Dozens of dreadful scenarios of Indian attacks flashed through his mind—his wife dead, his children left vulnerable or even kidnapped.
Surely, the Indians wouldn’t kill the children?

Except they had in the past. As we have killed their women and children.
He thought of the Marias massacre when the army slew a friendly band of women, children, and elderly men. Although twenty-five years earlier, he was sure the Blackfoot hadn’t forgotten the tragedy.

Almost sick with dread, Erik reined in his runaway thoughts, reminding himself the local Indians hadn’t hurt anyone up to this point—or taken any children.
They can’t even feed the ones they have.
With his mind finally under his control, he remembered his wife’s capabilities.

But even able to think more rationally, he had a gut feeling that something was wrong.

Thank God, she’s so self-sufficient! I can depend on her.

In that moment, Erik realized he loved Antonia. The emotion sideswiped him, filling him with astonishment and joy. He didn’t know whether to laugh or yell and couldn’t wait to tell her of his feelings.
Even if I can’t be sure she loves me back, I want her to know. Please, God, may she be all right. May they all be!

Finally, his house and barn came into sight, tiny in the distance, seeming to take forever to grow larger. Yet, he couldn’t whip his team to greater speed, for sweat already lathered the horses’ necks.
I can’t ruin my horses because of my foolish fears.

Three mounts he didn’t know stood tied up near the water. They wore saddle pads instead of saddles, and feathers fluttered from one of the rope hackamores.

The sight of the horses made his heart kick against his ribs. Instead of driving any farther, he reined in the team, set the brake, and tied off the reins. With the rifle in one hand, he leaped down, running at an angle to the house. If the Indians watched from the kitchen window, they’d see him. But he had to take the chance.

Erik reached the side of the house and plastered himself against the wall where he couldn’t be seen from the front. Wondering where Schatzy was, he scanned the yard, relieved not to see the body of the young dog.

His stomach so tight his breath was short, Erik slid around the corner to the front, pausing to remove his boots, for he couldn’t possibly move across the porch without being heard. Cautiously, he ducked under the side of the porch railing and pressed his back to the wall.

The guttural sound of a man’s voice, in a language Erik couldn’t understand, came through the open door. The hair on his arms rose. Although he wanted to lean and glance in the window, he didn’t want to be sighted.

Dropping to his knees, Erik crawled underneath the window, careful to keep the rifle from banging on the floor. On the other side, he rose to his feet, stepping to the edge of the doorway. The smell of frying ham drifted his way, and he wrinkled his nose, wondering if they were forcing Antonia to feed them.

His heart in his throat, Erik said a quick prayer, took a deep breath, and with one move leaped around and through the door, his rifle leveled.