Healing Montana Sky

by Debra Holland

  Maybe Daisy was right. I was reckless, buying on credit. They’d fought about the decision, and, determined, he’d gone his own way. Afterward, she didn’t speak to him for three days. Remembering made the heavy chains around his heart clank.

  Erik flicked the reins, and the horses ambled on. He drew up before a wooden building with a false front. “Phineas O’ Reilly, Coffin Maker, Carpenter, and Cabinetmaker” was painted in crooked letters above the dusty window.

  In the past when Erik had seen the sign, he’d wondered why the man had chosen to put Coffin Maker first. Now he knew the answer. Probably O’Reilly’s most lucrative business, he thought bitterly. Erik parked the wagon, climbed down, and went inside.

  Phineas O’Reilly stood behind a wooden counter talking to Banker Livingston. Phineas was a burly man with a scruffy beard, and rusty red hair pulled back in a bushy tail. He wore a carpenter’s smock over a dirty shirt and pants, quite the contrast from the handsome immaculate banker standing in front of him, wearing a fancy suit.

  The carpenter gave Erik a quick nod but didn’t break his attention from the banker.

  Erik moved over to the front corner to inspect a side table with curved legs. He ran his hand over the smooth finish of the surface. Daisy would love this. Once again, pain stabbed him. She’s gone, he told himself. You need to accept the fact. He moved over to examine a painted cabinet, flowers decorating the top and sides. The man does good work.

  “I need wine racks,” Livingston said. “I’m expecting a shipment from France, and the racks I have won’t be big enough to hold them all.” The banker waved his arms and described what he wanted.

  Erik felt a flash of envy, wishing he, too, was ordering fancy wine racks, rather than a cheap coffin to bury his wife in. He’d never been inside the Livingston mansion, but judging from the outside, the house was a far cry from his humble abode. He made himself turn away from the comparisons by thinking about the room he needed to add on for the Valleau family.

  Something else to eat away at my savings. For a moment, a crushing sense of burden weighed down on him. He stared out the window, not seeing the sunlit day but only empty darkness.

  The two men finished up their business, and Erik listened to the conversation again.

  “Mighty perty squaw came through town this morning,” O’Reilly said with a wide smile, which showed missing teeth.

  The carpenter offered the tidbits of gossip to the banker like he was handling him gold on a platter. Erik didn’t know why O’Reilly didn’t mind his own business. The man was worse than a woman with his loose tongue. At least Livingston didn’t have that avid expression on his patrician face that overcame gossipers at the very hint of something new to ferret out about their neighbors’ bad luck.

  Daisy’s death would provide the carpenter with fresh news. But short of stuffing a permanent sock in O’Reilly’s mouth, there wasn’t any way to prevent talk. By sundown, everyone in town would know of his wife’s passing.

  “I was just leaving the Cobbs’ and saw the squaw,” O’Reilly continued. “Two mules, one carrying good-looking pelts. Two little ones. No man in sight. Shore was a tempting piece. Stopped by the church, she did.”

  Livingston looked like he’d sucked sour milk. “Surely, you don’t find an Indian woman attractive?”

  Erik clenched his fists, wanting to punch the banker. Not a good thing to do to the man who holds my note.

  O’Reilly laughed and slapped his leg. Sawdust flew into the air. “Shore do. Any woman’s attractive when you don’t have one of your own.”

  Erik couldn’t stop the wave of anger that propelled him forward. “I’ve met the lady.”

  The men turned to him, surprise on both their faces.

  He strove to relax his hands, keep his tone even. “Mrs. Cameron introduced Mrs. Valleau to me a few hours ago. Seems like a fine lady. Well mannered. Soft spoken. White.” He clipped the last word.

  Livingston’s lord-of-the-manor gaze swept over Erik like he was a peasant.

  For the first time today, Erik was aware of his uncouth appearance—the blood- and sweat-stained shirt and work pants, the heavy boots. Livingston must think I have no idea about real ladies and good manners. But he stood tall, a couple of inches taller even, than the elegant banker. Looking him eye-to-eye, Erik refused to let the man shame him.

  Seemingly unaware of the undercurrents, O’Reilly made a disappointed sound. “Guess she’s got a husband around someplace.”

  Erik almost revealed more information about Mrs. Valleau. But a protective instinct clapped a figurative hand over his mouth. Learning the woman was a widow, no matter how recent, could make her fair game for the unwed O’Reilly, which could cost Erik his wet nurse.

  The banker excused himself without, thank goodness, reminding Erik that the payment on the loan was due next month.

  As soon as the man left, Erik paused, reluctant to mention his wife’s passing. Buying Daisy’s coffin would make her death a fact. But an uncomfortable silence lingered between him and O’Reilly, forcing Erik to launch into an explanation of why he was here. “My wife died in childbirth today.”

  O’Reilly put on a professional solemn face. “Sorry I am to be hearing your bad news, Muth. You’ll be needin’ a coffin then? Did the child live?”

  “Yes, and yes. A daughter.”

  O’Reilly tugged on his beard. “I’m glad the baby survived.”

  “She’s not out of danger yet. Came early.” In spite of his reluctance to talk, his anxiousness about his daughter tumbled out.

  “Sorry to hear that.” The carpenter crossed himself. “Say a prayer for her, I will.”

  Erik found himself softening toward the man. “Obliged.”

  O’Reilly cleared his throat and got back to business. “I don’t recall your wife all that well. Height, width?”

  Erik’s hands spanned the air to indicate Daisy’s slight stature. She’s tiny enough to lay her head right on my heart. Just the thought that he’d never hold her again made his chest ache and his arms feel empty.

  A gleam lit O’Reilly’s blue eyes. “I have one like that. Mahogany, polished inside and out. Silk for her to lie on. A right fittin’ resting place.”

  Guilt almost made Erik say yes. Daisy deserved a beautiful casket to cradle her as she lay in the dark grave. But he knew that if he gave in, the cost would wipe out the money they had saved toward paying back the loan. She liked beautiful things, his Daisy did. But she also had a practical streak. If he spent the money they’d saved on her casket, she’d probably come back from heaven and haunt him. Well, he amended, knowing Daisy wasn’t the haunting type. . .she’d give me a piece of her mind.

  Strange to think he’d welcome one of his wife’s dreaded scolds. If she came back to me, and I made her angry, I’d just grab her up in my arms and squeeze the ire out of her. She’d screech away, and I’d hug her all the more.

  With his thumb, O’Reilly gestured behind him. “Come on back and take a look at what I have. Once we’re done, I think I’ll mosey off to Main Street. See if I can get an eyeful of that woman again. Maybe there’s no husband after all. You said she was at Doc’s?”

  “Lady,” Erik corrected through gritted teeth, resisting the urge to pick up the man by the front of his shirt and slam him against the wall. “Mrs. Valleau is a lady.”

  A feeling of urgency made him hasten to conclude the wretched business. The new widow had suckled his newborn daughter. Saved Camilla’s life. She deserves my protection.

  Antonia saw Erik Muth come through the door of the shop and relaxed her shoulders in relief. Although the man had been a complete stranger only a few hours ago, now his familiar presence reassured her.

  He glanced at her and Mr. Carter, his eyebrows pulling together in a frown. “Have you finished your transaction, Mrs. Valleau?”

  “Almost. Mr. Carter lent a kind hand to help me.”

  His eyebrows relaxed.

  Mr. Carter gave them a curious glance, obviously wondering how
they knew each other. Antonia didn’t want to offer an explanation in front of Mr. Cobb.

  Erik walked over to a barrel of nails, reached in and picked one up, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

  Mr. Cobb came into the room, followed by a stout woman in a blue dress.

  The woman gave Antonia a sharp glance from her close-set brown eyes. She pursed her lips. “I’m Mrs. Cobb. Mr. Cobb has filled me in on the situation.”

  Surely it will be easier dealing with a woman. “I’ll need a new dress.”

  “You certainly do.” The woman frowned, her face settling into a disapproving expression. “Can’t have you traipsing around looking like a heathen. And from the sight of you, you’ll need everything from the inside out.”

  Antonia’s hackles rose. She held onto her temper by imagining Mrs. Cobb captured by the Indian braves and forced to live in their camp. The thought of the disagreeable woman wearing the garb of a squaw almost made her grin. She might just hunt down some of Jean-Claude’s Blackfoot friends and see if they’d oblige.

  “You’re in luck.” Mrs. Cobb eyed Antonia up and down. “I think we have something that would fit you. On sale even, because the color doesn’t suit most women. Nor does the size. I was out visiting when Mr. Cobb made the order.” She shook her head in disapproval. “Can’t trust a man to do anything right when it comes to women’s fashions.”

  Mr. Cobb made a garbled sound of protest.

  His wife ignored him, bustling around the store, gathering articles of apparel, picking up some, muttering and putting them down before finding another. She held up a pair of knickers trimmed with crocheted lace.

  The knickers were far finer than any Antonia had worn before as a young woman. Later, she’d followed the Indian custom of going without. Her cheeks heated, and she had to resist running over and snatching the drawers away from the shopkeeper and hiding them behind her back.

  An uncomfortable look crossed Mr. Muth’s face. He dropped the nail back into the barrel and pointed to the other side of the store. “I’ll go look at the tools.” He hurried over to the wall where several hammers hung and lifted one off.

  Mrs. Cobb waved to an inner door. “Follow me, Mrs. Valleau. I allow ladies to change in our private quarters.” The shopkeeper, her arms full, disappeared through a door.

  Antonia cast a helpless look at Mr. Muth, who’d been watching her, instead of looking at the hammer he held.

  Manlike, he made a face and shrugged, before turning to set the tool on a rack.

  Antonia followed Mrs. Cobb into a short hallway and through another door. She stepped into the room and stopped short in surprise at the elaborately decorated parlor.

  Even the few times she’d been in the quarters of the officers’ wives, she hadn’t seen so many pieces of fancy furniture. Each seemed to be buried under other objects. Chairs and a settee overflowed with cushions, and every surface—whether tables, bookcases, or shelves on the walls—brandished vases, figurines, boxes, and other decorative objects. The scent of dried rose petals in a glass bowl wafted to her. The constricted space made her feel big and clumsy.

  “Come along, Mrs. Valleau,” Mrs. Cobb said in a sharp tone of voice. “I need to get back to the store. It’s a busy day for us, and I don’t want Mr. Cobb to handle everything alone. That man can upset my careful record-keeping in a matter of minutes.”

  Antonia edged around a table that held several framed photographs and a carved box.

  Mrs. Cobb led her to a bedroom housing an elaborately carved four-poster bed and pointed to a flower-painted screen in the corner. “Go behind there. Put on the drawers and chemise, then I’ll help you with a corset.” She glanced at Antonia’s waist with a pinched expression of disapproval.

  Antonia found herself hustled behind the screen, and her fingers shook as she unfastened the Indian garb and slipped out of it. Good thing Mrs. Cobb doesn’t know I’m not wearing anything underneath my tunic. Pulling on the drawers and chemise, she realized how fine and light the material felt against her skin compared to the leather she’d worn for so long.

  “Are you finished, Mrs. Valleau?”

  “Yes.”

  Mrs. Cobb pulled aside the screen. “Raise your arms.” She whisked the corset around Antonia’s waist.

  The garment was one she’d never worn before, and her initial curiosity lasted until Mrs. Cobb pulled the strings so tight Antonia couldn’t breathe. Then the woman gave a yank that made Antonia’s eyes bulge out.

  “There.” Mrs. Cobb’s voice oozed satisfaction. “You do have a nice waist, after all, and no need of padding for your hips.”

  Antonia had no breath to protest as the woman hurried her into a petticoat, followed by a shirtwaist and skirt made of golden calico with little rose buds. She wished she could examine the material, far prettier than anything she’d ever worn.

  Mrs. Cobb pinched the cloth at Antonia’s waist and pursed her lips. “Too loose. This will have to be taken in.”

  Antonia drew breath to argue, only to find her ribs constricted by the corset, so just a tiny gulp of air made it into her lungs. “I’m dizzy. I need to sit down.” She took a few steps and tried to collapse on a wooden chair in the corner, but with her body imprisoned, she found that all she could do was lower herself to the edge of the seat.

  Mrs. Cobb didn’t seem to notice Antonia’s distress. The woman walked back and forth, her gaze narrowed on the dress’s shape.

  “We don’t have a tailor or dressmaker in town. More’s the pity. All the women do their own sewing and mending. So you’ll have to take in the dress yourself.”

  I’m not about to take in this dress. Antonia rose, careful to not fall over. If she collapsed wearing the contraption, she’d never be able to get off the floor. Without a word, she glided toward the screen.

  “Mrs. Valleau. What are you doing?” Mrs. Cobb tried to wave her back. “I didn’t bring another dress for you to try on. I have a green one, though, that might suit you. Wait right here, and I’ll bring it in.”

  Antonia stepped behind the screen and pulled it closed. Moving as best she could with her waist locked up, she shed the dress, and then fumbled at the strings of the corset. Once they’d loosened, she took a deep inhale, grateful to breathe, and worked off the offending garment, letting it drop to the rug.

  Then she put the dress back on. This time, the waist was still loose, but not so much. She’d lost weight in the last few days. Hopefully, when her stomach wasn’t so knotted, and she could eat again, she’d regain her figure. The dress would fit just perfect then. She smoothed down the creases and stepped out from behind the screen.

  An oval mirror stood in the corner of the room, and Antonia moved toward it. She’d seen her face in a smaller one before when she lived at the fort with her father. Since then, pools of clear water had sufficed, providing a blurry reflection. So the woman staring back was almost a stranger.

  The gold in the dress made her eyes stand out and burnished her complexion. The sight moved Antonia in some strange way she had experienced only once as a child, when an officer’s wife had given her a hand-me-down dress. Usually, she’d run around in cut-down boy’s clothing.

  As a girl, Antonia had dreamed of wearing a gown like this. Regardless of the compliments her husband had lavished on her, she’d never considered herself pretty, for her features were too strong.

  With a surge of feminine pleasure, Antonia thought of the stunned look on Jean-Claude’s face when he caught sight of her in the dress. As soon as the boys slept, he’d release her from the gown, and they’d make energetic love. Another reason not to wear that corset.

  Realization hit her as hard as a blow to the stomach, and she almost collapsed. Jean-Claude would never see her in the gold dress. Her lip quivered, and she bit down to avoid screaming. Her future stretched out, devoid of husbandly warmth and caresses.

  How can I possibly bear it?

  Only the thought that the shopkeeper would return in a moment kept Antonia upright. But
she turned away from the mirror, unable to bear the sight of herself.

  Erik had only the slightest acquaintance with John Carter, the foremost rancher in the area, and his wife. They’d exchanged greetings at the ice cream social—had that really been only a few days ago? But the man had a stellar reputation for fairness and integrity, and his wife was known to be equally as kind.

  Carter strolled through the store, looking calm and confident. The man was well groomed in a dark-blue suit. Instead of using one of the baskets stacked near the door, he picked out items and carried them: a trowel, a jar of peaches, a can of mineral spirits.

  Erik glanced down at his bloodstained shirt. Ruined, suitable only for the barn. Best buy a new one, although he begrudged spending more money. But with all that was going on, it wasn’t fitting to wear the shirt in town. He wandered over to shelving that went from floor to ceiling, filled with clothing. He fingered a tan one, then picked up the shirt and held it against him. Looked too small. He tried for another in the same color. Also too small.

  Engrossed in searching for a shirt, Erik didn’t pay any attention to someone entering the store, nor the secretive female voices gossiping at the counter. But when he saw John Carter stiffen and turn, Erik caught a mention of Mrs. Valleau’s name. The critical tone of the voices left no doubt what they were implying.

  Rage, deep and dark, exploded. He’d born too much this day to have the woman who’d saved his daughter treated thus. Erik tossed the shirt to the floor, turned on his heel, and stormed over to the front.

  Mrs. Cobb leaned over the counter, her head near another woman’s—the Widow Murphy.

  Erik had stayed at the widow’s boarding house for a few days when he first came out here. Nasty old witch.

  Before he could say the cutting words that wanted to boil out of his mouth, Antonia entered the shop from the other room. She stood in the doorway, clad in a yellow dress that made her golden eyes striking, transforming the plain widow he’d seen earlier into a stately and attractive woman. Yet the vulnerable look on her face made him aware of how difficult this all must be for her, used as she was to living in the wilderness.