Healing Montana Sky

by Debra Holland

  The baby in her cradle made a little sucking noise in her sleep—a reassuring sound. But still, Antonia knew she’d be waking often to check on frail Camilla.

  Even in the blackness, Antonia could feel the difference in the space around her. She didn’t feel snug, cocooned by familiar log walls. The sounds and smells differed. She missed the wind whispering through the trees, carrying the smell of pine and lulling her to sleep. Here, the breeze brought the smell of dried grass, dirt, and cow droppings.

  Antonia started to relax, her eyelids growing heavy, when a creak from the kitchen area brought her wide-awake. With her heart thudding, she listened intently. Then she realized the sound was only the house settling, and she subsided. She’d moved enough through the years to know it took time to become used to new creaks and groans that a house made. But with familiarity she’d stop hearing them—probably far quicker than any other adjustment she’d make to hernew life.

  Erik couldn’t ever remember dreading going to sleep. But tonight, his feet dragged as he approached the bed. Mrs. Norton had made the bed with Daisy’s company sheets, and he felt some relief that he didn’t have to sleep on the soiled bedding.

  He sat in the ladder-back chair and pulled off his boots and socks, then stood and divested himself of his clothes. He fished under his pillow, grateful to discover that Mrs. Norton had replaced his nightshirt where it belonged, and yanked the garment over his head.

  Once he slid into bed and pulled the sheet and blanket over him, he tried to relax. The sheets and pillowcase smelled of the lavender Daisy had tucked between the folds. A familiar smell, but not as comforting as the scent and feel of his wife lying next to him.

  Erik stared unseeing into the darkness, reliving the events of the day. He replayed Daisy’s death over and over, wondering if there was anything, aside from finding her early enough to get her to the doctor’s, he could have done differently. But he didn’t see any other path but the one they’d taken.

  His thoughts turned to Antonia and his mixed feelings about the woman. He shouldn’t resent her presence, but he did. He pondered the emotion—an odd feeling, really, because of his gratitude toward her and the fact that he liked her, which was a blessing given that he could have ended up with a wife he disliked.

  Wife. He was the one who’d jumped to suggesting matrimony, something he didn’t want. But to see Antonia attacked by those women after all she’d endured was just too much for a man to bear.

  Marry in haste, repent at leisure. The old adage taunted him. He’d almost repented when he’d taken Daisy’s good nightgown from the hope chest at the foot of their bed. Resentment had stabbed him that he had to give the garment to a stranger.

  For a moment, Erik had buried his face in the soft cotton material and drank in the scent of cedar and lavender, remembering his excitement when he’d first seen Daisy wearing the nightgown on their wedding night—how his fingers fumbled with the small buttons, his rough hands snagging on the fine fabric. He’d felt like a clumsy oaf, all the more so because Daisy had been fearful, while he’d been crazy with excitement and love. He’d believed that night would be the beginning of a long life together—the days and nights stretching into the horizon. Never had he dreamed they’d be cut short.

  He’d emerged from the memory when a practical inner voice reminded him Antonia needed the nightgown and urged him out of the room. He’d given her the garment, hoping he appeared civil, but he suspected perhaps not.

  Finally, exhaustion pulled him under, and he slept.

  Erik awoke. From the gray light, he could tell it was time to rise and see to the stock. He reached a hand for his wife, only to realize he was alone in the bed. Daisy must be up already. He listened for the sound of her cooking breakfast and sniffed the air, hoping to smell bacon frying, but then realized the door was closed.

  That’s odd. He turned his head, saw the pristine pillow next to him, and like a blow, the memory returned.

  Erik groaned as everything that happened yesterday came crashing back. He knew if he stayed in bed for a minute longer, he’d start bawling like a calf who’d lost his mother. Forcing himself to sit up, he pulled off his nightshirt, rose, and moved to the washbasin on top of the dresser.

  His muscles ached like he’d plowed a thousand acres, and he walked stiffly like an old man. When he picked up the pitcher of water, intending to pour it in the ewer, he realized that Daisy’s bloodstained nightgown was soaking inside.

  The sight of the rust-colored water nauseated him, and Erik turned away, deciding to wash up outside. Then he remembered his daughter, and a sudden fear that she might have died during the night made him don his clothes, grab his boots, and rush out of the room in stocking feet.

  Antonia slept curled up around Camilla on the pile of furs. Henri sprawled on his back on her other side, and next to Camilla, Jacques sucked his fingers.

  Looking at the peaceful tableau settled Erik’s stomach. He crouched at the side of the makeshift bed so he could see Camilla’s chest rise and fall. She made it through the night! He closed his eyes in relief and said a silent prayer of thanksgiving.

  Opening his eyes, unable to resist, he carefully maneuvered Camilla away from Antonia, who didn’t stir. He wondered how much sleep she’d gotten last night. Probably not enough.

  Erik held his daughter for a few minutes, searching her features for signs of Daisy, and marveling at her eyelashes, the softness of her skin when he ran his finger gently across her cheek, half hoping she’d wake up.

  Antonia sighed and shifted. The bearskin slipped aside.

  He looked at her more closely. The nightgown was pushed up to her hip, exposing long, shapely legs. Her calves and feet were tan, fading into creamy white skin, where her dress had protected her limbs from the sun.

  His reaction to the woman shamed him. Daisy is barely cold in her grave, he chastised himself. Turning abruptly, he laid Camilla in the cradle, which he moved to give Antonia a view of the baby that she’d see as soon as she woke up. He gently pulled the bearskin back over his new wife’s body, hiding temptation. Quietly, so as not to wake them, he went out the door.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Antonia stepped from the shelter of the forest into a green meadow cupped under a brilliant blue sky and scattered with colorful flowers.

  Jean-Claude waited for her in the middle of the clearing, his stance uncharacteristically still. But when he saw her, he cocked a grin and held out his arms.

  Joy filled her, and she ran to him, buoyant with happiness, her feet barely skimming the grass. The distance wasn’t far, yet for all her lightness, Antonia seemed to take forever to reach him. Just as she touched his outstretched hands, something pulled him away and out of her sight. “Wait,” she cried out. “Jean-Claude!”

  Antonia awoke saying his name. For a moment, she stared at the unfamiliar wooden ceiling of the house, disoriented. Then memories flooded back, bringing with them a wave of pain, and she longed to return to the dream—to somehow reach him. For the space of several breaths, she allowed the desolate feeling to engulf her.

  The feel of small hands pushing on her breast brought her to the awareness of Jacques at her side, and she shoved down her emotions. As tempting as it was to wallow in her grief, she had three children depending on her.

  She glanced at Jacques, his eyes still sleepy, then over at the cradle. After the last nursing, she’d fallen asleep with Camilla in her arms. Erik must have taken his daughter at some time in the last few hours and put her back in the cradle. She heard no sound, so the baby must be sleeping.

  Antonia turned to Henri, sprawled on the other side of her.

  His long eyelashes feathered his cheeks. His features were relaxed, not tight with the strain he’d been carrying since his father’s death.

  She listened, but heard no noise from the bedroom and figured Erik might have left to go milk the cows.

  Jacques pushed against her breast again. “Maa.”

  “Patience, my son,” Antonia murmured,
dropping a kiss on his forehead.

  She decided to let Jacques nurse a bit, more for comfort than substance, for she needed most of her milk for Camilla. Perhaps just a little in the morning and at night, for both mother and son still needed this special time together more than ever. She bunched up the nightgown for him to find her breast.

  While Jacques suckled, Antonia closed her eyes, trying to pretend that she was back in her cabin, with Jean-Claude outside, perhaps going for water. But while the bearskins of her bed were familiar, the smell of the room differed—lacking the scent of pine from the forest outside her window. Even through her closed eyelids, Antonia sensed the greater space around her and the differences in the angle of the light.

  After she’d nursed Jacques, she snuggled with him for a few minutes, wishing she could postpone the time when she needed to rise. She was tired from the broken sleep due to caring for Camilla. Unlike when her boys were newborns, last night she’d a hard time falling back asleep, her grief for Jean-Claude keeping her awake. Now lethargy—exhaustion and a heaviness of spirits—weighed her down. She suspected without the children to prod her into an awareness of her responsibilities, she might lay here for hours, maybe even all day.

  Jacques stirred from her arms and crawled off to explore his strange new surroundings.

  Antonia forced herself off the furs. She stared at the new dress she’d carefully laid over the chair, wondering if she should don the garment and take the chance of ruining the only white woman’s clothes she possessed, or if she should once again put on her old tunic. Will Erik mind?

  She could use Daisy’s aprons to protect the dress but decided she would rather be comfortable. She shed the nightgown and donned her regular garb.

  She scooped up Jacques and took him with her to the privy, changing the moss in his rabbit fur diaper and wondering what she’d do when she ran out. Camilla’s woven soakers, knitted by Daisy, were too small for Jacques. She shrugged off the worry for a later time.

  When she’d returned to the house, she saw Henri was just stirring.

  He gave her a sleepy smile, just like she’d seen almost every morning until Jean-Claude’s death. How she wished she could prolong the moment for him. But even as Antonia had the thought, she saw awareness of their new circumstances wake him all the way. She set Jacques on the floor.

  Henri’s eyes widened, and he glanced around, and then his expression crumpled as if he was going to cry.

  She swooped in on Henri, dropping to her knees to hug him. “I know, mon fils. We be sad. We miss Père and our home. But we must make the best of things. Oui?”

  He pulled away and stared at the floor. “Oui, Maman,” he said quietly.

  “We have bread and jam. Would you like some?”

  At his vigorous nod, she smiled and rubbed his head. The treat would be a temporary distraction. She doubted the novelty of jam would work for long. Either they’d run out, or Henri would become so used to the sweet that the food wouldn’t distract him.

  “Bon. Rise and use the privy. I be readyin’ your victuals.”

  She stood. “When you come back, watch your brother, eh? I’m going to look around and find where everything be.”

  He went out, and Antonia rummaged through the kitchen. She avoided glancing at the stove that seemed to dominate the area—big and menacing. She’d never used one in her life, only cooking over an open fire or in the fireplace. But this house didn’t have a fireplace. I can build a campfire outside and use my Dutch oven.

  She dismissed the ridiculous idea as soon as it came to her. Erik would think he’d married a crazy woman. But when even getting out of bed took effort, the task of learning to cook on the stove seemed overwhelming.

  I can figure out the stove. I’ve certainly done far harder tasks this week.

  In the cupboard, Antonia noted earthenware and tin plates, knives and forks, and more pots and pans than she’d ever seen in her life. Far more than I know what to do with.

  In the backside of the kitchen, she saw a door set into the wall and opened it to find a large dirt-walled pantry dug deep into the hill the house was built against. On the left, she found shelves burrowed into the walls holding colorful glass jars filled with canned fruits and vegetables, long-necked brown bottles with neat handwriting flowing across pasted-on labels, and various crocks that must also contain preserved food.

  The relief she felt at seeing such bounty nearly made her sink to her knees. My boys will not go hungry on this farm.

  On the shelf near the bottom, empty jars taunted her. Canning was another skill she’d never learned. When the garden started producing or she foraged for berries, she’d need to find someone to teach her. She thought of kind Mrs. Norton, perhaps easier to approach than Mrs. Cameron or Mrs. Carter, and wondered if she could ask for her help in exchange for a portion of their labors.

  On the right side of the room, a short string of onions and one of garlic dangled from the ceiling above a line of earthenware crocks. She lifted the lid of a crock to see beans inside. A second crock held oats and a third cornmeal. When she opened the fourth, the smell of lard and something meaty came her way. She peered inside and saw a few sausages on the very bottom of the crock. She hadn’t eaten one in years.

  Another held ashes, but when, puzzled, she poked a finger into the middle, she saw a big ham nestled inside. Her stomach grumbled.

  Baskets holding eggs, potatoes, carrots, and apples were set deeper into the pantry. Although the egg basket was full to the brim, the others were low, but still a marvel. If this much food remained after the long winter, Antonia imagined in the fall, the pantry must have overflowed—far more than the two of them could eat.

  The more she explored Daisy’s kitchen, the more inadequate Antonia felt. She’d always thought she’d done a good job of keeping her family well fed. But she’d relied heavily on the game Jean-Claude hunted and trapped, as well as the fish he caught. In her garden, she had grown pumpkins, squash, sunflower seeds, sweet potatoes, corn, and beans. And she’d often taken the boys and foraged for the berries, leaves, and roots of wild plants.

  In her pack, she had leather bags of dried food—meat strips, berries, squash and cantaloupe, as well as parched corn and nuts. From the Blackfoot, she’d learned to make pemmican—dried meat pounded to small pieces, mixed with berries or chokecherries, and marrow grease. The lightweight circular patties stored well and were easy to travel with. She’d depended on them during their journey to Sweetwater Springs and only had a few left.

  Standing in the pantry, Antonia had never felt more alone. She was used to spending long hours in solitude while Jean-Claude was out hunting, but then she’d never felt lonely. Now, with three children a few feet away and a man somewhere about the place, she became aware of the isolation in her heart—something her children, no matter how beloved, or an unfamiliar new husband—could assuage.

  The feeling took Antonia back to her childhood. Even when surrounded by people at a fort, as a motherless girl and with her father a soldier, she was often left to fend for herself. Then she’d grown older and met Jean-Claude, tumbling into love with the handsome trapper and adoring him with all of her starving heart. And in the most blessed of miracles, he’d returned her feelings, and eventually had given her Henri and then Jacques to love and nurture.

  My sons. The children are my purpose. Since her husband’s death, taking care of them had been her driving force. Without her boys, she might have cast herself on Jean-Claude’s grave, wallowing in her grief until she followed him to heaven.

  And now I have a daughter—the fulfillment of a dream—in the middle of a nightmare. Tears pricked her eyes.

  “Maman?” Henri called. “Jacques is hungry.”

  Antonia sniffed back the tears and rubbed her arm across her eyes, scrubbing away any betraying moisture. “I’m sure he be not the only hungry boy around.” She put false lightness into her tone.

  Backing out of the pantry, Antonia found a knife and took the bread from the bread
box and cut a slice, spreading a thin layer of red jam over the surface before handing a piece to Henri and one to Jacques. Looking around the kitchen, she wondered what to make Erik for breakfast. Does he eat the kind of food we had yesterday at the Camerons?

  Antonia frowned at the stove. Even with her lack of experience, she could probably manage to boil eggs and fry some ham. Glancing out the window, she saw a trio of rabbits and made up her mind. “Stay here, Henri. Watch your brother,” Antonia ordered. She started to race for her sling, but figured she had it packed too deeply and veered toward her rifle. The rabbits will make the perfect breakfast.

  After milking the cows in the field and taking the milk to the springhouse, Erik entered the barn to feed the horses. For the first few minutes, he inhaled the familiar smell of animals, manure, and hay, and could almost pretend nothing in his life had changed. Daisy is in the kitchen preparing breakfast while I go about the morning chores. All is well, he tried to tell himself as his thoughts skittered away from the dark knowledge that the opposite was true.

  One of Antonia’s mules looked over the stall door. A jolt of reality charged through him. Even my barn is no longer the same. The pain almost blinded him. By rote, his body performed the routine tasks of caring for the livestock.

  Erik couldn’t help contrasting the feeling of jubilation he’d experienced at the birth of the two heifers—was it really two days ago? He couldn’t be sure. Years seemed to have passed.

  Will I ever feel so happy, so. . .satisfied again? Such feelings seemed as far from his current grief as the mountains were from the prairie. If I am ever happy again, it probably won’t be for years—maybe when I’m seventy.

  Outside the open barn door, the crack of a rifle made him almost jump out of his boots. What in tarnation?