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.
“I be sorry.” She squeezed his shoulder.
“When Annabelle Lee birthed twins, I felt on top of the world—my world, anyway. I had this vision, Antonia, of the prosperous life ahead of me. But instead, fate twisted my dreams. Will everything be taken from me now?” He let out a harsh breath.
Not everything, she wanted to protest but held her tongue, saddened to see such a strong man brought low by trouble. She understood how he felt. After Jean-Claude died, she’d struggled with similar fears.
Until now, Antonia hadn’t realized she’d felt more secure since marrying Erik and moving to the farm. Erik has given me that—a respite from those fears.
Antonia wished she had an answer—one that would make everything right for him. But all she could do was haltingly explain her thoughts. “That be life, Erik. Like the harvest, eh? Some years the crops be good, and the cupboards full. Other years, they fail, and times be hard. You don’t stop plowin’ and plantin’.”
He leaned back in his chair, staring blankly at the ceiling.
She wasn’t sure he’d even heard her.
But then, Erik reached up and briefly covered her hand with his and squeezed before lowering his arm. He didn’t move again.
Antonia waited for a few silent minutes, and then pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Eat your victuals, now, while they’s warm. The little ’uns had some afore you came in.”
With determination, she walked to the door. I might not know how to read and sew shirtwaists and bake cake, but I know how to butcher a cow! Not that a milk cow be makin’ good eatin’.
I can’t take away his pain, but I can ease his burdens.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
As if in repayment for the storm, the weather for the next month alternated between rain and sunshine, followed by several days of unseasonable heat. The spring vegetables Daisy and Erik had previously planted in the garden shot up. The garden was six times bigger than the small plot she’d left behind. Each day while Henri was in school, Antonia spent long hours hoeing the weeds while the babies stayed in a sheltered corner—Camilla kicking and mewing on a blanket and Jacques playing in the dirt with a spoon and some rocks.
From time to time, they had visitors. Henrietta dropped by to help Antonia with making over Daisy’s wardrobe, and elderly Mr. and Mrs. Knapp, the neighbors on their other side, made a condolence call.
Once, Reverend and Mrs. Norton drove out to see how they were managing. The minister privately spent time with Antonia, and she welcomed the chance to talk freely about Jean-Claude and her grief for him—for speaking about a former husband to a current one wasn’t easy. She knew the visit did her good, and she suspected Erik’s own talk with Reverend Norton was also beneficial. But neither of them shared what they’d discussed with the minister.
Erik had taught her how to make butter, an area where Antonia’s physical strength came to her aid, for pumping the churn up and down was a tedious and tiring chore. After a few awkward attempts, she soon made butter that her husband said was as good as Daisy’s. He added her butter to the milk and eggs he took to the mercantile.
During the babies’ naptime, Antonia often took the rifle and rode out on one of the horses to hunt game. She left the babies near Erik so he could watch over them while he planted the fields. He’d rigged up a straw-filled box for them to sleep in that sheltered them from critters.
Antonia brought back prairie chicken, pheasant, a wild turkey, plenty of rabbits, and once a deer. Because she wanted to share the chores, she continued to be the one who dressed out the game.
Erik had taken a while to adjust to her hunting ability, but one day, he gave her a quiet smile and expressed appreciation for how her efforts allowed him to concentrate on plowing and sowing the fields, while she augmented their larder. He even joked that he might never have to hunt again.
His praise warmed her heart.
In preparing the wild game for meals, Antonia was able to serve the kind of food—mostly stews—she was used to making. She hadn’t had a chance to visit Henrietta to learn how to bake desserts, but so far, Erik hadn’t complained about her cooking.
During their quiet evenings, instead of the stories Jean-Claude would spin about his day, often making her laugh, Erik would read a book or the weeks-old newspaper, while she mended clothes. Henri would do his homework at the table.
If he had any questions, she’d told her son he was to ask Erik. Thus, often her husband sat next to Henri, gently instructing and correcting his letters and sums, as well as teaching him proper grammar, although he didn’t correct the boy at other times.
So far, Erik hadn’t questioned why Antonia wasn’t the one helping her son. She tried to absorb everything he was teaching Henri, hoping that she too would learn enough to read and speak properly. Sometimes, when her husband wasn’t around, she’d ask Henri to draw letters for her on his slate. But it seemed a long way from learning the alphabet to actually reading.
Tonight, Antonia perched in what had become her chair and mended a tear in her husband’s shirt. Henri had already nodded off over his slate, and she’d put him and Jacques to bed on the bearskin.
Across from her, Erik sat in silence, and she wondered why he wasn’t reading like usual. She thought back through the day and realized he’d been unusually silent at dinner, too. Well, she amended, unusually silent for Erik.
Is he upset with me? With one of the boys? Missing Daisy? She couldn’t think of anything that she or the boys might have done wrong, so she figured his withdrawal might be about grief. She was all too familiar with the longing for a lost love, the ache of missing him, of wanting his presence, right here, right now, often accompanied by an intense burst of anger that he was gone. She hated how the yearning for Jean-Claude could seize her in its grip and shadow her every footstep.
In spite of their growing closeness, Antonia didn’t doubt Erik had times of looking over at her sitting in Daisy’s chair, and wishing his wife was still there. Mayhap this was one of them.
Should I ask?
Antonia debated for a while. When she’d finished repairing the rip in the shirt—not with the tiny, almost invisible stitches Daisy used but with serviceable ones, nevertheless—she folded the garment and set it aside. She picked up one of Daisy’s aprons that she’d taken to wearing, intending to attach the corner of the pocket where the edge had pulled away. “You be silent tonight, Erik.”
He stirred and gave her an absent-minded smile. “I guess I was out on the prairie, thinking things through.”
Curious, she set down the apron and stared at him, waiting.
He let out a sigh. “I was as pleased as punch when my cows dropped their calves. But at the same time, one cow alone requires a lot of feed, especially if I want her to keep a good supply of milk. Now that I have more. . .”
“What be you thinkin’ of doin’?”
“There’s all that wild hay out there, just waiting to be cut. We’ve had a spell of hot days, and I want to take advantage of the weather, for it won’t last. Now’s a good time to gather in some of the new grass before it flowers. I usually harvest a batch at this time, using a scythe.” He swung his arm in a demonstration. “At the end of the summer, the Knapps, the O’Donnells, and I will band together to rent a mowing machine.”
“I never be hearin’ of such a thing.” Antonia thought of the laborious task of using a long knife on hay—holding a clump and chopping off the bottom—that she’d done to gather fodder for the mules while Jean-Claude was out hunting. “A marvel.”
He gave her a brief smile. “If you let a lot of high grass grow around the fields, you make a good place for bugs and everything else to hang around. I try to get to those areas once or twice over the summer. In the past, working by myself in the grasslands, I could harvest enough to keep the animals through the winter.” He leaned forward. “But with the new cows, the herd is bigger. I’m debating about hiring a man to help me and bring in more hay. I just don’t know if I’ll make the money back that I pay him in savings from not having to buy any.”
“What be havin’ an extra man do?”
“I scythe the hay, but I also have a sickle another fellow can use. Better yet, he can bring his own scythe. We rake the hay into rows—windrows—to dry, turn the windrows a few times to dry the batch underneath. Hopefully, the day after, we toss the dried hay into the wagon. Then I have to climb into the wagon and stomp on the hay to pack it down. Jump out, pitch more in, stomp it down, until the wagon is full. Then I start all over again with the cutting. With another man, I could work twice as fast.”
“You don’t be needin’ to hire anyone. I can be helpin’ you.”
He shook his head. “It’s hard work, Antonia. Especially backbreaking those last few hours of the day. And what would we do with the children? It’s hot out on the prairie with no shade.”
Healing Montana Sky Page 19
