Healing Montana Sky

by Debra Holland

  “If we be cuttin’ the hay, we’ll put ’em in the wagon.” She made a spreading motion with her hands. “Be puttin’ up the canvas top so they’ll be shaded. Henri watches the babies.”

  “He’ll have to miss school for a couple of days. . . .” Erik rubbed his chin. “I don’t like it, but missing school is a given in a farming community. The boy’s been doing well with his studies. That little whippersnapper is smart.”

  She glowed at his praise of her son.

  Erik jumped to his feet and began to pace the floor. After a few minutes, he said, “That just might work. At least, we can give it a try. I’ll have to ride over early and tell the O’Donnells not to expect us while the weather holds.” He stopped in front of her chair and grinned. “What do you say, wife? If it’s sunny, shall we spend the day on the prairie tomorrow?”

  An unexpected feeling of warmth washed through Antonia. He never called her “wife” before, and, for the first time, she felt hopeful, like maybe they were forming a team, able to pull together in harness. “I think that be a fine idea, husband. I be packin’ us food.”

  “We’ll need to bring water, lots of water, for the horses and for us.” His face sobered. “I’m warning you, it will be hot, thirsty work, Antonia, and there’s no water where we’re going. You sure?”

  “I be sure.”

  “Good then. We’d best get an early night.” He leaned over and gave her an unexpected kiss on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  Antonia could feel a blush creep into her face, and she hoped he couldn’t see it in the lantern light.

  He turned, and, with another smile, went into the bedroom, and closed the door.

  Needing time to recover from the intensity of emotions churned up by the storm and sharing a bed, Antonia had moved back to sleeping on the bearskins with the children. Since Erik didn’t protest, she’d suspected he, too, needed to pull back some.

  Antonia stared at Erik’s closed door, the feel of his kiss lingering on her skin. She reached up and softly touched her cheek.

  In the shadow of a hill, Erik pulled the team to a halt. He studied the prairie before him. The golden grass undulated in the slight breeze, and the sharp blue sky almost hurt his eyes. For as far as he could see, no trees broke the horizon.

  He’d timed their arrival perfectly. The sun had just risen enough, and the day hadn’t yet become too warm. The dew was still on the grass. The first hour or two would be the easiest before they became hot and tired. And sore. He didn’t want to think about how much his body would hurt tonight. A necessary evil.

  He braked, tied off the reins, climbed down, and then went around to take Camilla from Antonia and helped his wife off the wagon. Wearing Jean-Claude’s leather britches, with one of Erik’s cotton shirts tucked into them, her sleeves rolled up past the elbows, Antonia navigated getting down far easier than if she’d worn a skirt. She’d shocked him when she first came out of the bedroom wearing men’s clothing.

  He’d almost protested her choice of apparel, ready to order her to change into proper clothing, or even her Indian garb. Luckily, common sense had taken over his thoughts before he opened his mouth and said anything that might cause trouble. Men’s clothing was far more practical for what they were about to do, and no one was around to notice, anyway. All he’d done was insist on her taking along one of Daisy’s sunbonnets to protect her face from becoming burned.

  Surely, I’ll get used to seeing Antonia in her new raiment and won’t keep ogling the outline of her legs and having thoughts. . . .

  Erik wrenched his mind back to where it should be—on the job at hand. He handed Camilla back to Antonia and reached up for Jacques. He put his hands on the little boy’s sides and lifted him high in the air, just to see his reaction.

  Jacques squealed with laughter, making Erik chuckle in response. He set down the little one, patted his head, and reached up for Henri, and lifted him over. The solemn boy didn’t crack a smile. Someday, he told himself. Someday, that child will smile at me. Me, not some charming little horses.

  He left the little ones in Antonia’s capable hands while he unloaded the tools from the wagon, as well as the cask of water for the horses. Then he spread the blanket over the straw underneath the canvas.

  Antonia laid Camilla down.

  He scooped up Jacques and placed him in the corner of the wagon bed, then helped Henri climb in.

  The boy had brought his slate, intending to practice his letters—if Jacques allowed him to. Henri settled himself next to the babies, near a small Indian basket that held crude wooden toys.

  When he had a few minutes of free time, Erik had started carving some animals. He wasn’t proud of his efforts, but he needed to make the toys in haste. He’d do a better job when winter hit, and he was homebound.

  Erik hefted the crock of water with the wooden cover, placed it in the other corner, and set the dipper on top next to two glass jars they’d use to drink from. Then he went to the front of the wagon to unhitch the horses, staking them on a grassy hillock and filling their bucket with water.

  Antonia repeated instructions to Henri that she’d told her son earlier, and then with a nod to indicate she was ready, walked to Erik’s side.

  He gave her his extra pair of leather work gloves and pointed to the spot where he wanted to start, about thirty feet away from the wagon—still within eye and earshot of the children.

  Erik took out the sickle and handed it to Antonia, keeping the scythe for himself. The wooden handles were smooth. He’d taken care to rub linseed oil on them when he put them away for the winter. He pulled work gloves out of his pocket and put them on.

  He made a back-away motion with his hand and took his first swing. It was awkward, as first swings always are. Usually, he’d settle into a rhythm fairly quickly, but today, conscious that Antonia watched him, he fumbled, cutting the grass in a jagged swath. Embarrassment made him clumsier. She won’t know the difference, he tried to assure himself, shooting a glance her way to see if she was watching.

  Antonia wasn’t looking at him but at the sickle in her hands. She looked a strange sight, wearing Daisy’s pink sunbonnet and men’s clothes. Amused, he relaxed—until she bent over to grab a handful of grass, her hand about ten inches from the ground, and swung the sickle to cut the stems.

  The sight of her bottom outlined against her pants made Erik realize he needed to face away from her if he wanted to get any work done today. Not for the first time since Daisy’s death, desire stirred. While the familiar rush made him uncomfortable because he wasn’t directing those thoughts toward Daisy, he had an odd sense of gratefulness to feel alive in that way again.

  He bent to his task and soon put his uncomfortable reaction to his new wife out of his head.

  At first, Antonia relished the work. She breathed in the smell of cut grass, heard the swish-swish sounds of Erik’s scythe, enjoyed the exercise, and took satisfaction in seeing the swath of mowed grass she left in her wake.

  After an area was cleared, Erik sharpened their blades. Then they moved to a fresh spot and started again. After an hour or so, Antonia’s muscles began to ache. After several hours, her back hurt, and she took longer to bend and grab a handful of grass.

  In spite of the mildly warm morning, she soon heated up, and sweat soaked the chemise she wore under Erik’s shirt. The dust from the hay built up in her mouth and nose, causing her to sneeze. Underneath the sunbonnet, her sweaty head itched, but if she ignored the feeling, it went away, only to return a few minutes later. She gritted her teeth and kept going.

  After a while, Erik walked toward her, carrying two long hay rakes. He handed one to her. “Time to make windrows.”

  Nodding, she accepted one.

  “Rake the hay together into long rows to dry.” He demonstrated. “Keep them high and airy,” he ordered. “The more air they get, the better.”

  The raking was a welcome change from cutting, giving her tired back and shoulder muscles a break. But, all too soon, they finished
, leaving five neat long rows, and returned to cutting.

  Several times, Antonia would halt and go check on the children, who seemed just fine without her hovering over them. While she was there, she poured herself a drink, and she’d take the glass jar of water to Erik, who’d give her a grateful smile. Once, when Camilla became fretful, she stopped to nurse the baby. Then she returned to her cutting or raking.

  As the day went on, Antonia became hot, tired, and itchy. Finally, when the sun had moved overhead, and her stomach sent out rumbles of hunger, she saw her husband pause, take off his hat, wipe an arm over his forehead, and replace his hat.

  Erik caught her glance and walked over. “Let’s eat.” He laid down his scythe.

  Grateful, she set the sickle next to his scythe, then stripped off her work gloves and dropped them on top of the tools. Side-by-side, they walked toward the wagon. She pushed the sunbonnet off her head, letting it dangle down her back.

  Erik opened the back of the wagon and motioned for Henri to get out.

  Henri scrambled down.

  Knowing he needed to move after such a long time sitting, Antonia pointed to the row of cut grass. “Run to that hill. By the time you be back, the food be out.”

  With a grin, Henri took off, holding his arms out as if he were flying.

  Antonia set Jacques on the ground and let him crawl after Henri. She untied her sunbonnet strings and dropped the head-cover inside the wagon, then scooped up Camilla and sniffed. Making a face, she held the baby away from her and smiled. “Stinky poo. You be needin’ a change.”

  By the time Erik was done with filling the horses’ water bucket, Antonia had Camilla changed and the boys washed up and ready for lunch. She spread the blanket in the shade of the wagon and took out the basket of food and the crock of water.

  With a groan, Erik dropped to the blanket. He pulled off his hat and wiped an arm over his sweaty forehead.

  Glad he wasn’t as unfeeling of the physical discomfort as he’d seemed, Antonia sank to her knees. She pulled out a clean cloth from the stack she’d brought, dipped it into the water, wiped her face and hands, and then handed it to him. “I’m plum clean starvin’, and I bet you be, too.” She opened up the basket holding food that could keep outside of the cellar—jerky, pemmican, pickles, some raw carrots, cold boiled potatoes, and bread and jam for dessert.

  Erik wolfed down the food, and Antonia wasn’t far behind, only slowing enough to make sure the boys ate. But since she’d given them snacks earlier, they weren’t too hungry.

  Once the sharp pangs of her hunger stopped gnawing into her gullet, Antonia slowed her consumption, enjoying the break, feeling her muscles relax, although they ached plenty.

  When he finished his victuals, Erik picked up Camilla, who’d been staring at them with curious blue eyes.

  The baby gave him a gummy smile.

  Erik kissed his daughter’s forehead. “You’re so clever, learning to smile at your pa.” He lay down and tucked the baby next to him. “Let’s rest a few minutes longer. We’ve done good work so far.”

  Both Henri and Jacques had sleepy eyes, so Antonia motioned to Henri to lie down next to her and pulled Jacques by her side. The thick grass underneath the blanket cushioned her sore muscles. She let out a sigh and relaxed.

  Jacques rummaged for her breast, yanking on her shirt.

  She pulled up the material, curled on her side, and let him nurse for a minute until he fell asleep.

  A small snore from Erik made her realize he napped with the children. Gently, she moved Jacques to the side to sleep by himself, then she buttoned her shirt and turned. She was going to elbow Erik awake, but relaxing felt so good. Just a few more minutes, she told herself.

  Propping up on one elbow, she watched her husband, liking how sleep softened his face into boyishness. If he’d been Jean-Claude, she’d have pressed a kiss to his lips before snuggling close for a few more minutes of rest. But he was Erik, and she rolled onto her back, intending to give him just a little more time before waking him up. Instead, she drifted into slumber, too.

  A tickle on her nose pulled her out of the comfortable dream-place. She made a noise of protest and brushed at it, not wanting to awake fully.

  A laugh sounded near her ear.

  She slowly opened heavy eyelids to find herself face-to-face with Erik, only a few inches between them.

  His eyes smiling, he brushed her forehead with a blade of grass.

  Dreamily, she watched him watch her. She liked the shape of his nose, broad and straight. A strong nose for the strong face of a strong man. Then awareness jerked her completely awake, and she gasped.

  Erik’s eyes lost their smile, and he pulled back.

  Antonia sat up. “Goodness.” She checked to see that the children still slept, and then reached for her sunbonnet. “I not be intendin’ to fall asleep.” She set it on her head and tied the strings.

  “Me, neither.” Amusement gleamed in his eyes. “But the sun is still overhead, and I don’t think we’ve slept long. We’ll be all the better for a short rest.”

  Careful to not wake his daughter, Erik crawled off the blanket and rose to his feet.

  Antonia followed, and he reached down to help her up.

  Her muscles had stiffened, and, grateful for the support, Antonia allowed him to pull her to her feet. She tottered a tad before her legs unkinked. With a wince, she stretched her upper body, limbering up her back.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Erik do likewise.

  He picked up the rake from where it stood propped against the wagon. “You keep cutting. I’ll rake the hay into windrows.”

  She reached for the sickle. Just curling her fingers around the wooden handle hurt. She didn’t have blisters, her palms were too callused for that, yet her skin burned as if heat built up underneath the calluses. I can do this, Antonia told herself, and bent to her task.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Once Jacques woke up and Camilla still slept, Maman let the boys out of the wagon, but only when she and Pa were raking. Once he was out of her sight, Henri slipped off his moccasins, wanting to feel the texture of the springy grass beneath his bare feet. He found a stick and swished it around, pretending to be cutting hay. Then he took off, running big circles around Jacques. “Catch me. Catch me, Jacques!”

  His brother crawled to him, laughing.

  Before Jacques could get close, Henri raced off, making the baby switch directions.

  After a while, Jacques became impatient with never reaching his brother. He scooted toward a nearby boulder. When he reached it, he stretched his hands along the top and pulled himself up. Then he looked for Henri. “Haari!” He grinned. Letting go, he toddled a few steps, then ran out of steam, and toppled to the ground, crawling for a bit. He found a feather and picked it up, backing into a sitting position and studying his find.

  Getting an idea, Henri gathered flowers and found two pheasant feathers that he brought to the boy, scattering them on the grass in front of him.

  Jacques chortled. “Ba! Haari!”

  Knowing Jacques would stay busy for a while, Henri ran straight through a patch of wildflowers, delighting in their bright colors. He stretched out his arms and twirled until he was dizzy and collapsed on the ground, inhaling the sweet smell of the flowers, while the crisp blue sky spun high above his head.

  When the sky stilled, Henri scrambled to his feet and headed back to where his brother sat.

  Since he could tell Jacques was still engrossed with his flowers and feathers, Henri trotted over to examine a spot where only a few strands of prairie grass grew in a rocky patch. Seeing a small flicker of movement near the ground in the center of the area, he quickly stilled.

  He crouched and became a hunter. Bent over, sneaking upon his prey, he padded closer. Pebbles dug into his feet, and Henri wished he hadn’t taken off his moccasins. He squinted to examine the ground. Several minutes passed before he saw a horny toad blending in with the gray-brown dirt.

  The
horny toad didn’t move. Only the mouth opened and closed.

  Henri watched, remembering Père catching them for him to play with. Once he’d taken one home for several days until Maman grew tired of helping him find beetles and grasshoppers to feed it. She made him let the horny toad go.

  He narrowed his eyes at the critter. I can catch one by myself. Jacques will want to play with it. Maybe I’ll be taking it home with me. Won’t be too hard to find bugs for its meals.

  Henri moved closer to the horny toad, noting the small spikes near the back of the head, the single row of light-colored scales along the sides. Even though the creature was motionless now, the horny toad could move right quick when it took off.

  He inhaled a deep breath, like Père had taught him, almost hearing his father’s voice in his ear. “Concentre-toi, mon fils.”

  I be lookin’ sharp, Père. With a frog hop, Henri pounced, both hands closing around the horny toad. The critter was a small one, and his fingers caged it. The creature remained still, its body soft, despite the spiky-looking hide.

  A feeling of triumph filled him. “Je l’ai fait, Père!” he said, as if his father stood watching. Then more quietly, he repeated the words in English. “I did it.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could almost see Père laughing with pride at Henri’s feat. With sudden hope, he glanced in that direction. But no one was there. His catch of the horny toad lost all meaning, and his elation drained away.

  Slowly, Henri sank to his knees. Sadness blew into him like the wind. His chest hurt. Opening his hands, he released the horny toad and watched it skitter under a pile of rocks.

  I wish. . . . But he already knew wishing with his whole heart wasn’t enough to bring back Père.

  Henri rose and turned to check on his brother and find his moccasins.

  Jacques sat in the same place, waving two feathers.

  Beyond him, Maman and Pa raked hay. Maman stopped and shaded her eyes, looking for them. She smiled and waved, gesturing for him to return with Jacques.