Healing Montana Sky

by Debra Holland

  “But for how long, Antonia? How long can your supplies feed a whole tribe? A week? Two? What happens when the food is eaten up? We’re back to square one.”

  She scrunched her forehead. Square one?

  “A game reference—checkers or chess.” Erik shook his head in frustration. “I mean, we’re back to where we started. Your plan is only a short-term solution. You’d be throwing the money away.”

  “I be savin’ people,” Antonia said fiercely.

  “I’m not saying you’re wrong about that. But you must see the problem is bigger than a wagon of food.”

  Frustrated, she didn’t want to admit he was right. I be right, too.

  “Besides, we need that money set aside for the future. God forbid, what if the crops fail, or the cows die, or the barn catches on fire?”

  “But what if nothing be goin’ wrong?”

  Erik gave her a sharp look. “This is a farm, Antonia. Inevitably, something will go wrong.” He waited a beat. “Besides, I saw how your eyes lit up at the thought of Henri going to college. That will take money. Far more than what you have stashed away. We’ll have to save for years in order to make that opportunity happen. And that’s just for one child. What about Jacques or Camilla? There’re colleges for women. And any children we might have together.”

  Antonia looked down, torn between what he was saying and the emotion whirling around in her body. Not helping feels wrong. But using funds my family might need also feels wrong.

  She wished she knew what to do.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Erik pulled the wagon into the yard and stopped in front of the barn. He set the brake, tying off the reins. “As much as I enjoy going to town, I like coming home even more.” He winked, then jumped off the seat and came around to take Camilla from Antonia before helping her step down.

  Her skirt tangled in her legs, and she tugged the material to free herself.

  “I’m looking forward to that chicken dinner later,” he said with a smile, handing the baby back to her.

  Antonia’s stomach clenched. She’d forgotten his earlier request.

  “Daisy told me that Penny was the next hen she’d planned to use for dinner. Apparently, her egg production has slowed down.”

  She inhaled sharply. Not Penny!

  Erik didn’t notice Antonia’s reaction. He went to the back of the wagon, leaned over the side, and lifted up the puppy. “Come on, Schatz.”

  The dog woke up and licked his hand.

  Erik gestured to the barn. “Henri, you bring your puppy and help me in the barn. Maman’s going to be busy cooking us up a feast.”

  The boy scrambled out. “What’s a shots?” He reached for the puppy, gathering her to him and staggering a few steps with her weight.

  “Schatz,” Erik corrected. “German for sweetheart. When I was a boy, we had a dog named Schatzy.”

  Henri kissed the dog’s head. “I like that name. Can we call her Schatzy?”

  “Schatzy is a good name for a dog,” Erik agreed. The two walked into the barn.

  Antonia gazed after them. Only recently had Henri begun going along with Erik without first glancing at her for permission or reassurance. She carried Camilla into the house and laid the baby in her cradle, then returned to the wagon for the sleeping Jacques and placed him on the bed.

  Hoping the babies would nap for a long time, Antonia left the house and walked with a leaden heart toward the henhouse.

  While they were at church, they’d left the chickens cooped inside for safety. When Antonia opened the door of the henhouse, the birds billowed out and swarmed around her, acting as if she was about to feed them for a second time.

  Usually, she enjoyed the chickens’ liveliness but not today. She looked at every one, seeing the coloring, the quirks that made each unique—even the black one.

  With a sigh, Antonia turned her back on the flock and walked toward the porch. She paused, unable to resist a glance behind.

  Penny tried to follow her, but several other more aggressive chickens boxed out the copper hen.

  Antonia paused and bit her lip. Don’t be gittin’ close, she warned herself. Penny be only a bird. Not like she be family. But she couldn’t scold away her feelings. With a determined whirl, she waded through the chickens to reach Penny. “Here, girl.” She picked up her favorite bird. “One last time, let’s go sit awhile.” I need to nerve myself up.

  Antonia carried the hen to the porch and sat in the rocking chair. As she rocked and petted Penny, she wished the ritual they’d developed would comfort her now. But instead, she only felt dread.

  The thought of eating this chicken had taken away the good feelings from her time in town. Antonia couldn’t understand her own reluctance. Before coming to live on this farm, she never would have believed she could care for a chicken. Over the years, she’d killed hundreds of birds and all kinds of other animals—did so even yesterday.

  But never one that brought me comfort. . .that I loved.

  I’ve already lost so much.

  Antonia tried to chide herself into a different attitude—after all, the death of a chicken to provide food for her family was nothing compared to the death of a husband.

  But maybe I feel so strongly because of Jean-Claude’s death. Maybe losing him softened me somehow.

  I won’t do it!

  A wave of anger pushed Antonia out of her chair and off the porch and into the yard where she put Penny near the other chickens. She stormed into the house, took off her boots, hat, good dress, and undergarments, and donned her Indian tunic and moccasins.

  After gathering everything she’d need for hunting, Antonia took her rifle from the rack over the front door and moved outside. She marched halfway across the yard before some common sense penetrated her intense emotion, and she attempted to rein herself in. Descending on Erik like a lightning bolt during a thunderstorm probably not be wise.

  In the barn, Erik bent over Shandy’s front leg, cleaning out the gelding’s hoof, packed with smelly muck. He was looking forward to finishing up the chores, so he could sit down to a special Sunday dinner.

  Henri had put the pup in the wheelbarrow and was mucking out the mules’ stalls.

  His back to the aisle, he was focused on scraping out the caked-in dirt with a pick and didn’t look up at the sound of Antonia’s footsteps. “Cornell Knapp wasn’t in church today,” he said, keeping his gaze on the hoof. “Tomorrow, I’ll ride out there to talk to him about using his bull.”

  Antonia barely registered his words, so focused was she on chickens, not cows. “I’ll not be killin’ Penny for dinner.”

  “You don’t have to,” Erik said absently, brushing away the loose dirt he’d dislodged. “I always killed the chickens for Daisy. I’ll take care of it as soon as I’m done with Shandy.” He lowered the hoof to the ground. “There, old fellow. One down, three to go.”

  “We ain’t havin’ Penny for Sunday dinner.”

  “Don’t get all riled up, now,” Erik said in a reasonable voice. “Just pick another chicken then.” He swiped sweat from his forehead with his wrist. “’Bout time to raise up another batch of chicks so we have roosters for the pot. We can’t afford to sacrifice a layer every time I have a hankering. But just this once. Let me know which chicken you want.” Feeling as if he’d taken care of this chicken debate, he stepped to the horse’s rump, and slid his hand down Shandy’s hind leg.

  The horse obliged by lifting the hoof.

  “Don’t be botherin’ yourself.”

  The edge in Antonia’s voice—one he’d never heard before—stopped him. Erik lowered Shandy’s leg, straightened, and faced her. From this angle, he could see her through the open stall door.

  Antonia stood with one hand on her hip, her color high, eyes sparking. She held her rifle with her other hand.

  He recognized the signs of female wrath but wasn’t sure what was wrong. “Why are you dressed like that?”

  “We ain’t eatin’ any chickens.”


  “That doesn’t answer my question,” he said in exasperation and leaned an arm on the horse’s back.

  Her chin lifted. “I’m goin’ hunting. I’ll get us a different bird. Pheasant or such.”

  “What in tarnation is going on, woman? The Sabbath’s not a day for hunting.”

  “The chickens be. . .”

  “What?” he asked impatiently. “The chickens are. . .food?” He guessed at her answer and plowed on. “All the animals around here are food.”

  Henri popped out of a stall, the dog clutched to his chest. “Not my puppy,” he said, brows drawn together in an anxious expression, eyes pleading. “Not Schatzy.”

  Oh, for crying out loud! Erik had forgotten the boy was still around. He barely kept himself from saying the words, instead reaching deep inside himself for patience. “No, Henri. Not your puppy or the horses or the mules or the milk cows. Just the pigs and chickens and bull calves are food.”

  “Henri, take the puppy and play with her on the porch, please,” Antonia said, enunciating every word, apparently determined to get each one correct. “Your pa and I have some talking to do.”

  They both waited until the boy left the barn.

  Erik turned to her. “Now, wife, what’s got your dander up?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “The chickens are special. I ain’t killin’ and eatin’ ’em.”

  Antonia was obviously too upset to remember to speak properly. He held up a placating hand. “I know Penny’s special to you. Didn’t I just say pick another one? How about that black one that’s always pecking at us? Be glad to eat that critter.”

  Antonia set the rifle down on a straw bale and crossed her arms. “She be a good layer.”

  Why did women have to be so dang unreasonable? Heat started to burn in his chest. “You’re the mighty hunter,” he said sarcastically. “Yet, you can’t kill a chicken?”

  “I can kill ’em. I just ain’t gonna.”

  “I just won’t, not ain’t. You don’t say ain’t.”

  Her expression grew mule stubborn, and her hands jammed to her hips. “Won’t, then. I won’t.”

  Erik threw up his hands. “Fine. Sabbath or not, go kill whatever dang bird you want. I’ll pretend it’s a chicken.” He turned back to Shandy and once again reached for the horse’s leg.

  She lowered her arms. “Whatever bird I bring back won’t taste like Daisy’s chicken.”

  “Of course, it will,” he said in a sharp tone. “Just follow the recipe.”

  Antonia took a deep breath. “I cain’t,” she blurted out.

  “Can’t, not cain’t,” he corrected. “It’s not that hard, Antonia. Even I’ve done it a time or two when Daisy wasn’t up to cooking.”

  “I can’t read them.”

  “What do you mean you can’t?”

  “I don’t know how to read, Erik. I’ve never had no book learning. Might as well be chicken scratches for all I know.” Scarlet flushed her cheeks.

  He caught a glimpse of shame in her eyes before she lowered her gaze. Stunned, he stared at her. He’d assumed Antonia hadn’t much of an education but figured she had some. He thought back over some of their conversations, and anger built inside. She’s deliberately misled me. In his book, that was as good as a lie.

  With bated breath, embarrassed plumb down to her moccasins, Antonia watched her husband try to absorb her revelation.

  Erik shook his head, pain in his eyes. “Why didn’t you just tell me? You’ve always seemed so forthright. I liked that about you. Now I find you’ve been keeping this secret from me.”

  He doesn’t care about my lack of book learnin’? For the first time, doubt touched her, and Antonia suspected she might have made a grave mistake. “You want an educated wife. Daisy had schoolin’. You be readin’ all the time.”

  “I wanted a nurse for Camilla,” he said sharply. “Frankly, at the time, any breast filled with milk would do, and you had one, uh. . .two.” His face flushed. “I needed someone who’d care for my daughter. Being a loving wife and mother is more important to me than being an educated one.”

  “You be wantin’ both.” She kept her gaze on him. How did I go from bein’ the angry one to wonderin’ if I’m in the wrong?

  “Lack of education can be changed, Antonia. It’s not like something set in stone about a person—as if I wanted a short wife and got you instead, so I chopped off your feet to make you what I want.”

  With a sinking feeling, she realized he was right. The secret she’d thought so shameful turned out to be small when she finally admitted the truth. But Antonia couldn’t get a word in edgewise to tell him so because he barreled on without stopping. In the dim light his eyes were smoky blue and pinned on her face so she couldn’t look away.

  “To be honest, no, I haven’t liked the way you speak. But with everything else going on, that didn’t matter. I focused on what you said, not how you said it.” The edge left Erik’s tone, and he sounded tired. “I knew you were smart and would probably change your speech on your own.”

  He thinks I’m smart? She’d never thought that about herself.

  “And your efforts have paid off. I’ve been proud of you. Until today, have I ever said a word of criticism about your language? Ever corrected your speech?”

  She shook her head.

  “Have I been unkind or done anything else to make you think you had to lie to me?”

  “I didn’t b—lie.”

  His jaw tightened. “Not in words, Antonia, but in deeds. A lie of omission.”

  She could guess at what a lie of omission meant.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose before lowering his hand. “Would you judge me so harshly that you’d be afraid of my reaction?”

  Antonia felt guilty, realizing she’d hurt him. Fact was, Erik seemed more upset with her for withholding the information than he did about her lack of education.

  She spoke slowly so every word would come out right. “No. I didn’t judge you at all. I judged myself. And I was afraid. I didn’t want any—” Antonia groped for the word “—setbacks with our relationship.”

  His lips twisted in a wry grimace. “Well, we certainly have a setback now.”

  Silence hung between them, uncomfortable and filled with pain—for the first time, pain between them, not from their shared grief.

  “Antonia, I can teach you to read,” Erik said gently.

  The words that would have brightened her heart if she’d heard them a few hours ago now only made her feel ashamed. Heart racing, she lowered her gaze to the ground.

  “All you had to do was ask.”

  Something new winged through her. Someone cared enough to teach her. This man. My own husband. Antonia scuffed a few pieces of straw with her foot before forcing herself to meet his eyes. “I would like that, Erik.”

  “We’ll start tomorrow night. We may not get much done until wintertime when we’ll have plenty of time indoors.”

  “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.” The words seemed paltry, but she didn’t know what else to add.

  “There’s no need for a chicken dinner tonight.”

  She nodded her understanding and picked up the rifle, preparing to leave.

  “In the future, will you tell me when something is bothering you? Before the boiling over stage?”

  Antonia paused. “I’m usually not much bothered.”

  “So I thought. But now I have to wonder. Anything else bothering you?”

  Without hesitation, she shook her head.

  Erik stared into her eyes for a few minutes, pinning her again—as if trying to ascertain if she was telling the truth.

  Her stomach twisted, knowing she’d made him doubt her. Antonia broke eye contact first, turning to leave the barn, aware of the breach that had formed between them.

  I must find a way to repair what I’ve done.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The argument, brief as it was, made Erik draw back from Antonia, even though their behavior toward each other remained c
ivil, and they still pulled together like a team. But their growing physical intimacy stuttered to a standstill.

  In Montana, the growing season was never long enough to accomplish all a busy farmer needed to do. During the two weeks after their argument, as Erik went about his chores, he pondered why such a relatively mild disagreement had made such an impact on him.

  Since he didn’t have a ready answer, he tried to put the incident from his mind, only to have it pop up at the oddest times and tug at his thoughts. But with the summer flying by, and the two of them laboring from dawn to nightfall, he never had the time or energy to mend the rift.

  Instead, Antonia and Erik focused on the crops, the livestock, and taking care of the children. She planted medicinal flowers around the porch that she’d uprooted on her hunting expeditions. Soon white Angelica and sweet clover, as well as yellow columbines and evening primrose, grew beside the steps.

  They’d started experimenting with making cheese, and, one by one, big cheese wheels ripened on wooden shelves in the pantry, crowding out the other supplies. When he could, Erik dug into the side of the hill next to the house to make a cheese cave.

  The puppy and the children grew at a surprising rate. Jacques went from toddling a few steps to running, seemingly overnight. His vocabulary expanded to words beyond those ending in an ah sound, although he still uttered them with determination.

  In the evenings, Henri studied so he could continue learning while school was out for the summer, and Antonia worked under Erik’s guidance, proving all along she’d been learning with her son since he’d started school.

  Her sharp intellect didn’t surprise Erik, nor did her hard work, but her thirst for knowledge did. He wondered what her life could have been if she’d had a real education as a child. Would she have chosen a profession, as a teacher maybe? Or perhaps she would have gone into the other careers that had begun opening to women in the last few decades—a doctor like Elizabeth Blackwell or a journalist like Nellie Bly. Our children will have those choices, he promised himself, to the best of my ability to provide them.