Henrietta taught Antonia to can food, and his wife reciprocated by teaching her neighbor how to dry berries and other fruits and vegetables. The two of them took their children to gather the wild berries, chokecherries, and plums, often leading a mule to help haul babies, baskets, food, blankets, and a rifle. As the garden ripened, an increasing number of jars of fruit and vegetables lined the shelves in the pantry.
One day in the beginning of August, Erik surveyed the remaining holz hausen—the haystack-shaped woodpile—and knew he’d better take a trip to the forest if he wanted firewood to season before the autumn nights grew cold. Every year, twice during the summer, he and Rory O’Donnell drove together, spending several days chopping or sawing trees and splitting the logs, returning with a wagon laden with as much wood as the horses could pull, which he then made into several holz hausen. He’d already postponed the journey for too long.
This year, Erik had mixed feelings about being away from the farm. On one hand, he looked forward to the expedition, longing for quiet time in the forest, just he and Rory working in silence except for grunts and terse words spoken when necessary. But, as much as Erik knew he needed time away from the family, he didn’t want to leave them, especially Antonia, without having another discussion to see if he could bridge the divide between them.
That night after the children slept, Erik took a seat at the table across from Antonia, instead of next to her as he usually did when teaching her. He placed his elbows on the table, fisting his hands together and lowering his chin on top of them. A freshly brewed cup of chamomile tea sat at his elbow, sending a fragrant herbal scent into the air.
For a moment, he stared at his wife. The lamplight burnished her hair and gilded her lambent eyes, playing over the curve of her cheek, fuller now than when she’d first arrived here. He memorized the picture of Antonia, planning to take the image with him when he left. Too bad there’s not a photographer in Sweetwater Springs.
He regretted having no picture of Daisy, although her parents had a family photograph. As soon as there’s an opportunity, I’ll have one made of our family. “I want to talk to you instead of studying tonight.”
Antonia gave him a wary look and sipped her tea.
“You might have noticed that the holz hausen is getting lower?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Holz hausen?”
“German for wood hut—our woodpile. Our last one is dwindling.”
“I hadn’t given it much thought. You’re always so good about keeping the wood box full. I’ve never had to fetch any from the woodpile.”
The compliment pleased him. “You might have noticed we don’t have many trees around here, certainly none we can spare for firewood.”
She chuckled. “And you don’t use buffalo or cow chips.”
He grimaced. “Thank goodness for that. Rory and I take two annual trips to the mountains to cut wood. I need to go in the next few days—day after tomorrow, probably, if he can make it. Then another in a few weeks. Building a holz hausen seasons the wood in about three months, instead of six or longer. Barring too many early snowstorms, we have about that much wood left before we’re out. But this is Montana, and early snowstorms can happen. Best to be prepared.”
“True.”
“We’ll be gone three days, getting back late. I’ll take all the milk and butter with us and drop off everything at the mercantile, telling the Cobbs not to expect more while we’re gone.”
I’ll stop by the bank on the way home and make my payment on the loan. The thought of having to do so soured his mood. That payment would take the rest of the savings in his bank account, and he’d be scraping the bottom of the barrel, at that. No funds would be left for the winter if a late-season drought or early storms caused his harvest to fail. Might have to sell some heifers. He forced the dire thoughts away.
“If not for the children and the livestock, I could go with you.”
She can still surprise me. Erik grinned. “Bet you could chop quite a bit of wood, wife. We’d need to take two wagons if you were along.”
Antonia returned his smile. “You’ll be sore. You’ll be needin’ the liniment bottle,” she said in a flirtatious tone.
She hadn’t spoken like that since their argument, and he felt relieved that she’d inadvertently opened the door for the rest of what he wanted to talk about. “I’ll be needing the liniment and even better, your hands on my sore muscles when I return.” He paused. “Been a while, I know. I’ve missed our closeness. I just had a lot of thinking to do.”
“Thinkin’ and a feelin’.” She looked up and held his gaze.
He nodded agreement. “Truth is, even with getting along well. . .our growing closeness and care for each other, we’re still grieving. Maybe the wounds have scabbed over, but we still have them.”
Antonia winced. “We’re more sensitive, like bumpin’ your arm on something when you already have a bruise.”
She understands. “Yes. And we still don’t know each other well. We were thrown into a marriage and have had to learn about each other. I think we’ve jogged along in harness well enough, but I guess we needed to have an argument to learn about each other—how we fight and how to make up—as well as the intimacy that comes afterward and helps mend the rift.” He shook his head. “Listen to me speaking in all these analogies.”
She looked at him in askance, reached for her teacup, and took a sip.
“An analogy demonstrates two similar things.” He gestured back and forth between them. “Our relationship, working together, is like a team of horses pulling a wagon.”
She laughed. “Then our marriage be the harness.”
He smiled in praise. “That day, you caught me off guard when you became upset about killing the chickens—especially since I wasn’t expecting it. You’d agreed to make fried chicken in the morning and seemed so comfortable while we were in town. And to be honest. . .ever since Daisy’s death, I’ve been feeling guilt aplenty about everything I didn’t do to make her happy. Or maybe all I did to make her unhappy. Having a second unhappy wife—I mean, I realize you are grieving and thus are already unhappy. But a wife unhappy with me seemed too much.”
“I’m not an unhappy wife,” Antonia said the words carefully, as she did when trying to speak properly.
He cocked his head, not sure what she meant.
“There’s a difference between being sad about Jean-Claude and being happy with you. I be—am both.” She scrunched her forehead. “But not so much since. . .”
“I needed to pull back from you for a time, do some thinking, lick my wounds, so to speak.”
“Another analogy.” Antonia’s lips turned up in a rueful smile. “I’ve done a lot of thinking, too. I felt bad. Missed our growing closeness. Wondered if we’d ever have it again.” She touched her chest. “Yet, in here, I believed we would.”
He reached across the table for her hand. “I’m ready for closeness and intimacy again. Perhaps when I return.” Erik realized he was making assumptions. “That is, if you are?”
She paused and touched her lips with her fingers, obviously thinking.
What if she says no? Erik’s heart started to knock against his chest.
Antonia smiled. “I’d like that.”
Erik and Rory were two days late returning from the mountains, and worry shadowed Antonia’s footsteps. After the third night passed without him driving up, she’d fretted while doing her chores, as well as the added ones of milking and seeing to the livestock. Every time she stepped outside or passed a window, Antonia paused to glance up the road.
The babies grew fractious, and Henri retreated to his previous silence. Even quiet, the boy was a big help to her, taking on as much as he could shoulder. She couldn’t wait to share with Erik her pride in her son, for she knew he’d be pleased, too.
The puppy had grown too big for Henri to carry around. Schatzy proved to be a loving companion, entertaining the children as nothing else could do.
Then another day craw
led past and a fifth. Antonia tried not to think of all the reasons Erik and Rory could be late. But the memories of finding Jean-Claude’s body wrapped in the grizzly’s great arms kept leaping into her mind, making fear churn in her stomach. There are two of them, she constantly reminded herself. He isn’t alone. After thinking the words so often, she no longer had to pause to say them properly.
Sometimes as Antonia worked, she sent up a prayer, something she’d never really done in the past, taking comfort from the simple communication with God.
On the seventh day, the babies were sleeping, Henri off exploring the grassy plains with his dog, and Antonia was in the kitchen drying dishes. Normally, she’d be enjoying this time of peace, but concern for her husband gnawed at her innards.
At the sound of hoofbeats and wheels, her heart leaped with joy. Erik’s home! Relief made her knees weak. She dropped the dishtowel, untied the apron protecting Daisy’s altered dress, and hurried across the room. Flinging open the door, she halted, shocked to see a buggy instead of a wagon, and a tall man in a suit stepping down.
Disappointment seized her, and Antonia had to work hard to mask her feelings. Why is he here? Then all the fears she’d grappled with for days burst out. Thoughts of the worst flooded her mind, and she gasped, racing across the porch to meet him. “Tell me he’s alive,” she flung at him. “Please, may my husband be alive!”
The man stopped short and took off his hat. “Mrs. Muth,” he nodded. “I’m afraid—”
“Nooo!” Antonia wailed. “Dear Lord, not another husband dead!” Not Erik! Her legs couldn’t hold her, and she sank to the step. Sobs built in her chest, and she struggled to contain them, her body shaking.
“Uh.” The man cleared his throat, took two steps, and crouched, grabbing her arms. “No. No, Mrs. Muth. You are under a misapprehension. I’m not here to give you bad news about your husband.”
At first, the man’s words didn’t penetrate the pain whirling through her.
“Mrs. Muth!” He shook her arms.
In a daze, Antonia looked up at him.
He’d paled and his brown eyes held genuine concern, even though he’d spoken so sharply. “I’m Caleb Livingston, the banker. I tell you in truth; I’m not here to bring you bad news.” Mr. Livingston checked himself. “At least, not that kind of bad news.”
“Then Erik’s not dead?”
“No, my dear lady.” His tone sounded compassionate. “Or at least I have no knowledge of the state of his health. Come.” He slipped a hand under her elbow. “Let me help you to a chair and bring you some water.”
Embarrassed, Antonia allowed him to assist her to her feet. Finding her backbone, she drew herself up and straightened her shoulders. “My apologies, Mr. Livingston. You must think me the most weak-minded of females. It’s just that. . .that. . .my husband and Mr. O’Donnell have traveled to the mountains to log for the winter’s firewood. They are four days late getting home, and I’ve been fearing the worst.” She bit her lip, forcing the words out. “The last time I had a husband who was late, the worst had occurred.”
“I understand. Please—” the banker waved to the rocking chairs “—sit.” He removed his hat.
Antonia managed not to betray how her knees trembled. She perched on the edge of the seat, holding the chair steady so it wouldn’t rock. “Please forgive my reaction, Mr. Livingston.” She laid a hand on her chest. “Now I feel quite foolish.”
“Pay it no mind.”
“You are kind.” She gave him a direct look. The man was handsome enough to turn a woman’s head. If a woman didn’t already love her husband. The revelation about her feelings for Erik shocked her.
He gave her a half smile. “Kindness is not something I’ve ever been accused of before, Mrs. Muth. Bankers can’t afford to be kind.”
“Everyone can afford to be kind,” she corrected.
“Perhaps you will not think so when you learn why I’ve traveled here.”
Inside, Antonia still felt shaky, although her mind was beginning to clear. “Whatever the reason be, does not take away kindness. That is not how it works.”
“No.” His smile was wry. He gestured to the second rocker.
Mr. Livingston doesn’t look like a man who sits in rocking chairs. Antonia nodded for him to sit.
He settled himself on the edge of the seat, having to find his balance, and set his hat on his legs. “How long did you say your husband has been gone?”
“Seven days. He meant to be away only three.” She gripped the edge of her apron.
His jaw tightened. “In a discussion several Sundays ago, your husband indicated he intended to keep you appraised of the thievery situation in Sweetwater Springs over the last six or so months.”
Antonia gave a hesitant nod, wondering if she would need to defend the Blackfoot again. “He did inform me.”
“He also mentioned that you are a crack shot with a rifle. Seemed quite proud of the fact.”
Mr. Livingston spoke as if he couldn’t understand Erik’s attitude, but pleasure bloomed in her.
“If Mr. Muth hasn’t been in town in the last week, then he hasn’t heard the news buzzing about the place concerning the Indian thievery. The word has gotten out, and gossip and panic are rife, with the Cobbs being the instigators of the anti-Indian sentiment.”
Antonia clenched her hands.
“I can’t say I blame them.”
She bit her lip. What does this mean for my Indian friends?
“The town leaders held a meeting yesterday to discuss the situation. The sheriff isn’t sure if the stealing incidences have escalated, or if more reports being made are because people now assume events of missing livestock are due to the redskins.”
Oh, no!
“The sheriff’s chasing her tail with having to check out each one. Unfortunately, many livestock disappearances appear to be from natural causes—wandering off, or animal predation, which is wasting her time and slowing the investigation. She also fears some unscrupulous people may be stealing from their neighbors and blaming things on the redskins, or perhaps are even butchering and eating their own livestock and then reporting them as having been stolen.”
Antonia wanted to surge to her feet and pace across the porch. She forced herself to remain still, but her fingernails dug into her palms from the effort. “That is unfair to the Blackfoot.”
“Recently, the majority of the reports seem to be heightened in this area. Shots were exchanged at the Hansen place.” He waved in a northeastern direction. “Sheriff Granger spoke with your neighbors, the Knapps, on Sunday to warn them to stay alert. I’ll stop by Mrs. O’Donnell’s on the way home, so she knows to be on guard. The sheriff is sending out riders to cover the rest of the area.”
“I thank you for your concern, Mr. Livingston. We will be watchful.” She decided not to mention her connection with the Blackfoot and made a mental note to keep Henri close to the house.
“Good.” He let out a breath. “Now for what really brings me out here. . . . Normally, I would speak to your husband, so as not to trouble you. However, since I’ve already troubled you. . .”
She gestured for him to continue.
“Mr. Muth took out a loan to build that.” He lifted his chin, pointing in the direction of the barn. “He has quarterly payments due on the amount he owes, and if he’s late, then there is an extra penalty. The money was due yesterday, Mrs. Muth. And thus, your husband is in arrears.”
Arrears? “What is the meaning, sir?”
“Behind and owing a penalty,” he explained.
Antonia had been so focused on the fact that Mr. Livingston might have brought her bad news about Erik’s death that it hadn’t occurred to her that because the man was a banker, he thus must be here about money. “Oh,” was all she could say, while she gathered her scattered wits about her. “I didn’t know.” She wished the words unsaid as soon as they left her mouth.
“And why should you? Ladies have no need to be involved in business.”
> His tone was still kind, but the assumption made her hackles rise. “How much does he owe?” she asked.
He hesitated. “Perhaps I should save this discussion for when Mr. Muth returns.”
Antonia thought of Jean-Claude’s money. Will it be enough? “I will pay you, Mr. Livingston,” she said in a firm tone. “But I need to know the amount.”
With obvious reluctance, he named the sum and the penalty.
Antonia held in a gasp. Her chest tightened. That will take almost everything I have. “Has Mr. Muth ever been late before?”
“There have only been three quarterly payments so far. But he paid on the due date with each.”
“In that case, sir. . .” She spoke every word clearly. “My husband would have paid on the due date this time, too. But since he’s delayed in the wilderness and may be unable to travel. . .if I pay what’s owed, will you forgive the penalty?”
He sat in silence, studying her.
“Just this once, please.”
“Due to the circumstances you both have undergone. I will waive the penalty. Indeed, I owe it to you for frightening you so.”
“Oh, thank you, sir,” she said in relief.
His lips quirked. “Just don’t bandy that fact about.”
“We will be silent.” Antonia rose. “I will get the money for you. Shall I bring you anything? Tea?” She gave thanks that they’d replenished the supply on their last trip to town. “Water?”
He stood and gestured toward the well. “Water will be fine. I’ll get it myself. And if I could water the horses?”
“Of course. Let me bring you a cup.”
Back straight, Antonia walked into the house and to the bedroom, her knees still shaky. She kept the money in a beaded pouch in the bureau.
The babies slept—Camilla in the cradle she was almost too big for, and Jacques sprawled on the bed. But even as she watched, he stirred.
She pulled out the money, counting the bills, her fingers shaky. With the money in her hand, she moved into the kitchen to grab a tin cup and then walked outside. “Here is your money, Mr. Livingston.” She gave the funds to him, not by tone or posture conveying how loath she was to part with her savings, and her growing resentment with Erik for putting her in this position. “I apologize that you had to drive all the way out here to be paid what’s owed you. That be. . .isn’t right.” She held out the cup.
Healing Montana Sky Page 29
