Healing Montana Sky

by Debra Holland

  The banker counted out the bills. Grasping her hand, he removed the cup. “I appreciate the chance to quench my thirst.”

  Did he think I’d be runnin’ him off the place, offer no hospitality? She reconsidered. Well, if the banker’s visits always brought bad news to those already lacking funds, perhaps he had reason to believe such. Antonia hesitated, then rushed out the words. “You be a good man, Mr. Livingston. You remember that, hear?”

  In the house, Jacques cried out.

  The banker tipped his hat to her. “Tend to your child, Mrs. Muth. I’ll avail myself of your water and be on my way.” He turned and walked down the steps and across the yard.

  For some reason, Antonia thought the well-dressed man had a lonely set to his shoulders, for all he walked so upright. She turned to go to Jacques before the boy woke up his sister.

  As she shut the door, Antonia felt like she was wrung out from all the emotions she’d just experienced—from terror, to love, to resentment, and now anger welled up inside her. She couldn’t believe Erik had been so disappointed with how she’d withheld her lack of education, drawn back from her even, and yet he’d gone and done the same thing with keeping the loan a secret.

  You wait ’til you git home, Erik Muth. You’re goin’ to git a piece of my mind for keepin’ such important business from me!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  That night, Antonia had a hard time sleeping. The full moon beamed through the windows, making the room lighter than she was used to. Camilla was fussy, waking every few hours. After nursing the baby, she lay awake, her thoughts torn between worry about Erik, the reevaluation of her newfound love, and anger with him.

  She wanted him home safe so she could fall into his arms in relief and then give him a scold that would make his hair stand on end.

  Finally, she’d given up on sleep, getting out of bed, changing from her nightgown to her tunic and slipping her feet into her moccasins. Taking a blanket from Erik’s bed, she moved across the floor and stepped outside.

  Schatzy slept in a straw-filled box on the porch.

  She woke the puppy, who wiggled with joy and licked Antonia’s face. Wrapping the blanket around her, she settled on the rocking chair, with Schatzy who could barely fit on her lap. She watched the moon-washed setting and inhaled the scent from sweet clover blooming around the porch. Gradually, she allowed the rhythm of rocking and petting the dog to lull her into drowsiness. After about twenty minutes, chilled, Antonia crouched to put the dog back into the box.

  The puppy whimpered, wanting more attention.

  “Stay.”

  The dog had learned that word and curled into a ball.

  Antonia gave Schatzy a final pat before going into the house. Yawning, she didn’t bother to change again; instead she sank down on the bearskin next to Henri, kicked off her moccasins, and spread the blanket around her. Within minutes, she was asleep.

  The bark of the dog startled her awake. Erik! Antonia sat up, her anger with her husband forgotten in the wave of relief washing over her. But something about Schatzy’s bark—a deeper, more threatening sound accompanied by growls—told her something else had disturbed the animal. Dashing across the room, she grabbed the rifle from over the door.

  “Maman?” Henri sounded scared.

  “Get up now, Henri, and come here.” Antonia handed him the rifle and took down the second one, grateful they kept them loaded. “Hold this for me.” She peered through the window, careful not to expose her full face. Dawn had broken and replaced the milky moonlight with a sky tinged with pink.

  As she half expected, Antonia could see shadowy figures creeping toward the henhouse. They must be desperate, risking the dog waking us.

  “Stay here, right behind the door,” she ordered her son. “But be ready to hand me the rifle if I say.”

  “Oui, Maman.”

  Antonia opened the door and stepped onto the porch, her bare feet silent on the wood. She raised the rifle, aimed, and shot, plowing two bullets into the dirt, right in front of the men.

  Five days after they were due back, Erik pulled up the wagon in front of the O’Donnell homestead, setting the brake and tying off the reins. They’d taken advantage of the full moon, leaving hours before dawn and driving through Sweetwater Springs before most people had awoken.

  He was so antsy to reach his farm, having missed Antonia and the children more than he’d thought possible. He was starving and filthy and couldn’t wait for a meal and a bath. But first, Erik needed to drop off Rory, water the horses, and unload half the wagon.

  “Home at last,” Rory said with a tired sigh and a grin. The man sat next to Erik, a sapling on his lap, the roots wrapped in burlap—one of several pine saplings the two had brought as gifts for their wives. He propped the tree on the seat and jumped down from the wagon.

  The door of the house flew open, and the twins and Charlie raced out, calling, “Da! Da!” They ran into his arms.

  Rory laughed, hugging his children.

  Envy stabbed Erik. He wanted that kind of welcome when he returned home but wasn’t sure either Antonia or Henri was the type to run to greet him.

  Henrietta followed behind her brood, a hand braced on her chest.

  Rory extracted himself from the tangle of children and opened his arms to his wife.

  “Thank the saints!” She ran into her husband’s embrace and burst into tears.

  Rory held his wife close, patting her back. “Now, now. I’m sorry to be a frettin’ you with our lateness.”

  The children all started talking at once.

  Erik relaxed on the seat, giving the man a few minutes to enjoy his homecoming. Hearing the word Indians uttered by one of the twins made his ears prick. He leaped off the wagon, strode around the horses, and toward the family. “What’s this about Indians?”

  Henrietta pulled away from Rory and mopped her eyes with the bottom of her apron. “Such a time of worry, what with you two being late and wondering what might have happened—if you were injured or killed,” she scolded. “I can only imagine what Antonia must be going through, given what occurred with Jean-Claude.” She shot Erik a sharp glance. “And with the threat of the Indians, I didn’t dare go check on her, nor send Charlie.”

  “Shandy cut himself on a spar.” Erik gestured to the cloth wrapped around the gelding’s foreleg. “We had to doctor the wound and to wait for him to heal.” He brushed the air in an impatient gesture for her to hurry up with telling the story of the Indians. “We drove straight through town, not speaking with a soul.”

  Henrietta pushed back a lock of hair that blew across her face. “Mr. Livingston came by with news that the town is in an uproar about Indians stealing livestock. A few days ago, there was a shooting. I haven’t gotten any more news.”

  Livingston! Erik held in a groan, realizing he’d missed the payment for the barn and would now also owe a late fee. Shame burned through him. The banker had driven out to collect. The man must think I’m unreliable.

  Did he tell Antonia about the loan?

  “Mr. Livingston said that there are thieving Indians in the area, that the sheriff is searching for them, and warned us to be on guard. Charlie’s been keeping watch with the rifle, but it’s a big job for a boy.” She huffed out a long breath. “I declare, I haven’t slept a wink.”

  Rory and Erik exchanged worried glances. His neighbor waved at the wagon. “Everyone, let’s help getting the wood unloaded. Just dump the wood on the side. We’ll stack it later. Charlie, fetch some water for the horses. We won’t take the time to unhitch them.”

  “Aye, Da.” Charlie ran to the well.

  “Henrietta.” Rory pointed to the seat. “If you could take my bag. And I’ve brought you some pine trees. Let me grab them.”

  She clasped her hands in front of her. “Trees. How lovely of you.”

  Erik reached under the seat and removed the Winchester from the box he’d made to store it. He transferred the saplings to the floorboard and laid the rifle on the seat.<
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  With everyone pitching in to help, the group made short work of unloading half the wood supply. No sooner had the O’Donnell family tossed the last piece aside than Erik drove the wagon in a wide circle, heading back down the track that led to the main road and home.

  His stomach tight with fear, he was tempted to speed the horses. But he knew they were tired from pulling the heavy wagon such a long way.

  Dozens of dreadful scenarios of Indian attacks flashed through his mind—his wife dead, his children left vulnerable or even kidnapped. Surely, the Indians wouldn’t kill the children?

  Except they had in the past. As we have killed their women and children. He thought of the Marias massacre when the army slew a friendly band of women, children, and elderly men. Although twenty-five years earlier, he was sure the Blackfoot hadn’t forgotten the tragedy.

  Almost sick with dread, Erik reined in his runaway thoughts, reminding himself the local Indians hadn’t hurt anyone up to this point—or taken any children. They can’t even feed the ones they have. With his mind finally under his control, he remembered his wife’s capabilities.

  But even able to think more rationally, he had a gut feeling that something was wrong.

  Thank God, she’s so self-sufficient! I can depend on her.

  In that moment, Erik realized he loved Antonia. The emotion sideswiped him, filling him with astonishment and joy. He didn’t know whether to laugh or yell and couldn’t wait to tell her of his feelings. Even if I can’t be sure she loves me back, I want her to know. Please, God, may she be all right. May they all be!

  Finally, his house and barn came into sight, tiny in the distance, seeming to take forever to grow larger. Yet, he couldn’t whip his team to greater speed, for sweat already lathered the horses’ necks. I can’t ruin my horses because of my foolish fears.

  Three mounts he didn’t know stood tied up near the water. They wore saddle pads instead of saddles, and feathers fluttered from one of the rope hackamores.

  The sight of the horses made his heart kick against his ribs. Instead of driving any farther, he reined in the team, set the brake, and tied off the reins. With the rifle in one hand, he leaped down, running at an angle to the house. If the Indians watched from the kitchen window, they’d see him. But he had to take the chance.

  Erik reached the side of the house and plastered himself against the wall where he couldn’t be seen from the front. Wondering where Schatzy was, he scanned the yard, relieved not to see the body of the young dog.

  His stomach so tight his breath was short, Erik slid around the corner to the front, pausing to remove his boots, for he couldn’t possibly move across the porch without being heard. Cautiously, he ducked under the side of the porch railing and pressed his back to the wall.

  The guttural sound of a man’s voice, in a language Erik couldn’t understand, came through the open door. The hair on his arms rose. Although he wanted to lean and glance in the window, he didn’t want to be sighted.

  Dropping to his knees, Erik crawled underneath the window, careful to keep the rifle from banging on the floor. On the other side, he rose to his feet, stepping to the edge of the doorway. The smell of frying ham drifted his way, and he wrinkled his nose, wondering if they were forcing Antonia to feed them.

  His heart in his throat, Erik said a quick prayer, took a deep breath, and with one move leaped around and through the door, his rifle leveled.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Three Indian men sat at the table along with Henri. Two of them sprang up when Erik leaped inside.

  He aimed the rifle at them, wondering if he could pull the trigger, killing them in front of his family. If I have to!

  The braves were dressed in fur-trimmed buckskin with beaded designs on the front and sleeves. They had braided feathers into their hair and looked to be about eighteen. One long-faced Indian held Jacques on his lap. He paused in the act of feeding the boy a piece of toast.

  “Pa!” Jacques yelled, bouncing on the man’s knee. The boy grinned and stuffed the toast into his mouth, smearing his face with purple jam.

  Schatzy let out a happy bark and ran to him, her tail wagging.

  Even Camilla, lying on the bearskin, waved her hand at him.

  The air smelled of pork grease, and his hungry stomach clutched.

  Still holding the handle of the frying pan, Antonia whirled from the stove. Her eyes widened. “Erik, you’re back!” She shook her head at him. “Put down that rifle,” she said sharply. “Everything’s all right.” Her tone softened. “I know them.”

  Henri translated what she’d said to the Indians.

  His arms suddenly weak, Erik lowered the rifle. Relief made his knees tremble.

  The three braves didn’t move, but their shoulders relaxed.

  Questions flooded his mind. But the first one that tumbled from his mouth was directed at Henri. “Where did you learn to speak Blackfoot like that?”

  Antonia moved the frying pan to the cooler surface of the stove. She wore an apron over her Indian garb. “We often spent weeks with the Blackfoot, and Henri learned to speak the language as well as any of the children. Two years have passed since we were there, and I thought he’d forgotten. But he’s speakin’ much better than me.”

  “I’ve been practicing with Hunter, Pa,” Henri chimed in, his gold eyes alight. “He says I speak real good.”

  Erik’s muddled brain took a few minutes to realize Henri referred to the Thompson boy. He tilted his head toward the braves. “But what are they doing here?” he asked his wife.

  Antonia shot the Indians a guilty look. “They came by for a. . .uh. . .visit.”

  Erik figured he knew the kind of visit she was talking about.

  “I’m feedin’ ’em up, and then I thought we could talk about what’s goin’ on. Figure out what to do.”

  Ride for the sheriff is what we should do. But Erik didn’t say so. He didn’t know how much English the men understood. Things are calm now, and I don’t want to change that.

  The two men standing followed the conversation with their heads, until Antonia spoke Blackfoot words, and they sat again, looking uneasy.

  His wife stepped away from the stove and walked toward him with a welcoming smile, her hands outstretched.

  The lack of worry in her eyes or tension in her voice told him more than her reassuring words.

  She placed her hand on his arm and rose on tiptoe to press a kiss to his lips. “I’m glad you’re home. I’ve been right worried.”

  “Horse problems.” He’d give her more details later.

  “All that matters is you be home safe.” Antonia lifted her chin toward the gun rack. “Put up the rifle.” She patted his arm. “You must be starvin’. I know you didn’t take enough food for all those days you were gone.”

  “You’re not the only hunter in this family, wife.” Relief had him injecting some levity into his tone but he held onto the weapon.

  Antonia playfully wrinkled her nose at him before waving toward the table. “Let me introduce Samoset, Chogan, Ahanu.” She gestured to each one. “Ahanu’s the one whose leg was wounded a few weeks ago when that farmer shot him. He’s healed, though.”

  The young men all gave him solemn nods.

  Erik dipped his chin in acknowledgment.

  Antonia pulled her eyebrows together in a frown of disapproval that she directed at the Indians. “These three were just boys when I saw them last. But now they’re men enough to cause trouble.”

  Henri translated for her.

  Samoset, the one holding Jacques, gave her a sheepish look, but the other two only stared coldly at Erik.

  “Do they understand the problems they’re causing?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “I’ve been feedin’ ’em. We’ve been exchangin’ stories of the last two years. The government promised supplies to the tribe, Erik. But they never sent any,” she said, pain in her tone. “So many deaths. . .” Her voice trailed off.

  He suppressed an instinct
ive feeling of compassion. “I have to see to the horses,” Erik said, torn between taking care of his team and protecting his family. He hefted the rifle. “You’re sure about this?”

  “They won’t hurt us.”

  Erik took the Winchester with him as a precaution and walked out the door, thinking furiously. He stopped to pull on his boots before hurrying down the road to where he’d left the wagon. All through driving into the yard, unhitching the horses, and seeing to their needs, he sifted through possible ideas, mulling over various solutions to the three problems eating breakfast in his house. He didn’t like any of the possibilities.

  Turning the braves over to the sheriff, if he could even manage to do such a thing, would cause Antonia and Henri distress. But, although hard on him, upsetting his family wouldn’t prevent Erik from doing what he felt was right. But turning in the Indians didn’t feel right, either. Just letting them go would also be wrong, even if Antonia scolded the braves enough to put the fear of God—or at least the sheriff—into the men, in hopes they’d stop their thieving ways.

  The Blackfoot are still starving, and I can’t turn a blind eye to their needs.

  Erik stopped to admire the Indians’ horses, and a glimmer of an idea came to him. Once he walked inside the house, he hesitated on the threshold, realizing something had changed.

  Tension hung in the air.

  He cocked an eyebrow at Antonia in askance.

  She was back at the stove, frying eggs and ham. “I told them how people are gittin’ riled up, and the sheriff fears folks could get angry enough to attack the reservation, killin’ innocent people. Now these three realize they’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest and might bring disaster down on their tribe. They’re scared down to their moccasins. Not that they’ll show it. But they don’t know what to do to make everything right.”