He wiggled in protest.
She dropped a kiss on his forehead and reached up to her shoulder to unlace the leather ties of her tunic, pulling down the flap to free her breast.
Nestling close, he began to greedily suckle.
Henri dropped to her other side and leaned against her.
Antonia put her arm around him. Just holding her sons brought her comfort but also increased her despair. What do I do now?
Should I take the boys and leave? Head for Sweetwater Springs?
Antonia shook her head. No! I won’t leave Jean-Claude. Leave my home.
But without her husband to provide for them, she didn’t know how long she could manage on her own.
Somehow, I’ll find a way, Antonia vowed.
Two days later, Antonia took a final look around the log cabin. Just one snug room, made with Jean-Claude’s own hands, the home had sheltered her family for the last two years. Only the table and log chairs remained in front of the river rock fireplace. She’d been dreading spending another long winter cooped up with a young boy and a toddler in the small space. Now, though, she’d give anything to stay, to experience the love and warmth once contained within these cozy walls. But the house remained empty—not just of their possessions, which she’d packed on the two mules—but of all that had made it a home.
The tears she’d held back since her discovery of Jean-Claude’s body threatened to fall, and she abruptly turned and walked outside for one final look. The spring sun shone through the pines and dappled the needle-strewn ground. Her garden, now a cemetery, lay on one side of the cabin, surrounded by a high split-rail fence to keep out the deer. Before long, the forest would reclaim the plot she’d worked so hard to cultivate. She took heavy steps to the grave.
Antonia reached the spot marked with a crude wooden cross, lashed together with leather strips, and sank to her knees. She wanted to throw herself over the mound and sob away her anguish. But that would frighten the children. Instead, she placed her palm on the dirt, feeling the loose soil shift under her hand. “Good-bye, my love.”
The rest of the words clogged her throat. How do I tell a dead man that I’m leaving him? Not that her husband was really here.
Antonia crossed herself. She believed Jean-Claude was in heaven, having sweet-talked his way right out of purgatory. He was probably laughing and telling stories to the angels, charming them as he had her. She was the one who’d have to live without him.
Am I doing the right thing. . .leaving? For two days, uncertainty had weighed heavy in her stomach like a rock, while her mind twisted between thoughts of Jean-Claude and debating plans for the future. How will we survive? The question had eaten at her. She desperately wanted to find a way to stay in her home. But although a good shot, Antonia couldn’t take the children hunting. Nor could she leave them alone for hours at a stretch. She glanced over her shoulder at her older son.
Sad-eyed Henri held the reins of the two mules, his mouth drooping.
The baby stood on tottery legs and clutched his brother around his hips.
Her heart twisted. How could she help her sons? They adored their father. Henri had cried himself to sleep last night. And her usually placid Jacques had fussed, waking often. She’d barely had a wink of sleep. Antonia motioned them to her side.
Henri tied the reins to a branch and gently pushed Jacques to the ground. He walked over to her, his feet dragging. The baby crawled after.
She patted the ground next to her. “Say good-bye to Père, my son.”
The boy looked from the mound to her, his face drawn and a sorrowing look in his eyes. “You said he’s in heaven, Maman.”
Jacques climbed on the grave and played with some loose dirt.
“He is, mon petite chèr.” Aching with love for him, Antonia smoothed back the hair from Henri’s face, wanting to find words to comfort him, to help her son understand. “His body lies here, though, and we are leaving.” Her voice thickened. “So, we’re saying goodbye, although we’ll never forget him.”
Henri’s face scrunched and tears came to his eyes. He dropped to his knees and leaned into her. “Why did Père have to die, Maman?”
How can I answer that? “I don’t know, Henri.”
“I want him to come back.”
She put her arm around the boy and squeezed him close. “I do, too.”
Jacques crawled to them.
Antonia gathered the baby to her, inhaling his sweet baby scent. She gave him a squeeze, kissed his plump cheek, and stood. She tried to send Henri an encouraging smile, but her mouth wouldn’t stretch, and the gesture probably came out a grimace. “Are you ready for an adventure, Henri?”
“Yes, Maman,” he said in a subdued tone.
Antonia missed her son’s usual high spirits and gamin grin. How long before they’d return? She tried to suppress the secret fear that Henri would never be the same again, his happy personality buried with Jean-Claude in his grave.
“Up on the mule then,” Antonia said briskly. “You’re a big boy now and will ride all by yourself. I’m depending on you to hold on to your brother. Can you do that?”
His expression brightened, which gave her a glimmer of hope, and he nodded.
Antonia helped him climb into the saddle, then set Jacques up in front of him. Behind the saddle, she’d lashed their clothing and sleeping furs. “You hold your brother tight.”
“I will, Maman.”
“In three days, Henri, we’ll arrive in Sweetwater Springs.” She tried to instill some enthusiasm into her voice, but her tone sounded so heavy Antonia knew she’d failed. “You’ll have your first sight of a town.”
The other mule was laden with Jean-Claude’s rifle, his furs and hides, along with more of their meager possessions. A cast-iron Dutch oven and a metal bucket rode on top of the heap. Antonia shrugged into her own pack, hefted her rifle, and took the reins of both mules. She glanced behind for one final glimpse of her home, then resolutely turned forward and led them down the mountain trail.
Acknowledgments
To Larry Kirshbaum, who fell in love with the Montana Sky Series and made Glorious Montana Sky happen.
To my Montlake editors, Hai-Yen Mura, who began the process of Glorious Montana Sky, and Helen Cattaneo, who’s been there throughout.
To my developmental editor and dear friend, Louella Nelson, who’s been with me since I first wrote Wild Montana Sky, and who makes all my stories better.
To Linda Carroll-Bradd, line editor, and Kara Pickman, copy editor, for helping polish Glorious Montana Sky.
To Pastor Ron Baesler, who told me about his missionary experiences, and Pastor Bob Mooney, who shared his love of Uganda. Many thanks for the inspiration for the character of Joshua Norton.
To Suzanne Johnson, Rita Edwards, Peggy Allen, and Margery Scott, for the research help.
I’ve been blessed with a loving family and an abundance of friends, and I thank them for their continuing support.
About the Author
Photo © 2013 Randall Hill
New York Times and USA Today best-selling author Debra Holland is a three-time Romance Writers of America Golden Heart finalist and one-time winner. She is the author of the Montana Sky Series: sweet, historical Western romances. In 2012, Wild Montana Sky (her debut novel) made the USA Today best-seller list. In 2013, Amazon selected Starry Montana Sky as one of the Top 50 Greatest Love Stories, and a few months later, Stormy Montana Sky made the New York Times best-seller list.
Debra is also the author of The Gods’ Dream Trilogy, a fantasy romance. She has written a nonfiction book, The Essential Guide to Grief and Grieving, and is a contributing author to The Naked Truth About Self-Publishing. Sign up for her newsletter and receive a free e-booklet on her website (http://drdebraholland.com): 58 Tips for Getting What You Want From a Difficult Conversation.
Debra lives in
Southern California with her two dogs and two cats.
You can contact Debra at:
Website: http://drdebraholland.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Debra-Holland/395355780562473
and https://www.facebook.com/debra.holland.731
Twitter: http://twitter.com/drdebraholland
Glorious Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series) Page 31
