“Over here.” Mr. Peterson called.
Nilda looped the reins around a post. Taking Eloise by the hand, she bounced her way toward the edge. She looked over to see Mr. Peterson waiting.
“Just slide off. I will catch you.”
She could feel her eyes widen as if she had no control over them. “But Mr. Peterson, this is not proper.”
He tipped his fedora-style hat back on his head and rolled his eyes. “Just sit the child down, and she’ll show you how.”
“Her name is Eloise.” Instead of clapping her hand over her mouth, Nilda raised her chin, her sunburned chin. Her face felt on fire. Both the men wore hats; she had to have a hat to protect her from that glaring sun.
“I know that.” He stepped closer to the wagon. “Come on, Eloise. Slide down.”
“Like Ma,” Nilda said as she sat down. “And slide.” She gave her daughter a gentle push. While she shrieked on the way down, Eloise landed in Mr. Peterson’s arms, clamped her little hands around his neck, then looked back at her mother with a big grin. “Slide, Ma.”
Mr. Peterson set Eloise down on the ground and looked up at Nilda, one eyebrow cocked in an “I dare you” fashion. Her brothers had often looked at her just that way. “I dare you.” They’d said it too. Nilda closed her eyes and scooted off. With a rush that lifted her stomach into her throat, she slid down the slick hay and right into Joseph Peterson’s arms. He took a step backward, at the same time letting her get her balance.
“See?” He stared for one brief moment into her eyes, his hands warm on her sides.
“Ja.” She forced the word past the sudden closing in her throat. Stepping back so she could breathe again, she murmured, “Mange takk,” and headed for the house. If she’d thought her face hot from the sun, now the heat went clear down her front—every place that they had touched. “Come, Eloise, we must get dinner.”
After a stop at the outhouse, Nilda washed her hands in the wash basin on the bench by the door and dried them on the towel. After untying the kerchief, she shook out the hay seeds and brushed as much as she could from her clothing. When she was finally back in the house, she added more wood to the fire and pulled the cast-iron pot of stew out of the oven.
She mixed eggs, flour, salt, baking powder, and a bit of cream, dropped the dumplings in the bubbling stew, and set the iron lid half on. If only he had told her earlier that she would be helping with the haying, she would have baked more the day before. As it was, they had one loaf of bread left and half a cake. Even though she’d put canned beans in the stew, she opened another can and set them on to heat. After all the full-course meals she’d served in the houses back east, this seemed a paltry performance.
While dinner finished cooking, she rinsed off the dishes she’d left in the dishpan on the stove and handed the plates, one at a time, for Eloise to put on the table. When she still had a few minutes, she sat down at the churn and raised the handle. The raise, thunk, and swish rhythm were the sounds she was used to, not the jingling of harness and the squeal of wagon wheels.
Eloise came to stand beside her mother. “Slide more.”
“Ja, I’m sure we will.” Was it a sin to look forward to that slide also?—for a far different reason.
She dreamed of Joseph that night, that “I dare you” look, the feel of his arms catching her. So when the other man and his half-grown son showed up in the morning to take their places on the wagon, she felt a pang of regret. But no matter how much her shoulders ached, she’d proven that she could do the job. Accomplishment was such a satisfying feeling.
The next afternoon, she cut out sunbonnets for her and Eloise, wondering what she could use to stiffen the brims. She had no wool to felt, starch would sag under the perspiration, and leather was too heavy. When she asked Mr. Peterson if he had any ideas, he shook his head. While they surely had buckram at the general store, he had no time to go to town.
“I didn’t ask you to go to town. I asked if you had any ideas.” Her words fell softly in the lamplight.
He thought for a long moment. “Whalebone?”
She shook her head. She’d given up corsets the year Eloise was born. Slim waists and high bosoms were more a hindrance than a help.
“Willow twigs?”
Nilda nodded. “That could work.” It might look strange, but anything to keep from getting sunburned would be a help. “Is the store open on Sunday?”
“No. Why?”
“I thought when we went to church…”
His eyes narrowed. “No.”
“No…what?”
“No, we don’t go to church.”
Don’t go to church? Too far? Too busy? Nilda puzzled on his words. “B-but I want to go to church. We always, or at least most Sundays, went to church.” Unless Eloise was too sick. “Sunday is the Lord’s day.”
“Maybe so, but…” He shook his head. “Not driving clear to town for church.”
She shifted her gaze back to the needle and thread in her hand. We’ll see about that.
While the men hayed, Nilda weeded her garden, delighting with Eloise when the feathery fronds of carrots greened their rows, the peas sent out their first tendrils, and the rounded potato leaves spread for the sun. Dreams of the meals she would cook with fresh food and visions of jars filled for winter made her smile as she wiped away the perspiration. The willow-stiffened brim worked.
From now on, Nilda carried any dirty dishwater from the house to the bucket set in the aisles between the rows. Eloise delighted in giving each plant a drink, using one of the cups that had a chip in it. She dipped her cup in the bucket, leaned over, and dribbled the water around the beans and along the carrots, each hill of corn and the next, all the while humming her little song, as if singing the plants into growing.
“Ma, come!”
The shriek brought Nilda from the house at a dead run.
“Bad cow.” Eloise had fetched a stick and was on her way to drive a calf from the fence nearest the far row of corn. “Go ’way. Bad cow.” She waved the stick and swatted at the surprised animal.
Nilda nearly choked keeping back the laughter. Talk about David and Goliath. Only she had a stick instead of three small stones. The calf tore off, and Nilda resolved to ask the men to put another rail above the wire fencing. Was this the same little girl who cried when a stranger looked at her?
“What a big girl you are.”
Eloise nodded as she inspected the corn plant, now missing several leaves. “Bad cow.”
“You scared her off.”
“Ja, bad cow.”
That afternoon while Eloise slept, Nilda took another of the pieces of brown paper and drew her daughter attacking the yearling. When she’d asked the men what a steer was, they’d muttered around and finally said, a male of the cattle that had been, well, altered. Fixed. No longer a bull. When she finally figured it out, the only word that came to mind was from the Bible: eunuch.
There were a lot of things she had to learn if she was going to get along in ranching country. And one of them was how to butcher chickens. So far Hank had done the dirty deed for her whenever she needed one killed. He was also the one who brought in grouse and rabbit and, once, enough fish to last for two meals. Perhaps that was another thing she should learn how to do—catch fish, as Mr. Peterson had suggested. And up the river a bit she’d found a thicket of the most glorious blueberries. Surely at church she could ask the other women what could be used from the wild and what couldn’t.
“Mr. Peterson,” she asked after supper the next Friday night. “I have a favor to ask.” Please, Lord, help me with this. Let him be different than the last time.
“Ja.” He looked up from the old newspaper he was reading. “What is it?”
“I would like to go to church on Sunday. As you said before, there is a church in Medora?”
“A Catholic church.”
“Oh, but I grew up Lutheran.”
He shrugged and shook the paper to straighten it. “When you can drive the tea
m well enough, you can take the wagon to town.”
“By myself?” I can do that. Relief brought a smile.
“But you have to be able to harness and hitch up the horses, back the wagon up, and put them away when you get home.”
She glanced over to see Hank frowning.
“I could drive her.”
“I know, but if she wants to go to town, she will have to learn to do these things. We have other work to do than to drive her back and forth to town.”
She stared at his supercilious grin. The nerve of him, as if I asked to go to town every day or something. She narrowed her eyes and clamped her teeth, then drew in a calming breath and asked sweetly, “And when will you begin to give me lessons in such important arts?” Each word was clipped as with a newly sharpened scissors.
Hank returned to his carving a bone handle for a knife.
“We use the horses most every day,” Mr. Peterson pointed out.
“I know. So tomorrow after dinner, I will watch you harness and hitch them up, if that is all right with you.”
“Well, ah…” He huffed for a moment, shook his paper again, and said no more.
The thought of harnessing the team made her shrivel up inside, but if that was what it took, so be it. Now dear Lord, give me strength for the job and wisdom for this man. Somehow I think he’s bearing a grudge for something—and I know how that feels. She went back to her mending. But later when she looked up again, she caught him watching her. Was it loneliness she saw lurking in his gaze?
With the garden growing well and the house scrubbed, Nilda found a chunk of sandstone along the riverbank. On her hands and knees, she attacked the floor in her bedroom. She wielded the stone with both hands, and after only a few strokes, the slivers came away and were ready to be swept up. She started at the edge of the bed and worked her way back to the door, one patch at a time.
Wiping the perspiration from her forehead, she called, “Eloise.” No answer. “Eloise!” She pushed herself to her feet, heading for the kitchen door before the word was out of her mouth. “Eloise?”
No little girl sat on the stoop or was watering her plants in the garden. She was not digging in the dirt or picking flowers for the jar on the table. None of the cows were nearby, but the fresh droppings on the road said they’d been by recently.
“Eloise!” Nilda screamed as loud as she could, looking up and down the road. Her heart hammering to drown out her pleas, she headed for the river. Please, God, don’t let her have gone to the river. Please, God, please.
Get going! You’re wasting valuable time!
The orders did no good. Ragni stood in front of the canvas, brush in hand, frozen. She’d squeezed the pungent oil paints onto the palette, the sun now bathed the world outside in sparkles, a cool breeze blew through the window, Erika and Paul had not returned—all was perfect. But she couldn’t put that brush on that canvas for love or money. Not that she had either at the moment, or needed them.
She needed that first brushstroke—the first color on canvas—like a writer needed that first word on a blank page. A saying flew through her head, “The first step is the hardest of a long journey.” Just make a slash, a daub, a dot. Her hand refused to move. Had fear turned her to concrete? Good thing she didn’t have that huge canvas to stand in front of. Her mind churned. It didn’t matter what color she’d filled the brush with. All that mattered was the starting.
Finally she turned herself three times around so she was feeling more than a little dizzy, leaned forward, and as she turned again, the brush swooped across the middle of the canvas, a slash of life against the white—purple-black power. She stepped back and felt a grin stretch her cheeks. She’d done it. She loaded a four-inch brush and started with the first coat.
The sun was sinking behind the buttes and the room dimming when she realized she had to take a privy break. Her mouth felt as dry as the red dust on the road out front. She rotated her shoulders, raising them to touch her earlobes and laying her head from side to side to stretch her neck. She set the brush down in a mug and headed for the privy. Much of the newly mown yard lay in shadows already. Perhaps she should have taken Paul up on his invitation to paint in his living room. She could have put down a tarp, and she would have had plenty of light.
As she came out of the privy, the blue tarp on the roof caught her eye like a patch of sky trapped by roofing nails. Rain-washed green took on a vibrant sheen. The air caressing her cheeks called her to run through the grass, not touching a foot to the ground but floating, turning like a dropping rose petal on the breeze.
Was it painting that expanded her vision, or had she entered some new dimension? The feeling persisted as she picked up her brush again and fell into the realm of creativity where time was breath and breath lived in color.
“Like, way cool.” Erika stood at her shoulder, her mouth in an O that morphed to a grin. “Way to go.”
Ragni blinked and sucked in air as if she’d been holding her breath. Outside, dusk ghosted the falling fences of the corrals and the shed. At some point, she’d lit the lantern (though she didn’t remember when or how) and turned on the battery-powered lamp she’d purchased in Dickinson.
“We brought supper; that’s what took so long.” Paul set a box on the counter and came to stand behind Ragni.
As if someone had turned on a heater, she immediately felt his warmth seep into her back. Usually she didn’t like showing a painting until it was finished, but they had caught her by surprise, and she had no choice.
“I didn’t even hear the truck drive up.” She shook her head in amazement and set her brush down. “Perfect timing. Now I have to wait for the paint to dry.”
“You’re finished?”
“Nope, nowhere near. That’s the only bad thing about oils. They take forever to dry.” She smelled aromas emanating from the box, and her stomach rumbled. “What time is it?”
“Eight-thirty.” Erika cocked her head to study something on the canvas. “Wish we had another easel.”
“Me too. I have another painting I want to start.”
“Set that one over there?” Erika pointed to the wall out of the way where no one would bump it.
Ragni nodded as she carefully lifted the canvas off the easel and crossed the room to lean it against the wall. Here in the shadows the painting looked dark and somber. Just you wait, she told it. Life will come in the morning. She paused. Where had that come from? Ah, yes, weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning. Another of those Bible verses from Sunday school, those many years ago. Funny how many come to mind out here.
“Supper is ready.” Paul opened a cupboard to find the paper plates. “If this tastes as good as it smells, we’ll know for sure that Erika is a good cook.”
Ragni stared at the meat loaf, scalloped potatoes, and tossed salad. “You did this?”
Erika shrugged. “Paul helped.”
“Right. I peeled the potatoes.”
“And cut up the tomatoes,” Erika added. “I make pretty good spaghetti too. That’s about it, I’m afraid.”
“You never told me that.”
“You never asked. Hamburger thaws out the fastest, that’s what mom always says.”
“Shall I say grace?”
Ragni stopped slicing the meat loaf. “Ah, sure.” Other than her father, she’d not known of a man who offered to say grace, even when he wasn’t in his own house. She bowed her head. Lord, I am thankful, gloriously grateful for the painting, for the storm that gave me the vision. She looked up at the “Amen,” not having heard a word Paul had said but feeling closer to God than she had in far too long.
She and Erika took the chairs, and Paul sank cross-legged to the floor.
“We could go outside,” Paul suggested.
Ragni shook her head. “The mosquitoes will get us.”
“They like coming out after a rain. Do you have one of those bug zappers?”
“How? No electricity, remember?”
“Sorry.
Force of habit. There’s a spray that works too. Out here we learn all the best products to outsmart mosquitoes.”
“I brought bug spray.”
Erika slapped a mosquito on her arm. “And I better get some.” She set her plate down and headed for the door. “Need anything else from the car?”
Ragni stopped chewing. Who was this person, and what had she done with the real Erika? Then she caught the girl’s smile for Paul and had to roll her lips together to keep from laughing. If Erika was trying to impress the man seated on the floor, she was doing a good job of it.
“She’s a good kid.” Paul leaned back against the cupboard. “Reminds me of my little sister at that age.”
Ah, if you only knew the truth. She has a crush on you as wide as this valley. Ragni thought of several sarcastic replies but just smiled instead and dabbed another bite of meat loaf in ketchup. She kept her focus on the food when all she could feel was the painting calling out to her. “Thanks for all this.” She glanced over at the wood stove waiting to be brought to life again. “I sure hope we can cook with that before we leave.”
“I’ll bring over something to clean out that chimney tomorrow.”
“Paul, I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but you’ve invested a lot of your time in us and this place.”
He shrugged. “Call it a diversion. Going to take a day or two for that hayfield to dry out, so this gives me something to do.”
“You’re saying you have all kinds of time on your hands?” She arched her eyebrows and sighed. “My, that was good food.”
He took his turn at shrugging. “That’s a good thing about being your own boss—you can change the schedule around when you want to.”
“I thought farmers worked dawn to dark.”
“I’m not a farmer; I’m a rancher.”
“I see.” No, I don’t, what’s the difference?
“You want some of the spray?” Erika plopped down in her chair and tossed the can of insect repellent to Ragni. “I brought in the storage baggies too, so Paul can take his pans back.” She tossed him a teasing grin. “You can wash them. You’ve got running water.”
The Brushstroke Legacy Page 22
