“There you go.”
Eloise held on to his hand and tugged him toward the door. “Suppah ready, Mistah Peterson.”
“I have to wash up. Hank too. You go on ahead.”
Nilda could feel her smile warming all the way to her heart. He and Eloise. Playing.
Her hand brushed his shoulder when she set the platter of ham on the table. More warmth, of perhaps a slightly different kind, streamed up her arm.
“It looks like you got a lot of wood.” Nilda sat down after serving the others.
“There’s plenty more up there,” Mr. Peterson said. “Though we could wait until winter and skid the trees out.”
“Is it far away?”
“No. But that will be easier on the horses.”
“I’m thinking to make a stone boat for hauling the rock for the wellhouse.” Hank spread butter on a square of corn bread, then juneberry jam. After one bite, he looked to Nilda and said, “This is mighty fine.”
Mr. Peterson nodded. “Good meal.”
Two words. All he said was two words, but she felt lit from within. First playing with Eloise and now complimenting her cooking. What had happened to the man up there cutting wood? Not to mention bringing back the red rocks. Maybe he needs to go up there every day.
July slipped into August, and the final nails were pounded into the wellhouse roof. Water was now piped from the pump to the rock tank inside the stone structure and on out to the cattle trough through a pipe in the other end. Just stepping into the dim building made one think of spring weather, not the hot days outside. Mr. Peterson made the building large enough to hang a deer or beef, and made shelves along the walls on which Nilda could set crocks and jars for storing food for winter.
“Once winter comes, you just set milk in the window and it gets plenty cold, but this should do for now.”
“I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Peterson.” She smiled up at him. “What a fine builder you are.” Resting her hand on his shoulder as she poured coffee during meals or refilled serving bowls had become a habit, a habit that even made him smile at her at times. But right now, she wanted to throw her arms around his neck and hug him. Sometimes she wondered if he knew how to be happy—or if perhaps he had once known but somehow forgotten.
That night, they had the last of the peas, creamed with carrots and new potatoes. Nilda also simmered the browned grouse Hank had provided, and served the corn bread that had become their favorite.
“Mistah P?” Eloise tugged on his sleeve. “I have more, please?” She held up her dish.
“Corn bread?”
“Ja, corn bread.”
“And jam?”
“Ja, jam.”
Nilda watched him slice a piece of corn bread open, add butter and jam, and put it on Eloise’s plate. Never would she have dreamed this would happen. Not only has he changed, but Eloise—why, one would hardly recognize her for the frail creature who came off the train. She ran everywhere, running on her tiptoes as if about to fly. She carried a stick with her, and when the rooster flew at her, she whacked him with the stick. He’d learned to leave her alone, but she still took her stick into the chicken yard.
“Eloise, come quick.” The men had just returned from town, and Mr. Peterson called from the wagon seat.
She darted out of the house, laughing and clapping her hands. “You comed home.”
“Give it to her, Hank.” Both men climbed down from the wagon, and Hank dug in his shirt front. He waited until Joseph came around the wagon and then, with both hands cupped around a mewing little body, handed Eloise a furry kitten.
“For you,” the men said at the same time.
“Oh.” She cradled the gray and white animal in her arms. With one tiny finger she touched the kitten’s nose and stroked down a white front paw. “So pitty.” She looked up at the men, her eyes sparkling. “Thank you. Oh, for me.” She spun in place. “Ma, come see.”
Nilda joined them, beaming her gratitude from one man to the other. This surely looked like a Hank idea, but one couldn’t always tell any longer. “Thank you is right!”
“Hanson had them at the store. Said the mother is a real good mouser. We’ve been needing a cat with all the mice around here.” Mr. Peterson looked to Hank, who nodded. “Need one in the barn too.”
“Look how happy you’ve made her.” Nilda looked down at her daughter, who seemed to glow in the sunlight. And me. I cannot tell you how happy you’ve made me. She didn’t bother to try to hide the love flowing from her heart and through her eyes. Somehow in the past few months of meals and chores together, silences gradually turning to words, she’d fallen in love with the man. Was it only proximity? No, she’d discovered that his kindness to her daughter reflected who he was better than some of the things he said. In spite of herself she had tumbled down love’s well and never bothered to try to climb out.
Was there any chance he might feel the same?
Monday morning, Ragni looked up from her painting to see Paul climb down from his monster cutting machine across the road and shimmy between the strands of barbed-wire fencing.
“Morning,” he said with the customary tip of the hat.
“Good morning. How can you still hear with all that noise?” Ragni set her brush in the mug and wiped her hands on the rag she kept beside her.
“I thought you might have a cup of coffee for a thirsty man.”
“Not hot, but we can remedy that.”
“What are you painting out here?” He came around and looked at the easel. “Well, I’ll be…”
She had sketched the field with his swather on the far side and a rainbow arching from field to hill.
“I decided I wanted to paint on location, and this was the closest. We saw the rainbow the day we…oh, you know, the roof and…” She stood and turned to the house. “Coffee coming up. You had breakfast?” Now why’d she bring that up? Hadn’t she been teased enough at the family get-together yesterday?
“Hours ago.”
“Me too.”
He lowered his voice. “Erika still sleeping?”
“The privileges of youth. You want to hear my good news? Well, at least to me, it’s good news.”
“Of course.” He took a mug out of the cupboard. “What?”
“I— We get to stay an extra week. My boss suggested it.”
“Well, I’ll be go to Sunday.”
“What kind of saying is that?”
“Something my grandfather used to say. It means I’m pleased.”
She glanced up and caught a look in his eyes that shivered into a warm puddle in her middle. “I, ah, me too.” She caught her breath. Oh, my. Danger, danger. How easy it would be to take one step, lean slightly forward—and if he did the same, they’d meet in the middle. What would kissing him feel like? If what she was experiencing right now just trading looks with him was any indication, there’d be skyrockets and sparklers for sure. They could have a Fourth of July celebration all by themselves.
“Ah, coffee’s hot.” She picked up a hot pad and carefully poured the mug full, making sure she didn’t look at him again or she’d spill for sure. She didn’t need to look—her neck said he was watching her.
He picked up the cup and smiled at her over the rim. A slow smile that said he knew just what she was thinking. “Aren’t you having any?”
Any what? Come on lungs, breathe. “No, I’m about coffee’d out this morning.” She crossed to the cooler and pulled out a bottle of water. “Let’s go back outside.” Where the wind can cool my face and all other parts.
“When will you start baling?” she asked.
“Most likely Friday. Should be dry enough by then. I’ll stay with this and finish cutting tonight. How come your boss said to take longer off?”
“There was some sabotage going on with the last project I turned in just before I left. He is trying to find who did it and thinks that if I’m not there, the person might slip and reveal himself or herself.”
“Strange.”
“It really was, but we caught it before the ad went to the company, and I fixed it. Good thing I save things on disk and take them home with me because the backups were erased on the office computer.”
“Sounds like top-secret government stuff.”
She smiled back. “Not at all. But if they can make me look bad, someone could step into my place.” And the way I’m thinking right now, they can have it.
“There’s a lot of money in advertising from what I hear.”
“So true. And a tremendous amount of stress—always pushing for more, for a better spot, the corner office.” How inane it all sounded. She glanced up at the sound of a hawk’s wild screee.
“Red tail.”
“How do you know?”
“See how his tail is fanned out and the sun is shining through red?”
She shaded her eyes. “He’s too far away to see all that.”
“Not if you’ve seen enough of them. They’re the largest of the hawks.”
When did he move closer to you—or did you move closer to him? But she could feel his warmth through their shirt-sleeves. One little step to the right and… Forget it, sister. Remember, you said you were coming out here to get your head on straight. Falling for this guy is as far from “on straight” as we are from Chicago.
He tossed the dregs of his coffee into the grass. “Thanks for the break. Enjoy your painting.”
“You’re welcome. Anytime.” She watched him walk across the road, slide through the fence, and climb back in the cab. He moved with an easy grace that said he was comfortable with who he was and sure of what he was doing. She wished she felt the same.
But as soon as she’d applied two or three brushstrokes of paint, she forgot who she was at all, losing herself in the colors, the strokes, and the slight tang of oil paint that wafted along with the breeze. The trees grew on the hillsides, the swather took form and shape, the fence posts took on depth and hue. When she needed to let that one dry, she put up another canvas, this time focusing on the ridged world of the bark on one of the ancient cottonwoods.
“Morning.” Erika stretched and yawned as she stopped beside her aunt. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
“What did you say?” Ragni let pretend-shock widen her eyes.
“Like, I know, but I wanted to paint too.”
“I’ll wake you tomorrow.”
“You already went swimming?”
“At daybreak.” When the mist still hung on the river and the deer came to drink, stepping out of the shadows like phantoms floating on the dew. That was another scene she hoped to capture.
“When are we putting up the stovepipe?” Erika asked.
“We still haven’t cleaned the chimney.”
“I could go up there real easy.”
Ragni debated. Erika had handled herself well on the roof, unlike her aunt. Since they had the extra week, they could stay until the roof was redone.
“Please. I’ll be careful. Paul said the rest of the roof was sound but for that one strip from the chimney down.”
“If you slip and fall, your mother will kill me.”
“I’m a big girl now. Besides, remember I helped Grammy and Poppa paint their house. I was way up on the ladder for that. I don’t get dizzy, and—”
“Enough.” Ragni raised her hands and shook her head. “I give.”
“You won’t be sorry.”
“I sure hope not.”
“I’ll eat, and then let’s do it. That way I can wash away the soot in the river if I need to.” She stared out across the field. “Paul’s got most of the field done. Sure looks different without the tall grass.” She went back in the house, and Ragni continued with her painting. The tree bark appeared silver on top, with grays and dark browns in the crevices; she added reds and blues, turning the shadows shades of purple and deep reds.
“Cool.” Erika returned, cereal bowl in hand, munching as she came. She dipped more Wheat Chex out with her spoon and slurped the milk, earning herself a side glare from Ragni. “Sorry. I like those shadows.”
“Me too. I’ve never done anything like this or Storm before.”
“You going to put together that bigger canvas?”
“Thinking about it. But how will I get it home?”
“Take it off the frame and roll it up, then stretch it again.”
“Sounds like a lot of work.” Ragni leaned back in her chair and studied the painting. This was another painting that cried out for a larger canvas. What had happened? She’d always gone more for the small canvases. Easy to paint, easy to frame, didn’t take up much space, and rarely touched her heart. More like a hobby, and now she was driven. I have a whole extra week, but it’s only seven days.
They cleaned the chimney without mishap but not without mess. Even though Ragni had spread papers on the floor in the kitchen, when Erika knocked the buildup loose, it had to go somewhere and that somewhere was all over the kitchen floor. How a Shop-Vac would be helpful right now. Ragni rolled up the papers, collecting as much of the soot as possible, and stuffed them in garbage bags.
“So let’s put the pipe up and then go swimming.” Erika washed her hands and grimaced at the streaks up her arms.
Ragni held the pipe up while Erika forced the end into the hole in the chimney. “Way to go.”
“Was that piece supposed to go around it?” Erika nodded to a metal ring.
“Oh, shoot.” Ragni stared at the juncture. “Well, easier to take it out now than later.”
“Or can we slide it up over the whole thing?”
“We can try, but hurry—this is getting heavy.”
When that didn’t work, Erika pulled the pipe out of the wall, slid the flat ring over the end, and pushed the pipe back in the wall. With the ring against the wall, the rough area was all covered.
“Much better.” Ragni steadied the pipe as Erika tried to slide the other end into the receptor in the back of the stove.
“It won’t go.”
“Oh, great, now what?” Holding a pipe the circumference of a salad plate up so it didn’t break loose from the wall mount was getting tedious. “You take this, and I’ll try that.” They switched places.
No go again, but Ragni refused to quit. She eyeballed the opening and then the pipe. Surely something like that pipe had some give to it. She tilted it a bit, got a lip in the stove piece, and pushed against it enough to move the pipe. “Push it down, from up above the joint there.”
Together they got it in and smacked on the curved joint hard enough to settle the pipe into place.
They high-fived and did a little victory dance.
“We did it.” Ragni two-stepped around the stove. “Tonight we cook supper on this old beauty. I’m going to town for something not in a mix or a can.”
“In Medora?”
“This is worth a trip to Dickinson.”
That night, after frying pork chops, boiling potatoes, and steaming broccoli, the two of them settled in for a game of Uno by lamplight.
“Cooking on that old stove really made me appreciate my electric one at home.” Ragni fanned herself with a folded paper. “Sure doesn’t heat the house up like this one.”
“But that was a good dinner.”
“I’d like to bake something in that oven, but I don’t know when it’s hot enough.” She eyed the oven door.
“Ragni, can I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
“You know when my mom said I had to come with you?”
“Yeah. That was a bit of a surprise.”
“I think she’d been to the doctor—more than once.”
“Why?”
“I saw a couple of things from the insurance company. She was talking to Grammy and stopped when I came in the room.”
“Sounds suspicious, but all I know is that she didn’t tell me anything. And usually she and I talk all about the important stuff. And my mom hasn’t said anything either.”
“I’m almost fifteen. Isn’t that old enough to stay by m
yself when she is working? I mean lots of kids are working by now. Some are even having kids.”
“Thank God you’re not.”
“How could I? I don’t even have a boyfriend.”
“Have you ever?” Thank You, Father, for conversations like this. I thought they might be gone forever.
“Not really. I liked a guy, but he didn’t like me back.”
“Tell me about it.” Thoughts of Daren still made her less than happy. All those years she had invested in him, thinking they would eventually get married and then live happily ever after. Another face flashed across her mind, this one causing a smile to start somewhere in her heart and giggle up to her face. Paul. The lean and lanky cowboy he was, eyes that smiled into hers, and a voice that set her heart to skipping, like a child coming out to play. Knock it off, Ragni, this man is not for you. Remember Chicago, job, home, family, friends. Remember.
“Draw four,” Erika said, pointing to the card she’d just played.
Apparently this conversation has ended, Ragni thought. It’s a good start, though, isn’t it, Lord?
By the end of the Fourth of July celebration, it looked to Ragni like Erika had gotten over her crush on Paul, thanks to Ryan. Ragni felt inundated by family, friendly family—family who welcomed her and Erika with only slightly raised eyebrows and then open arms. Half of them volunteered to come help fix up the cabin, the fences, and the outbuildings, starting the next day.
“We’ll make a picnic of it,” Myra said with a laugh. “Just leave all the food and organization to me.”
“But I…”
“We haven’t had a good project to work on since Annie bought her place. You think they do a good job on those television programs, well, wait until you see the Heidelborgs in action.”
“You might want to figure out what you want done in case you need more supplies,” Paul said, nodding toward his mother. “She absolutely loves doing things like this.”
Ragni looked from son to mother and over to Paul’s father who was talking with several other men. While he wore the look of health problems, his laugh held the same warmth as Paul’s. What a vibrant family. She thought of her own father, no longer vital in life, but still so in her memories. Memories she needed to hoard since they could no longer be renewed.
The Brushstroke Legacy Page 27
