Healing Montana Sky

by Debra Holland

  Embarrassed by her Indian garb, Antonia shyly bobbed her head.

  Reverend Norton gestured to the woman. “My wife, Mrs. Norton. Mrs. Valleau has just lost her husband.”

  Mrs. Norton frowned, concern in her blue eyes. She reached out and touched Antonia’s arm. “You poor dear. I’m so sorry to hear that. Do you want me to take the children while you talk with Reverend Norton?”

  Henri pressed against Antonia’s side.

  “They be not used to strangers.”

  Mrs. Norton gave an understanding nod. “Of course. Hopefully, they’ll warm up to us. In the meantime, I’m sure you all are hungry. Let me dish up some food.”

  “Thank you kindly.”

  Reverend Norton opened the door to the right, ushering her into a small, cluttered room.

  Henri, clutching the hem of Antonia’s tunic, followed.

  She took a chair across from the paper-and-book-covered desk, settled the baby against her, and patted the chair next to her for Henri to sit.

  Her son climbed up gingerly, unused to chairs. In their cabin, they’d sat on crude stools padded with pelts and slept on furs on the floor. She hadn’t sat in a regular chair since she was fifteen, about ten or so years ago, and had married Jean-Claude and set off for a life as a trapper’s wife.

  The minister sat on the desk chair. He glanced at her, white eyebrows raised, waiting for Antonia to begin.

  The kind expression on his face encouraged her to talk. The words came out haltingly, but then sped up. Soon, she’d told him the whole sad story, pausing when she had to grope for a word. She’d grown so used to mostly speaking French with Jean-Claude, although she tried to use English with the boys so they’d know both languages.

  He nodded and stroked his beard. “Your entire life has changed in the last days.”

  “I be so angry with him!” The emotion burst from her. “Jean-Claude killed them bears all the while we been in the mountains. Be he careless?”

  At her outburst, she saw Henri’s face go chalky. She warned herself to hush, but the feelings pulsed so inside her.

  “I’ve observed that anger is a common reaction to a death caused by an accident,” said the reverend. “Or in this case, a wild animal. I bet you wish you could give him a good scold.”

  Antonia stared at the minister. “How be you knowing?” She blushed, realizing whom she was talking to. “I be sure you’ve been doin’ this often.”

  His expression grew somber. “Far more than I would like.”

  “Be. . .be it always this raw? Like knives stabbing into my heart?”

  “No. But for a while, the pain will be overwhelming. At some point, which is different for everyone, some of the edges of your grief will cease to be so sharp.”

  Antonia shifted back in her chair.

  Jacques stirred in her arms, made a little noise, and subsided.

  Henri leaned his head against her shoulder.

  She dredged up memories of preachers from her childhood. “You be not tellin’ me he’s an angel up in heaven? Me be thinkin’ you’re supposed to.”

  Reverend Norton gave her a wry smile. “Many ministers do say those kinds of things. Not that they say—” he hastily added “—Jean-Claude’s an angel, for the angelic host isn’t human—but they’ll tell you his soul is at peace in heaven. A true statement. . . .”

  She wasn’t sure what the preacher meant but didn’t want to ask.

  “However, I’ve found that the only time that statement helps is when the deceased has suffered before he or she died. Then the thought of the loved one no longer suffering does bring comfort. But your husband was a healthy man—one whom you expected to have many happy years with. . .to raise your sons together. You don’t want him in heaven yet. You want him with you here on Earth.”

  Antonia swallowed the lump in her throat, feeling less weighed down by anger and guilt. “Yes,” she whispered. “I thought I be selfish.”

  “No, my dear Mrs. Valleau. Just human. And the Lord who created us certainly understands our humanness.”

  Comforted by his words, she rubbed her hand over Jacques’s silky hair.

  The sleeping baby didn’t stir.

  “Thank you. The pain be still there, still be as strong, but mayhap I be a bit more able to bear it and all.”

  “Talking is very helpful. You’ve lived a very isolated life. And women, as I’ve observed and my dear helpmate has explained, need the companionship of other women. They need to talk about their feelings.” A look of humorous bewilderment crossed his face. “So much so that it often makes my head spin.”

  She shrugged. “I never be around other women much. My ma, she died young, and I be raised in a fort. There be some officers’ wives and daughters. But they be lookin’ down on the likes of me—Pa being an enlisted man and all. After my marriage, Jean-Claude and me lived a bit with the Indians. Jean-Claude, he be French-Canadian but spoke Indian real good. Took me a while to learn, though. Still ain’t all that good, though my Henri, here—” she touched his leg “—he be jabberin’ away.”

  “Well, I hope you make your home in Sweetwater Springs. You will find some congenial feminine companionship here.”

  Congenial? What be that meanin’?

  “I’ll suggest starting with Mrs. Norton. Normally, I’d have a bed for you all, but my son and grandson have just returned from Africa. But if you don’t mind sleeping on a pallet on the floor, you can stay here for a few days while you get your bearings. We can talk more later about where to go from there.”

  “We be used to sleepin’ on the floor. Thank you kindly for your offer.”

  In her relief, Antonia squeezed Jacques, waking up the baby. He jerked to a sitting position, smiled at her with sleepy black eyes, and looked around the room. She knew the minute the baby realized he was in a strange place without his father, because his expression crumpled, and he laid his head back on her breast.

  Her heart ached for him, and—she glanced at her older son—for Henri. My two fatherless boys. Somehow, she’d have to find a way to be both mother and father to her young sons.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Erik pulled the wagon to a halt in front of Dr. Cameron’s house and set the brake, looped the reins. He’d never been to the doctor’s before, but Daisy had, and she’d described the two-story white home with roses climbing over the picket fence.

  He scooped up the baby from the straw-padded crate next to him and jumped off the wagon.

  The doctor’s office was around back, and he strode in that direction, carrying his blanket-wrapped daughter. There were moments on the hour-long ride that he wondered if they would make it here in time. Camilla looked so still and waxen. Then she’d move her hand or open her eyes, and he knew she still lived; thus there was a chance.

  Erik pounded on one of the double doors.

  Redheaded Mrs. Cameron opened the door. She was heavily pregnant, even more enormous than Daisy had been. “Why, Mr. Muth.”

  Just seeing her expansive belly made Erik shudder. He held up the baby. “My wife just gave birth to her and died.”

  “Oh, dearie me. You puir man. Come right in,” she said in a Scottish accent. “The doctor doesn’t have any other patients now, and he’ll be able to see to the wee one.”

  Erik stepped inside a plain, double-doored entry, and then through a second set of doors into a hallway with a long cushioned bench along one wall.

  She turned to the right and gestured him inside.

  Two raised wooden beds with thin pads and clean linen stood in the middle of the room. Several straight-backed chairs lined the wall on one side of the bed. Shelves of jars holding liquids and herbs crowded the front of the room, and on a table between the beds metal instruments lay on a white cloth.

  The red-haired doctor sat behind a desk in the back corner, reading a thick book. When he saw them, he stood. He was in his shirtsleeves; a long Prince Albert coat hung on a hook next to the desk. He moved to take down the coat, but hesitated.

&nbs
p; Erik took quick steps to him and deposited the baby in his arms. “My wife died giving birth to her. She’s come early.”

  Doctor Cameron laid the babe on the bed and unwrapped the blanket. He gently ran his hands over her body and then straightened. “She’s tiny, which is to be expected with coming early. And your wife, I recall, was a small woman.”

  My dainty Daisy. Erik wanted to weep for all he’d lost, what he still might lose, but the tears wouldn’t come.

  “She’s healthy, all things considered.” Dr. Cameron picked up the baby, cradling her head with his hand, and handed her to his wife. “We’ll need to find a wet nurse right away.” His Scottish accent thickened. “The wee lassie does na have much time.”

  Dear Lord, please save her. Erik had never prayed so fervently before Daisy had gone into early labor, setting off this whole chain of events.

  Using a damp cloth, Mrs. Cameron cleaned off his daughter with deft strokes. Although the baby was awake, she didn’t even whimper. “What’s the lassie’s name?” Mrs. Cameron asked.

  “Camilla.”

  “Lovely name, for a lovely lassie. Do you have baby clothes?”

  Erik thought of the little brassbound trunk, filled with the tiny results of his wife’s loving handwork, and wanted to smack a hand to his head. “I left everything behind.”

  “We’ll find something for her.”

  “The closest woman is Mrs. Marshall,” the doctor said. “Her daughter’s almost ready to be weaned ana way.”

  Erik’s stomach relaxed.

  Mrs. Cameron shook her head, making her curls bounce. “She went to St. Louis to visit her mother.”

  Erik tensed, and his stomach tightened again.

  The doctor’s brow furrowed. “Mrs. Mueller?”

  “Weaned the lassie two weeks ago. Her milk will have dried up by now.”

  “Patty, the saloon girl?” An anxious note crept into the doctor’s voice.

  “Eloped with a cowboy.”

  As the list went on, Erik’s spirits dropped. Was there no nursing woman who could save his daughter?

  “Mrs. Smith.”

  “I heard this morning and dinna have a chance to tell you. The wee babe died three weeks ago.”

  “They didn’t call me?”

  She swayed with the baby. “They woke up, and he was dead.”

  Dr. Cameron brushed his hand across his face. “We usually have a glut of babies. How can there not be a nursing mother in this town? Elizabeth Sanders, then. It’s a two-hour ride to the ranch, though. Don’t know if the wee lassie has the time.”

  Mrs. Cameron hurried toward the door. “I’ll go have Mack hitch up the buggy and then fetch Reverend Norton. Not everyone can afford to have a doctor deliver their babies. He might know of someone we don’t. Plus—” she gave Erik a sorrowing glance “—you’ll want her christened.”

  Erik held in a groan of pain. They don’t expect my daughter to live.

  A knock sounded on the door to the minister’s office, startling Antonia.

  “Enter,” Reverend Norton called.

  Mrs. Norton stuck her head into the room. “Pardon me for interrupting. Mrs. Cameron has an urgent message.” She stepped back to allow a very pregnant woman with curly red hair piled loosely into a bun to precede her.

  The new arrival wore an apron over her blue dress, as if in her haste she hadn’t stopped to remove the covering. Mrs. Cameron’s anxious green gaze landed on Jacques. Without even waiting for a greeting, she rushed into speech. “Are you still nursing the wee one, then?” she asked Antonia.

  Puzzled by the question, Antonia nodded.

  The woman threw up her hands. “Praise to Mary, mother of Jesus, and to all the saints.” Then her eyes widened as if realizing what she’d said. Mrs. Cameron placed both hands on her chest and sent an apologetic glance at the minister. “I was praying to the Virgin in this case, Reverend,” Mrs. Cameron rushed to explain. “She understands the needs of mothers and babes.”

  Reverend Norton frowned, but there was no disapproval behind the look. “Come in, Mrs. Cameron, and meet Mrs. Valleau.”

  Mrs. Cameron took a step into the room, but there was no space for her to go farther. She turned to Antonia. “We have a newborn whose mother has died. Will you come and nurse the wee one? For if she doesn’t have sustenance soon, she’s not long for this world.”

  Antonia’s eyes widened at the extraordinary request. She glanced down at Jacques. Have I enough milk to spare? We are barely surviving ourselves. But she couldn’t allow a baby to die. She nodded. “I be glad to help.”

  Reverend Norton waved in Alice’s direction. “Mrs. Cameron, the wife of our doctor. Mrs. Cameron, this is a newcomer to our town, who has recently lost her husband.”

  A chagrinned expression crossed the woman’s face. “I’m sorry for appearing so discourteous. Condolences on your loss. And that of your bairns.”

  “Thank you.” Antonia stood. She set Jacques on her hip and held out her other hand to Henri. “Where be this babe?”

  “Thank the good Lord!” Mrs. Cameron raised her eyes heavenward. “Now may we please be in time to save Camilla!”

  Erik cradled his tiny daughter with one arm. Camilla felt so light. He’d carried suckling pigs who weighed more than the little mite in his arms.

  Now that his frantic dash to reach the doctor had ended with him holding his dying daughter and waiting, he finally had time to examine her. In the oval shape of her face and delicate features, he saw his wife again, and his heart ached. He stroked a finger over the soft blonde hair on her head, barely more than fuzz.

  A tiny hand flailed, as small as a coin.

  He caught her wrist to study the slender fingers, the miniature nails.

  Her fingers curled around his pinky, causing a wave of love to wash over him, the emotion so strong it made him dizzy. This is what it means to be a father. He hadn’t known he could feel this way. Hadn’t realized such a love was possible. He’d wanted his firstborn to be a son to help around the farm. Now, he wouldn’t trade his precious Camilla for a schoolhouse full of boys.

  He had a horrific vision of laying their daughter in her mother’s arms and burying them both in a single grave, and his guts twisted.

  Please, dear Lord. Let me keep her. I swear to be a good father.

  The sound of the opening door made him look up. Erik’s first glimpse of the woman wearing a leather tunic and leggings, russet hair caught in a long braid down her back, made him think Mrs. Cameron had found a squaw to nurse his baby. Not that he cared. Any breast full of milk would do. But then the woman stared at him with sad golden eyes, and he revised his estimation. Not an Indian, but Camilla’s savior, nevertheless.

  The woman held a baby in her arms. A boy. Plump, with big dark eyes and a gummy smile. Please God, may my daughter soon look as healthy as he does.

  A young boy of five or six who had his mother’s golden eyes followed on her heels and then leaned against her leg when she stopped a few feet away.

  One hand on the mound of her stomach, Mrs. Cameron made breathless introductions that he barely caught. Although the fact she was a recent widow and had left her home in the mountains penetrated his foggy brain.

  Reverend Norton stepped into the room. “I’ve heard the tragic news. I’m so sorry to learn of Daisy’s death. Mrs. Norton and I are here if you need us. If. . .the baby needs to be baptized right away. We’ll be in the kitchen.”

  Erik wanted to shout, “NO!” But instead, he took a deep breath and gave the minister a nod of thanks before the man left the room. Truth was, he was grateful. If my little mite isn’t going to stay with me, then she’ll need to be safe with her mother in heaven. But he desperately wanted Camilla to live.

  Mrs. Valleau handed her baby to Mrs. Cameron, and then reached out her arms for his daughter.

  Erik hesitated. An unfamiliar paternal protective feeling made him reluctant to part with his child, but he forced himself to hand the baby to the woman.

  “
So tiny,” she murmured softly, holding Camilla in one arm, while with the other hand, she unbuttoned a flap near her chest.

  He caught a glimpse of a full breast with a dark nipple, so different from Daisy’s small pink-tipped ones.

  The woman fastened the baby to her nipple.

  Erik turned away, embarrassed, waited a minute and thought it might be safe to peek from the corner of his eye. At first, Camilla didn’t attach, and he began to worry all over again.

  The woman gave him a reassuring smile. “It be takin’ a bit of gittin’ used to for one just birthed.” The words held a slight French accent. “This little one be catchin’ on, just you watch.” She persisted in coaxing the child to nurse.

  The baby’s mouth closed over the nipple. She began to suckle, making tiny smacking noises.

  Relief made Erik’s knees weak, and he stepped back, collapsing onto a chair against the wall and dropping his head in his hands to hide his emotion. Thank you, Lord. Thank you. Thank you!

  A hand dropped on his shoulder and squeezed. “You’ve had a hard time of it, Erik Muth,” said Dr. Cameron. “It’s early days, and I canna make promises. But the lassie is feedin’ well, and that’s a good sign. Mrs. Valleau seems to be an experienced mother, and her boys look healthy.”

  Erik wiped his arm across his face and lifted his head. “Thank you, Doctor.” He looked over at the woman who was giving his daughter sustenance from her body. “Thank you, Mrs. Valleau. I don’t have words to tell you how much this means to me.”

  She smiled. For a moment, the shadows in her eyes lightened. “Sounds like you just be doin’ so.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Since Jean-Claude’s death, Antonia had been unable to feel anything but the heaviness of her grief, as if all her other feelings had frozen. Yet, looking at the child in her arms, so much smaller than her boys had been at their births, she felt a wave of love, of possession, as strong as the feelings she’d had when Jean-Claude had first placed each of her sons at her breast after their birth. “Ma chérie,” she murmured so softly only she and the babe could hear.