Healing Montana Sky

by Debra Holland

  Don’t be gittin’ attached, Antonia told herself, glancing across the room at Erik, still sitting in the chair against the wall. She had no doubt the man loved his daughter. Camilla be not yours to keep, she reminded herself. You be givin’ her back.

  Henri came to lean against her, as was his habit. “Maman, I’m hungry.”

  Mrs. Cameron jiggled Jacques on one hip and extended a hand to Henri. “Of course, you are. Why don’t you come with me? I’m sure you’d like a nice piece of bread with jam. We can give your brother a crust to gnaw on. Then I’ll prepare a meal for everyone, and you can help me.”

  Henri looked to Antonia for permission.

  She nodded. “Bread and jam be a treat. My young ’uns be not gittin’ such as that.”

  Henri straightened looking more animated than she’d seen him since his father had died, and took Mrs. Cameron’s hand.

  Antonia detached the infant from her breast and placed her on her shoulder, patting the baby’s back. “Camilla be a right purty name,” she said to Mr. Muth.

  The man stared at them, a strained look on his face. “My wife thought so, too.”

  “Sure be. No shortage of beauty in this’un, neither,” Antonia said, although her even tone belied a pang at how close Camilla sounded to Carmelina, which is what she and Jean-Claude planned to call the daughter they’d hoped to have. A child who’ll never be born. She strove to suppress the thought. She had more than she could bear with real losses. No sense mourning the ones that were only dreams. “What was your wife’s name?”

  He looked away. “Margaret. Although she hated that name. Everyone called her Daisy. She was adamant about not passing it on to a daughter. But now that she’s not here, perhaps I should. . .in her memory. . .”

  The baby let out a burp.

  “Call her Camilla Marguerite,” Antonia suggested. “She be named after her ma. . .but ain’t quite the one your Daisy disliked.”

  “Camilla Marguerite,” Mr. Muth repeated to himself and then gave Antonia a small smile. “I like that.”

  “I be sorry for your loss.” The words came out sounding stiffer than Antonia intended.

  He looked down. “I just left Daisy’s body on the bed. I was frantic to get to the doctor. To save the baby.”

  “I think she’d understand. She’d want you to take care of her new babe.”

  His gaze looked haunted. Lines of exhaustion radiated from his blue eyes.

  Antonia thought of the grave she’d left behind and put conviction into her voice. “She’d be a wantin’ you to do anything to save her babe. Anything!”

  Erik Muth straightened his back.

  For the first time, Antonia really looked at him. She saw a big man who towered over her, which was unusual given her height, with shoulder-length blond hair bleached white by the sun, pale eyebrows, tired blue eyes, and a wide nose and mouth. He wore a bloodstained blue shirt. Above his close-cut tawny beard, his skin was ruddy, and he had a sprinkling of freckles across his nose, which gave him a friendly, open expression. Not a bad looking man, but very different from Jean-Claude, with his slender build, tanned skin, sharp cheekbones, exotic green eyes, and long, dark hair.

  “I keep thanking you.” His words came out in a slow rumble. “You’re a stranger, and today, you’ve done more for me than anyone I’ve ever met. And I’ve been blessed with a lot of kindness in my life.” He stared out the window, his eyes unseeing of the distant mountains. “I guess you can say I’ve been charmed. Got everything I wanted. My life plan was falling into place, step by step. Until today.” He gave a slow shake of his head. “It’s all been for naught.”

  Antonia glanced down at the baby, who’d fallen asleep. “Not be for naught. You can be takin’ her now.” With one hand, she pulled up the front of her tunic.

  Erik rose and walked toward her. His hands fumbled as he took the babe and held her to him, looking helpless.

  “Support her head,” Antonia cautioned, as she tied up her tunic. “She be wobbly for a while.”

  Camilla stirred and opened her eyes.

  “Hi, precious one,” her father whispered, rocking her. An infatuated look spread over his face. He brought her closer and kissed her forehead.

  Watching father and daughter made some warmth seep into Antonia’s frozen heart.

  “She’s so tiny,” he murmured, not taking his gaze off the baby. “How can she possibly survive?”

  Dr. Cameron entered the room, came over to Erik, and peered down at the baby. “She nursed well?” he asked Antonia.

  “Once Camilla caught on, she did fine.”

  “Camilla, eh. Lovely name for a lovely wee lassie.” He stepped back and gave them both a serious look. “Now. We must speak of keeping her alive.” He clapped a hand on Erik’s shoulder. “What I propose will be hard to wrap your mind around, lad. But hear me out, will ya, then?”

  Erik nodded.

  The doctor lowered his hand to his side. “Camilla needs a wet nurse. There’s no hope for her, else.” He hesitated. “And someone to care for the wee lassie when you are working.”

  Erik ran a hand over his face, as if everything was too much for him to take in.

  Dr. Cameron glanced at Antonia. “Mrs. Cameron tells me that Mrs. Valleau is a widow.”

  Widow. How she hated that word. But now I be one. She dipped her chin in acknowledgment.

  He looked askance at Antonia. “Would you be willing to continue on as Camilla’s nurse?”

  “Oh, no,” Antonia said before she thought. “I cain’t.” I cain’t be livin’ with another man! And how could she raise his baby, become attached to her, but have to leave when Camilla was grown enough to not need her care? Nor could she let her sons become attached to the man and child. The pain of having to leave again would be hard on them.

  “Lass,” the doctor said gently. “Mrs. Valleau. Without you to nurse her, the baby won’t survive. As it is, her life will be touch and go. She’ll need more care than a busy farmer, no matter how devoted a father, can give her.”

  As the meaning of the doctor’s words hit, Erik first looked stunned. His face reddened as if he was going to cry. He took a shuddering breath. “The house isn’t that big, but I could build a room for you and your children. Most of my money is invested in the farm, but I could pay you a little.”

  Her heart pounding, Antonia wanted to grab her boys and run back to the mountains to Jean-Claude’s waiting arms. But Jean-Claude was buried in a cold grave. She had nothing and no one to run to. This would provide her and the boys some security. But still she wavered. Then she looked up at Erik Muth’s face and saw the pain in his eyes, his imploring expression. She glanced at the little Camilla, already so dear to her. Did she really have a choice? She had nowhere else to go and couldn’t let the child die. “I’ll do it.”

  Mr. Muth’s shoulders sagged in relief. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and opened them again. “Thank you. I promise to do everything I can to make life comfortable for your family.”

  Dr. Cameron smiled. “That’s settled, then. I have a good feelin’ about your wee lassie. I think with regular nourishment and the tender care she’ll receive from Mrs. Valleau here, Mr. Muth, you just might be able to walk her down the aisle someday.”

  Will I be there to see Camilla wed? Antonia wondered.

  “Mrs. Cameron has prepared us some food.” The doctor waved toward the door. “I hope you like haggis.” At their blank looks, he laughed. “I was just joking.” His brogue deepened. “Haggis is liver, onion, oatmeal, and spices cooked in a sheep’s stomach—an acquired taste. I left my wife fryin’ up some bacon, and it smelled vera enticing. Come. Join us for a meal.”

  Antonia hadn’t tasted bacon in ages. Yet, even the thought of a former favorite food did nothing for her nonexistent appetite.

  The doctor nudged Mr. Muth’s shoulder and urged him toward the door, the new pa glancing down at the sleeping child he held.

  Antonia waited a moment before following the men. She needed to ca
tch her breath, to brace herself for the new future.

  As Erik walked toward the kitchen, carrying his daughter, he doubted he’d be able to eat a bite. His stomach felt like a varmint had wrestled with his innards, a stone stuck in his throat, and grief weighed down his limbs. He just wanted to go find a cave, crawl inside, and hibernate away from the world for a while, but—he looked down at his daughter—doing so would mean giving up on his responsibilities. He had a child, a farm, and—he glanced over at Mrs. Valleau—now more people depending on him.

  He stepped into the kitchen, crowded with adults and children. The smell of frying bacon made his stomach change its mind. His belly gave out a huge growl, which both embarrassed him and made him realize that he hadn’t eaten since yesterday.

  Mrs. Cameron stood at the stove cooking, while Mrs. Norton set the table with flowered china dishes of the type Daisy had coveted. He’d planned to get them for her as a Christmas present. Pain stabbed him. Why did I wait? Why didn’t I make an effort to buy her more of the pretty things she wanted, instead of putting all my money back into the farm? Why did we argue about something so trivial? I was so selfish!

  Guilt settled in his stomach, the lump stealing away his appetite.

  Mrs. Valleau had been standing silently to one side of the room, her body stiff. She seemed to be taking everything in.

  Reverend Norton, seated at the foot of the table, waved for Erik and Mrs. Valleau to sit down. “Come, you two. You must eat.” The minister gave him a glance of sympathy. “Even though you might think you aren’t hungry, you must keep up your strength. Now more than ever.”

  He’s right. But I don’t think I could choke down a bite.

  From her place at the stove, Mrs. Cameron glanced at him. “I figured a belated breakfast would be the easiest to fix. How does bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast with jam sound to you, Mr. Muth?”

  Before he could answer, the boy, sitting at one end of the long kitchen table, holding his brother on his lap, spoke up. “Jam be good,” he said, popping a crust in his mouth.

  His English had a French accent, like his mother’s. Both children had purple smears on their faces. The little one gave his mother an open-mouthed smile. He chortled and banged a fist on the table, still holding a jam-smeared crust. The older one swallowed his remaining bread in one bite.

  Mrs. Cameron chuckled. “Plenty more where that came from. We’ve had several people pay the doctor’s bill with saskatoon jam. We have a year’s supply stocked up. That’s on top of the jam left over from the previous year.”

  Mrs. Norton’s face crinkled with good humor. “So do we. Such a blessing.”

  Mrs. Cameron glanced up at Erik. “You’ll have to take several jars with you. And some of pickles and a few of applesauce.”

  Conscious he had his own doctor’s bill to pay, Erik shook his head. “Thank you for the offer, Mrs. Cameron. But I can’t deprive you of your jam.”

  She tsked. “Like I said, we have plenty. And more’s bound to come in. You’ll help me out by giving me some space in the pantry. Besides—” with her chin, she indicated the boy “—jam will help smooth the way with the laddie.”

  “Mrs. Valleau,” said the minister. “Won’t you sit with us?”

  “I ain’t got manners for company,” she said, clearly embarrassed.

  Erik, still holding Camilla, pulled out the chair next to the boy, whose name he didn’t recall, and gestured for Mrs. Valleau to take a seat across from him. She did so, with a grace that he couldn’t help noticing.

  She surreptitiously touched the rose on the patterned plate already set in front of her, fingered the decorative handle of the silver knife, and then lowered her hand into her lap.

  Erik took a seat across from her. He was grateful the meal was eggs and not beefsteak. How would I cut my food while holding the baby?

  The doctor entered the room and headed toward the other end of the table. “If I’m lucky, I’ll make it through the meal without being called out. I’ve missed a lot of meals this week.” He patted his stomach. “Keeps me from growing out of my clothes.”

  Mrs. Cameron dished out generous helpings on all their plates. “Make sure you eat,” she ordered Mrs. Valleau. “I can tell you’ve been doing without. Probably don’t have much of an appetite given your sorrow. However, you’re a nursing mother. Now you’ll have two babies to care for. You’ll have to keep up your strength for the wee bairns’ sake.”

  Mrs. Valleau glanced at her boys, and then at Camilla. A resolute expression crossed her face, and she picked up the fork, scooped up some eggs, and took a bite.

  “Try the jam, Maman,” her boy said, picking up a strip of bacon and biting into it. His eyes widened. “Très bon!”

  His enthusiasm required no translation.

  Mrs. Cameron laughed.

  Even Mrs. Valleau had a slight smile. “Henri be not used to pork, either, although he be likin’ it. Bear, venison, duck, goose. . .but not pig.”

  “Well, I guess he’ll have to get used to pork and chicken,” Erik said, thinking about the livestock on his farm.

  At the reference to their upcoming changes, Mrs. Valleau’s small smile vanished, and she looked down at her plate.

  Erik felt like a bumbling idiot. Yes, he’d just lost his wife, but he still had his farm. She’d not only lost her husband but her home, too. And her way of life. He wondered how she’d be able to adjust. His shoulders ached with tension. Another burden.

  Mrs. Cameron bustled over. “Let me hold the wee lassie while you eat.” She reached for the baby.

  “What about your food?”

  “I’ll be fine. I had a head start on the bacon.”

  Carefully, Erik handed Camilla over to the woman.

  The baby didn’t stir.

  Mrs. Cameron sat on the other side of him.

  “I’ll say grace,” Reverend Norton said. He waited for them to bow their heads.

  Before Erik closed his eyes, he noticed that Mrs. Valleau was half a beat behind everyone else, and he wondered if she usually prayed before meals.

  The boy, Henri, didn’t bend his head, instead stared at everyone with wide gold eyes.

  I wonder if they’re Catholic? Not that it mattered. Between the farmwork and the weather, he often didn’t make it to church on Sundays. Although sometimes, Daisy had put her foot down and forced the issue of their lack of attendance.

  Even as he thought the words, Erik realized he and Daisy would never have Sundays together again. Guilt swept over him. Daisy had enjoyed going to town, worshiping in church, and spending time with other women. Why, then, had he not seen to it she had more chances to do so?

  How long will it take before I believe she’s gone?

  Antonia wished she could do justice to the eggs and bacon, bread and jam like Henri was. The bacon, especially, smelled so good. But the food all tasted like wood to her. Might as well chew bark.

  Yet, she realized the truth of Mrs. Cameron’s statement about needing to keep up her strength. She not only had her boys depending on her but Camilla, too. She glanced over at Mr. Muth, who had stopped eating and seemed lost in unhappy thoughts. Perhaps the meat tasted like wood to him as well.

  Mrs. Cameron cast a pointed look toward Mr. Muth’s plate.

  Obediently, he picked up his fork and began to eat.

  She was glad to see that Henri, who’d only picked at his food since Jean-Claude’s death, ate another helping.

  Mrs. Norton started a conversation with Mrs. Cameron about some of the people in town. Their husbands joined in.

  Too lost in her own thoughts, Antonia allowed their words to flow over her.

  Dr. Cameron set down his glass. “Cleeves had a pig disappear, and an Indian was seen in the area.”

  Oh, no. Her gut clenching, Antonia sat up.

  “After service on Sunday, Harrison Dunn told me a few of their cattle disappeared, and from the trail, he suspected rustlers. He reported the loss to Sheriff Granger.”

  Mr. Muth frowned.
“Last week, the O’Donnells mentioned they’d lost four hens, with no sight of blood or feathers to indicate what had taken them. Quite upset, Mrs. O’Donnell was. The family relies heavily on their chickens. I hadn’t realized more incidents had occurred.”

  Mrs. Norton placed a hand on her chest. “Do you think it’s the work of Indians?” she asked in a timid voice.

  A forbidding expression drew the minister’s face into severe lines. “Let’s hope that isn’t the case. The last thing we need is folk becoming enflamed against the Indians.”

  “If they be, ’tis because they be starvin’!” Antonia said, her tone sharp. “The white men done killed off the buffalo, their main food. I be not sayin’ that thievin’ be right, or even that the Blackfoot be doin’ such. But I do know their babes and elders be dyin’. Others be weak, vulnerable.”

  “I’ve seen some sad cases of grippe and malnutrition,” the doctor commented.

  “Sometimes the Indians come to our door,” the reverend said. “And we never turn them away with empty hands. I don’t know what more we can do.” He glanced at his wife and his severe expression eased. “First of all, we must not let these rumors get out of hand. Sheriff Granger needs to know, of course. But she’s a levelheaded woman, and I trust her not to act out of hand.”

  She? Antonia wasn’t sure she’d heard right.

  Reverend Norton must have seen her puzzlement, for he smiled and nodded. “Yes, our sheriff is, indeed, a woman. Quite competent.” He glanced around the table. “We may have no problem and these incidents all have natural explanations. Or they may be thefts and thus connected, in which case they may or may not be caused by the Indians.”

  Doctor Cameron glanced at the minister. “Between the two of us, we probably cover more ground around here and talk to more people than anyone else. We’ll have to start asking questions. . .in an indirect way, of course. No sense putting any ideas in people’s heads.”

  Reverend Norton rubbed his chin. “I’ll talk to John Carter about the Blackfoot. Perhaps if we both write the Office of Indian Affairs, asking for more supplies to be distributed, that action could solve one or both problems.”