Healing Montana Sky

by Debra Holland

  Behind the Muths’ wagon, the Nortons drove in a shabby surrey, and the Carters trailed the group in a big black vehicle that reminded Antonia of a stagecoach. Both couples intended to help her settle in. . .and to bury Daisy.

  The farther they moved from the mountains, the flatter the land became. She looked up at the beautiful blue sky, loving the broad arc of color. In the mountains, she usually only saw parts of the sky through the dense trees. But now, the vastness of the grassland was inspiring—and perhaps overwhelming. “Look, Mr. Muth,” she said, pointing with her chin to the hawk floating overhead.

  “What?” He gazed upward but didn’t focus on the bird.

  “The hawk. See how he be just floating there. I wish I could fly like that.”

  “Just hope it stays away from Daisy’s chick—” he stuttered out the end of the word “—ens.” There was a brief silence before Mr. Muth stiffened his shoulders. He gave her a quick glance. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  For a moment, she experienced a sharp poignant longing for Jean-Claude, who would have loved to soar with the hawk and usually understood her flights of fancy. But the pain in Mr. Muth’s eyes made her try to reach out. “It be like that for me, too. Like he be not gone, really. I keep thinking of things I be tellin’ Jean-Claude. Or I start to be sayin’ something to the boys about their father and have to. . .” She made a chopping motion. “I don’t mind if you be speakin’ of Daisy. How can we not be sharin’ ’bout the two people we loved so much?”

  He nodded, and his stiff shoulders relaxed. “Maybe you should start by calling me Erik.”

  “Erik,” she repeated. “I be Antonia.”

  “Pretty name. How did you come by it?”

  “My father. . .he be a poor soldier. He be givin’ me a rich, educated-sounding name.” Antonia omitted telling him she didn’t have the education to match the name.

  “Well, he succeeded.”

  Silence drew out between them, long and uncomfortable.

  Erik flicked the reins. “I don’t know what to think. . .what to do. I’ve never been through this before.”

  “Me, neither. I be only five days ahead of you, eh? So I be not much help.”

  He gave her a bitter smile. “I haven’t yet buried my wife, and now I have a new wife.”

  “I done buried my husband six days past, and now I have a new husband,” she echoed, trying to match his words. Antonia remained silent for a moment, thinking. “Do you think be easier—” she mused out loud “—to come to a new marriage. . .a hasty one with a stranger. . .and both be filled with pain over the loss of a beloved mate. . .than when just one person be sufferin’?”

  Erik heaved a heavy sigh. “Is it better or worse that way? I don’t know.” He looked at her with sad blue eyes. “Is it better or worse that we’ve both lost spouses we love, rather than beginning with someone who is available to love us, and we have a free heart to give them?”

  “Or to be startin’ out fresh? Strangers still, but with no connection. . .but also no pain?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t think either is easy. But maybe we’ll both be more. . .tolerant of each other because we know the other’s hurting, and we understand.”

  Tolerance. She supposed it was a good word when applied to people in general. But to a marriage?

  Antonia’s throat clogged. Yes, I ’spose tolerance be important there, too. Yet, she couldn’t bear the thought of spending the rest of her life being tolerated instead of loved.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The faint wagon track through the grass led between two hills. Erik lifted his chin. “On the other side, you’ll see my. . .uh, our farm.”

  Antonia straightened, relieved to be near the end of the journey. She was hot and sticky, and she needed to use the privy, wash her face and hands, and stretch her legs. She shifted on the hard seat.

  Camilla, who’d woken a few minutes earlier, protested the movement.

  Antonia rocked the baby until she calmed, and then stared ahead, anxious to see the first sight of her new home.

  The barn came into view first—a big building gleaming with whitewash.

  Astonished, Antonia turned to Erik. “Your barn be bigger than the church!” She looked from the building back to him. “You must be havin’ a lot of livestock.”

  “Eight cows and nine calves. Delivered twins—” he paused to think “—yesterday. Right before Daisy went into labor.”

  Judging it best not to pursue the subject, Antonia let it drop, instead staring avidly around her. Several small buildings were near the barn. A chicken coop, she guessed from Erik’s earlier mention, although she couldn’t say what the rest were.

  The house came into view, a long, low building about three times the size of her cabin, with a broad porch and windows with real glass. She and Jean-Claude had never lived in a house with glass windows. Her brief burst of excitement over the barn was banished by a feeling of guilt for her disloyalty. Our cabin be suitin’ our needs just fine, she reassured herself, or maybe she reassured Jean-Claude’s spirit.

  Erik’s home was built into a hill. Grass waved from the sod roof. Antonia wondered whether, if she stood on the far side of the hill, she’d even be able to tell there was a house. She discretely wiped the perspiration from her brow with her sleeve. Hopefully, the sod roof ensured the house would stay comfortable in the summer heat and winter cold.

  Antonia hoped Erik wouldn’t expect her to share his bed tonight. Or ever. She swallowed down her fear. He seemed a reasonable man. Surely, he’d give her time. She glanced at her husband, sitting next to her, his jaw clenched. Maybe he’ll need time, too.

  Although he heard Carter’s offer to see to the care of Antonia’s mules, Erik shook off the offer, telling himself he couldn’t have one of the wealthiest men around tending to his livestock. But really, Erik knew he wanted to avoid entering the house and seeing the body of his wife. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that he’d slipped another woman into Daisy’s place before she was even cold, much less buried.

  Carter seemed to understand. He allowed Erik to take the lead, but refused to be banished to sit in the rocker on the porch like Reverend Norton, who retired there after helping unload the mules. Instead, Carter took the reins of one of Antonia’s mules and fell in step with Erik as if they’d worked together for years. But the rancher did pause when they entered the big barn, gazing around and obviously taking everything in.

  Truth was, Erik had raised the barn to match his dreams, not to match his pocketbook, which is why he owed the banker for the loan. The barn cost more than the house—a sum Daisy hadn’t appreciated spending. Some of their arguments involved the amount of money he’d invested. She’d wanted to go about building a smaller barn and increasing their herd more slowly with capital they’d acquired, not borrowed.

  He’d built sturdy and large, with space for the wagon, stalls for the team and two other horses, and twelve stalls for the milk cows. On the other side, dug into the hill for coolness, lay the dairy room. Overhead, a hayloft took up a third of the space.

  “Mighty fine barn you have here, Muth,” Carter said.

  If he’d heard the rancher’s comment yesterday, Erik’s pride would have soared as high as the clouds. But today, buried under the weight of his grief and guilt, only the faintest feeling of satisfaction stirred.

  Out in the pasture, a cow mooed.

  Carter shook his head. “Why don’t you let me see to the horses, and you do the mules?” He raised a quick hand to Erik’s shoulder and squeezed. “As much as you’d like to, you can’t be delaying.” The rancher’s blue eyes showed sympathy and understanding. “The moon is bright enough. Won’t bother me to drive home in the dark. But I don’t know about the reverend.”

  Guilt prodded Erik. “You’ve been right neighborly to come out here with me.” He strove for some levity. “And we aren’t even neighbors.”

  “This is Sweetwater Springs. We’re all neighbors here. You should have seen
the passel of people who showed up unannounced to spruce up my ramshackle house when I first brought Mrs. Carter here from Boston. Doubt there was a body left in town.” His mouth turned up at the memory. “You’ll have plenty of opportunities to help others out when they hit hard times.”

  “Suppose I will.” I’d much rather be on the giving end.

  Carter’s expression sobered. “You given any thought to where you want the grave?”

  No! Erik wanted to howl out the word. He clamped down his teeth to keep the noise in and shook his head.

  They began to unharness the horses and mules, wipe them down, grain and water them.

  “It’s a hard decision, where to bury,” Carter said as he curried. “Not one I’ve had to make, but my parents sure did. My six-year-old sister was the first person they laid to rest there.” His voice hitched. “Then came my grandparents. Now my parents sleep beside their daughter. There was a time when I thought my little Lizzy would join them. Her illness was the most frightening time of my life. More painful even than my sister’s death. . .than when each of my parents died.”

  Somehow, the man’s words comforted Erik. He thought about them as he pumped water outside and brought buckets to the mules’ stalls. Carter hadn’t lost a beloved wife. But the rancher knew about the death of loved ones, knew grief. And the feeling that he wasn’t alone in suffering was enough to give Erik strength for what came next. “’Bout a quarter of a mile from here is a place only as wide as this barn. Circled by gentle hills. Protected. . . .”

  “Sounds fine. But if it’s a quarter mile, we’ll need to get your team hitched again. That’s too far to carry a casket, at least for just the two of us.”

  “You’re right. Guess I should choose someplace closer.”

  Shaking his head, Carter held up his hand. “Go with your instincts. Our graveyard is about half a mile from the house. Close enough to know they’re there and to visit when need be, but not so close as to make you remember and hurt whenever you see it.”

  Erik let out a big breath. “I need to dig the grave so we can have the service and get you all headed home.”

  “We’ll dig the grave together.”

  Leaving Jacques to play in the wagon with Henri, Antonia paused at the porch of the house, waiting for Mrs. Carter and Mrs. Norton to catch up with her.

  Mrs. Norton carried Camilla, tucked in the crook of her arm, and Mrs. Carter held the glass cake stand containing their dessert.

  “Thank you,” Antonia told them. “For helping us through this.”

  “It is our Christian duty to help,” Mrs. Norton said with a gentle smile. She shifted Camilla.

  Mrs. Carter raised the cake to her. “And it’s what friends do. We’ve made new friends today.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Norton added. “The Lord’s blessing in the midst of a dreadful day of pain.”

  Antonia remembered her manners, although she’d never entertained other ladies. But she recalled as a girl watching the major’s wife interacting with other soldiers’ wives. “Won’t you come in,” she said, inviting them into another woman’s home as if it were her own, which, now, she supposed it was.

  She snuck a quick glance at two rocking chairs on the long porch, imagining sitting in comfort while she worked, watching the boys play in the yard. Much more comfortable than the split log stoop I be usin’.

  Feeling disloyal, Antonia stepped into the room, then moved to the side so the other women could follow her. Her first impression was of roominess and fine furniture. On second inspection, she realized the house wasn’t as big as the Cameron’s, nor was the furniture as ornate. Comfortable, she reckoned, and found herself relaxing a bit, while she studied the space.

  A warm breeze rushed through the open door, freshening the stale, fetid air. She shuddered at the reason but saw no body and felt momentary relief.

  The room combined a kitchen, dining area, and sitting room. Antonia eyed the big black stove that dominated the kitchen area and wondered what it would be like to cook on it, instead of using the fireplace or Dutch oven. A table, a counter, open shelves stocked with dishes and pantry items contained more possessions than she’d ever owned. A window above the dry sink provided a view out the side of the house toward the road. The windows on both sides of the front door let in plenty of light, and Antonia couldn’t resist peeking out of one to see Erik and Mr. Carter leading her mules toward the barn and Reverend Norton unloading the wagon. She lifted the sash to let in more air.

  “Good idea,” said Pamela Carter, opening the window on the other side of the door. “Where is Daisy—” She bit off the words.

  All three women glanced around. They spotted an open door, probably leading to the bedroom.

  “In there,” Mrs. Norton said. “God rest her soul.” She took off her threadbare wool shawl and faded black bonnet and hung them on a hat tree near the door.

  Antonia stepped out on the porch. “Henri,” she called.

  Reverend Norton walked out of the barn. “I’ll get them.” His voice carried across the yard. He helped Henri climb off the wagon.

  The boy ran to her.

  Reverend Norton lifted Jacques and carried him to the porch.

  Jacques stretched his arms toward her.

  “Thank you,” Antonia said, taking her son. After holding Camilla for so long, Jacques felt heavy. She shifted him to her hip. “Henri.” She pointed to one of two leather chairs in the living area. “I want you to sit there and hold Camilla like you do with Jacques. And keep an eye on your brother. I’ll get Mrs. Cameron’s basket. Then you and Jacques can have a piece of cold chicken.”

  “And jam after?”

  She nodded, liking the eagerness in her son’s voice.

  A slight smile broke over Henri’s face. He moved to the chair and sat. With a startled expression, he ran a hand over the leather cushion and bounced a bit, as if enjoying the padding.

  Once Henri was settled, Mrs. Carter handed him Camilla.

  He propped an elbow on the arm of the chair to brace the baby, his hands protectively around her small body.

  Pamela removed a patterned shawl and her hat—an elegant burgundy straw with dyed feathers of the same color circling the brim—and hung them next to Mrs. Norton’s. She placed her hands on her hips and surveyed the kitchen. “Why don’t I start supper so it will be ready after the. . .”

  All three women glanced toward the open bedroom door.

  Mrs. Norton took Antonia’s hand. “Leave the washing and dressing of the body to me. I’ve done it many times, and I think you have had enough to cope with today.”

  Antonia nodded, grateful to be spared that difficult task.

  “If you could bring me some clean rags and a pail of water. . . .” Mrs. Norton disappeared into the other room, closing the door behind her.

  Mrs. Carter started poking around the kitchen. “There must be clean rags around here somewhere.” She opened a drawer under the counter. “Ah, here they are. I’ll give them to Mrs. Norton.”

  Antonia stared at the bedroom door, wondering if it was cowardly to leave the unpleasant task to Mrs. Norton. Her thoughts jumped back to the sight of Jean-Claude and the grizzly, and her stomach churned. Resolutely, she turned away, relieved to be spared. “I’m gittin’ the food basket from the wagon and a pail of water.” Grateful for a moment alone, Antonia slipped out of the house.

  One of the men had left the basket on the porch. A pail stood near a washbasin. Hastily, she washed her hands and face, choosing the soap scented of lavender instead of one that smelled of bay leaves, which must be Erik’s. Will he be mindin’ that I smell like Daisy? She picked up the pail and hurried to the well—the pump was an unexpected luxury.

  The late afternoon sun had begun to cool. A budding rosebush grew nearby, and Antonia made a mental note to pick some when they bloomed to place on Daisy’s grave. She made a stop at the privy, pumped some water in the trough by the well to rinse her hands, and filled the bucket.

  She moved to the house, t
rying not to look at the coffin in the wagon. When she walked through the open door, she saw the two other ladies had made themselves at home. Antonia smiled at her sons.

  Someone must have brought the basket inside, for it sat on the table, contents scattered across the surface.

  Mrs. Carter had tied on an apron with blue embroidered flowers across the top and hem over her dress. “Daisy Muth left a well-stocked larder,” she said in approval. “That will make cooking meals easier for you.” From a shelf, she picked up a tin box decorated with red flowers painted across the top and held it up. “I found Daisy’s recipes. That will help you make Mr. Muth his accustomed meals.”

  Shame rose in Antonia. She couldn’t read the recipes, but didn’t want the women—or Erik for that matter—to know of her ignorance. She gave a quick nod of agreement, mentioned bringing the water to Mrs. Norton, and escaped from the conversation. Walking to the bedroom, her chest tightened and her breath came in gasps. What am I going to do?

  CHAPTER NINE

  John Carter had insisted on finishing up the grave and sent Erik back to bid his farewell to Daisy. At first, Erik argued, and then the man firmly said that digging the grave was good for him. He was counting his blessings with each shovel full.

  Erik wanted to curse at Carter for that statement. . .for having a beloved wife, children, prosperous ranch, when he had. . . . But he’d sucked up the feeling, remembering he was beholden to the man.

  He detoured to the barn to grab some of Antonia’s possessions, taking up a big parcel wrapped in hide. As he approached the porch, he could see Reverend Norton sitting on the rocker, a Bible open on his knee. Erik climbed the steps and set down his fur-wrapped bundle.

  “The womenfolk chased me out,” Reverend Norton said, looking up from his reading. “They want to prepare the body. You wait here until they’re ready.”

  Erik felt a surge of gratitude for the reprieve from having to see his wife in the rigors of death. He remembered how Daisy’s body had looked when he left, and he’d dreaded seeing her again that way.