Henri looked toward the barn and wondered if Kenny and Rocky missed him. He always visited them first thing in the morning, helping Père feed and water the mules, groom their coats, and muck out the stalls. Surely they felt as lost in that big ole barn as he did here by the house. Or maybe they like it better?
Back on the mountain, their shed had been small and dark. But Père said it was sturdy and kept out the bears and mountain cats. Be there bears on the prairie? He gave a fearful glance around, but he didn’t see any sign of wildlife but a red-tailed hawk floating in the sky.
The bird swooped to the ground and then flew up with a mouse in its claws.
He glanced toward the barn again, the pull to go to the mules so strong he took a few steps in that direction before he stopped, remembering Maman had told him not to go there unless Mr. Muth was with him.
Jacques crawled toward the house. He stopped at the stairs to the porch, using the first step to lever himself to a standing position. “Ba, ba.” He smacked the wood, obviously pleased with himself. He swiveled until he saw Henri. “Baa.”
“Baa,” Henri mimicked.
The drone of Maman and Mr. Muth speaking came through the open screen door. He didn’t pay them any mind until he heard the man say his name.
“Henri needs to go to school.”
School? Maman had told him about school. He strained his ears to hear the rest of the conversation. Maman’s voice was softer, her words harder to make out, but the concern in her tone came through clear enough.
I don’t wanna go to school. His stomach ached, and Henri wondered if he was going to be sick. If only I could run away—back home, back to Père. Not that he wanted to leave Maman and Jacques. . .
With a sigh, he sat on the step next to his brother, remembering how they’d played on the stoop the morning Père died. How both of them had laughed and laughed.
Now everything had changed, and he didn’t like it one bit. Although Mr. Muth seemed nice enough, Henri didn’t want another père. He wanted his own père back. I want to go home! He thought again, feeling helpless.
Jacques scooted over and patted Henri’s knee. “Baa?”
Henri tried to smile. “Baa.” But his heart wasn’t in the game.
Jacques’s face fell, as if he’d sensed his brother’s feelings.
Not wanting the baby to let out a wail that would disturb the adults, Henri grabbed Jacques’s hand. “Come on. Let’s walk.”
His suggestion worked.
Jacques gave him an open-mouthed grin—the one that usually made Henri laugh back. Grenouille, Père teased when Jacques smiled like that. Maman would scold, although her mouth turned up, so she wasn’t really angry, and tell Père not to call the baby a frog.
Père will come for us. He won’t leave us here without him.
Carrying Camilla, Antonia followed Erik from the house, squinting at the brightness of the sun. She’d grown too used to the tree-shaded mountain and wondered if she’d ever adjust to the openness of the prairie.
Henri held Jacques’s hands, allowing the boy to walk in front of him.
Her oldest son still looked sad—haunted eyes, mouth pulled down, and shoulders slumped. But Antonia was relieved to see Jacques had a smile. He always loved playing with his big brother.
Henri saw them and slowly steered the baby their way.
Jacques smiled at her, obviously proud of his accomplishment. “Maa.” He pulled away from Henri, sank to his knees, and crawled over to her.
Antonia handed Camilla to Erik and picked up her son.
Jacques patted her cheeks with his dirty hands. “Maa,” he repeated.
She kissed his cheek, shifted him to one arm, and held out her hand for Henri. “Mr. Muth is showing us his farm.”
“Our farm,” Erik corrected.
Although Antonia sent him a polite smile for his inclusion of them, she doubted this place would ever feel like our farm. “Henri, Mr. Muth and I spoke some on our new family. We always be rememberin’ Père.” Her throat tightened, and she had to pause before she could continue with the words she hated saying. “We be always lovin’ Père. He be a good father to you, and we be never forgetin’ him.” Her lips trembled, and she pressed them tight.
With a sideways glance at her, Erik seemed to note her distress, for he came to her rescue. “Yesterday, when your mother married me, we became husband and wife. She will now be a mother to my baby, Camilla. . .her maman.”
Antonia reached out to touch the baby’s foot. “And Mr. Muth be a new father for you boys.” She took a breath and rushed out the words. “You be callin’ him Pa.”
Henri backed away, shaking his head.
“I be sorry, mon petit garçon. But this be the way ’tis.” She tried to keep the sorrow from her voice.
“Baa,” Jacques added, seemingly unconcerned by the strained emotions flowing around him.
Carefully holding Camilla to his shoulder, Erik squatted so he was eye-level to Henri. “I know this is hard, boy. Hard for all of us. I can’t be your Père. But I promise to be the best pa to you and Jacques that I can be.”
Henri twisted away from Erik, pressing close to Antonia’s side. “No, Maman. Père be comin’ for us and take us home.”
Henri’s words twisted like a knife in her stomach. If only that be true! Antonia had a brief flash of longing before firmly suppressing the feeling. No sense wishin’ for something that be never happenin’.
Erik rose to his feet.
She glanced at her new husband, afraid of what she might see. Be he angry?
Erik rubbed Camilla’s back, his gaze on Henri, compassion in his blue eyes.
Relieved, she turned back to her son. “Père be dead, Henri.” She made her tone gentle but firm. “The grizzly bear done killed him. He not be coming for us, no matter how much we be wishin’ on such a thing.”
The boy scuffed the dirt with his foot and then shot her a quick glance as if to verify her words.
“Our life is here, now, with Mr. Muth, your new pa.” Releasing his hand, she gave him a one-armed hug. “In time, this will not seem so bad, oui?”
“Oui, Maman.” Henri didn’t sound convinced.
Erik waved to a whitewashed house, not much smaller than the log home she’d left behind. “That’s our henhouse. Henri, let me take you to meet the chickens. I think you’re big enough to help your mother take care of them.”
I be takin’ care of them? Antonia didn’t know anything about chickens. Once again, she realized how ignorant she was of the basic knowledge other white women took for granted. At least, Erik didn’t seem to notice her reaction.
“Daisy was mighty proud of her chickens. Good layers all, although Penny’s falling off. I briefly fed and watered them last night. But Daisy usually lavished a lot of attention on them.” A guilty expression crossed his face, and he took a ragged breath.
Antonia didn’t know what lavished meant, but she could guess. She glanced over at the henhouse. She’d never been around the les poulets. At the various forts she’d lived at, the camp cooks jealously guarded the flocks, and no one was allowed near. She hoped these ones were friendly.
“Come,” Erik said. “Watch what I do; then tomorrow you can take over their care.” He glanced down at the baby in his arms. “Ah. . .”
“Let me take her.” She set Jacques on the ground near a pile of rocks she knew would interest him. Then she reached for Camilla and gathered the baby to her. After holding Jacques, the infant seemed so tiny, so frail. Antonia cuddled her close and pressed a kiss to the baby’s forehead.
She followed Erik to the henhouse. Up close, she marveled at the windows with glass panes. Why, my cabin be not even havin’ glass! And here I be proud of the screen tacked over the windows to keep out the flies. She’d carefully taken down the screens, rolled them up, and brought them with her.
Erik unlatched the door and stepped back to allow the chickens to surge outside. “We need to lock them up at night to protect them from predators. We hav
e fifteen in all. Daisy liked to keep an eye on them. She’d sit on the porch and do handwork. We used to have a dog to protect the flock, but he died a few months ago. We were going to wait until after the baby came to get a new one.”
The white, black, and brown chickens rushed out of the doorway, clucking and spreading their wings. They chattered in obvious excitement, seeming happy to stretch their legs. Some stopped to peck for bugs, but the rest must have been hoping for feed, for they scurried toward Erik.
“Sorry, birds.” He stepped back. “No food for you yet.” Erik glanced down at Henri. “Can you go get the feed for me?” He pointed toward the barn. “Just inside the door on a shelf.” He made a turning motion to the right with his hand so Henri would know where to look. “There’s a metal pan and a gunnysack with some feed. The bag’s almost empty, so I think it’s light enough for you to carry. Do you think you can do that?”
Henri glanced up at Antonia, seeking her approval.
Antonia nudged him with her arm. “Show Mr. Muth. . .uh, Pa, what a helpful boy you be.” She tilted her chin. “Go on now.”
Henri moved from her side in obvious reluctance. Then, as if eager to get the errand over with, he broke into a run, vanishing through the doorway.
Antonia watched him, her stomach churning, hoping he wouldn’t need her assistance. Henri had always taken pride in helping her and Jean-Claude, and she hoped aiding his new father would support the development of their relationship.
Henri emerged from the barn, carrying the pan with the sack on top.
“Well done, mon fils.”
“I knew you could do it.” Erik gave Henri a smile and nod, taking the pan from him. He upended the sack then held out the pan to Antonia so she could see the contents. “Some cracked corn and grain. ’Bout that much each time.”
Antonia noted the level of the feed.
He picked up a handful and scattered the grain.
Chickens attacked the feast.
“Daisy named them all.” Erik tossed another handful. “She could tell them apart. I only know about half. Let’s see if I can remember which is which.” He pointed at one. “Penny stands out with her copper-colored feathers. The little lady’s coming to the end of her laying life and should end up in the frying pan soon. And Sadie is. . .was—” he continued with only the slightest stutter of words “—Daisy’s favorite. Treated that chicken like a pet, she did.” His voice caught.
Antonia rushed to speak, hoping to distract him. “Iffen you don’t know what they be called, Henri can give ’em names. He be plumb good at that.”
Erik swallowed and nodded. “The rooster is Bert. The ole boy likes to keep an eye on things. As does this one, eh, Miss Mae.” He stooped to run a hand over the neck and back of a white-feathered chicken.
Miss Mae wiggled and fluttered her wings in apparent enjoyment.
Erik kept rattling off names and pointing to the various birds. Then, he finished feeding them, upending the pan to shake out the remaining kernels.
Antonia gently swayed with Camilla and concentrated on following his directions and watching what he did. Feeding the chickens seemed easy enough. So did filling up the water pan from the well.
Erik took down a long-handled wire basket that hung from a big hook under the eaves. “This is how Daisy carried the eggs, although sometimes she just used her apron.” His gaze slid away from Antonia’s Indian garb.
Her cheeks heated. Does he disapprove? But since he didn’t say anything more, she pretended nothing was wrong. “We be gatherin’ them.” She glanced at Henri. “Eh, son? You be careful?”
Henri nodded.
Before Antonia followed Erik into the chicken coop, she glanced at Jacques, sitting in a broad patch of dirt.
He’d become engrossed in a stone that he’d picked up and was carefully studying.
Since the rock was too big for Jacques to swallow when he inevitably tried to put it into his mouth, Antonia let him be, figuring he’d be safe for a few minutes. She walked into the henhouse, inhaling the smell of straw, wood shavings, and droppings that covered the floor.
The interior was surprisingly light with sunshine streaming from windows on both sides. A few feet off the floor, straw-filled wooden boxes lined the walls. Some held eggs in various shades of tan. A few stragglers, perched on wooden branches that reached from wall to wall, stretched their wings and made a trilling noise. She sensed their unease with a stranger.
Erik glanced up at the roof, which was a foot above him. “I built this high enough so I could stand upright inside without worrying about hitting my head.”
Henri entered, and the three of them seemed to take up the available space.
Erik motioned to a nest holding three eggs. “Go ahead, Henri. Pick them up.”
Gingerly, the child reached for the first one.
Erik held out the basket.
Henri set the egg inside and added the second. After the third, he moved to the next box without having to be prompted.
Small steps, Antonia told herself in relief. He be making small steps into getting settled in this new life. Each a sign that he be all right. Or so I hope.
Erik scooped some straw from an empty nest. “Clean out the droppings or any broken eggs, removing all wet or soiled straw, and replace the straw or shavings. The straw is in the barn, and the shavings are at the woodpile.” He gave them a brief upward turn of his lips. “I’ll show you where both are.”
“Shouldn’t be hard to figure out where.”
He dipped his chin in a you’re right motion and then gestured toward the floor. “When we rake out the henhouse, we save everything for the garden.”
Antonia nodded in agreement. She’d used the manure from the mules for her garden in the same way.
By this time, Henri had collected all the eggs that were left unattended.
On a nest in the corner sat a black chicken, a baleful look in her eyes.
“Nanette is broody.” Erik set down the basket. “That ole biddy doesn’t like me and isn’t about to let me or anyone else get her eggs. Watch what happens when I try.” Slowly, he stuck his hand toward the hen, aiming for underneath her body.
Lightning fast, she struck at him with her beak.
Antonia gasped.
At the same time, Henri jumped back and pressed against her side.
Erik didn’t jerk away his hand like she expected. Instead, he allowed the chicken to continue attacking him. “It just pinches. Doesn’t hurt bad.” He withdrew his hand and winked at Henri. “Scary critter, isn’t she?”
Henri responded with a vigorous set of nods.
“When I was your age,” Erik said in a reminiscing tone. “I hated gathering eggs from broody hens. In fact, once I got a switchin’ from my ma for letting one mean ole bird keep her eggs for days. Then my pa took me aside and taught me this trick.”
He edged around them toward the door and took down a small shovel hanging on the wall. “Now, you want to move slow and careful to not hurt her with this.” He positioned the edge of the shovel in the straw in front of the chicken.
Nanette pecked the shovel, her beak making ting, ting, ting sounds.
Erik slid the shovel under the chicken’s breast and lifted an inch. “She can’t see me. And I’m protected by the metal.” He stuck his hand under Nanette and brought out an egg, holding it up with three fingers. “Ta-da!”
Henri pulled away from Antonia’s side. He took the egg from Erik and, stooping, he settled it on top of the pile in the basket.
Still holding the shovel in place, Erik glanced at Henri. “You want to try? I felt another two under there.”
Antonia bit her lip to still an instinctive protest. Henri can be doin’ this. Jean-Claude already had the boy be helpin’ with the traps—a far more dangerous task.
Arm outstretched, Henri leaned forward and slid his hand under the hen, groping for an egg. He pulled it out and flourished his prize like Erik had, although he didn’t say ta-da.
“Well d
one.” With his chin, Erik indicated the hen. “One more.”
Henri pulled out the egg and laid it safely in the basket.
Erik bent to pick up the basket. “You two will gather eggs again tonight. Are you comfortable doing it by yourself?”
Antonia exchanged glances with Henri. “We be.”
“Good.” Erik motioned them to the door and led them outside.
Jacques had found another stone. Banging the two together, he yelled, “Baa!” He made no move toward them, seemingly content to play with the rocks.
Erik scooped up the boy, rocks and all, and settled him against his side, appearing completely familiar with hauling around young uns.
Jacques didn’t seem to mind, flashing her a wide grin. “Maa!” He waved one hand, narrowly avoiding clipping Erik in the head with a stone.
Antonia said a quick prayer of thanksgiving that her youngest had returned to his usual cheerful self. She settled Camilla in her arms and glanced at Henri, wishing the change would be as easy for him.
“The springhouse.” With his free arm, Erik waved toward a small stone house on their left. The building was about the size of the chicken coop and had a white door. Instead of a window, a square of metal vents allowed air to flow in and out. A small stream of water trickled out of the side and through the cow pasture. “That spring is the reason I chose this land. I knew I needed cold storage for my dairy products and meat, as well as fresh water for the livestock.”
They didn’t stop to view the springhouse, instead the group headed directly toward the barn and through the open door. Once inside, Erik set down Jacques.
The boy plopped on his bottom and banged his rocks together. “Ba. Baa!”
With the soaring ceiling, the barn looked bigger than the church in Sweetwater Springs. The smell of hay from the hayloft filled the room. Aside from the mules, Antonia didn’t know much about livestock, nor had she been in many barns. But this one seemed well kept, with several empty stalls big enough to hold six cows each.
Even the tools lining one wall hung in a straight line, and the aisle was swept clean of debris. The place was as different as could be from the small shed that had housed their mules.
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