Healing Montana Sky

by Debra Holland

  Ashamed, Antonia looked into her teacup, seeing the dregs of the leaves plastering the sides and bottom. “We have no other clothes.”

  “So I suspected. I’m sure you’re used. . .as we are. . .to making do. Why, for Christmas, I made over an old silk dress from when I was young for my oldest daughter Sally. Served as her wedding dress as well.”

  Not sure where this conversation was headed, Antonia placed her teacup on the saucer.

  Henrietta took a deep breath. “Well, I think there must be something we can do to alter Daisy’s wardrobe to fit you.” She wrinkled her nose. “Even if the colors that suited her won’t show you in the best light.”

  Antonia didn’t care about colors. Just having some work clothes so she wouldn’t ruin her gold dress was enough for her.

  “Now, I know for a fact Daisy had leftover material from one of her skirts, for she planned to make the baby—if it was a girl—some dresses from it. If we let out the side seams and attach that cloth to the hem—put some braid or tatting over the join. . . . You’ll still have to buy a shirtwaist, though. Or the material to make one.”

  Henrietta made the idea of making over Daisy’s skirt sound easy, and her neighbor might be right. Hemming and such, Antonia could do. But making a pattern and sewing a shirtwaist was beyond her experience.

  “The two dresses she wore during her pregnancy will be plenty wide. Hopefully, there’s enough at the shoulder seams to let them out. If we cut the sides, bringing in the waist, then we can piece those strips to the bottom. Course, they might still be a little short. But for house dresses, they should do the trick.”

  “Clever to think of such.”

  “Practical, dearie,” Henrietta corrected. “With three daughters and little money for clothing, I’ve learned to make do. I’ve another idea. Daisy was not the only small woman in Sweetwater Springs. Maybe you can sell or trade her clothing to another woman in exchange for money or material. Or maybe even to Mrs. Cobb at the mercantile, although you won’t get as good of a price from her.”

  Antonia sat back in her chair. “I never be thinkin’ of such a solution.”

  Henrietta beamed. “You let me handle the matter. The next time I’m at church, I’ll approach some of the women I think might be interested.” She pursed her mouth for a tad of time. “Mrs. Gordon, the schoolteacher, comes to mind. But then again, she seems to prefer wearing gray or green.”

  “But would Erik mind?”

  Henrietta shrugged. “I doubt he’ll care if you use the dresses, although he might mind someone else doing so. If that’s the case, then we won’t do it.” She glanced out the window. “There’s still time for me to help you get started on altering one.

  Antonia gazed at her. “Why, you be like a whirlwind.”

  Henrietta laughed and made a twirling motion with her forefinger. “This fills me with energy. I was sick for far too long, and I’ve missed my daughter so. Sally married at New Year’s and moved to the Thompson ranch. . . . I must confess to moping, although I’ve tried to hide my low spirits from my family. So this project is perking me right up.”

  This is what it’s like to have neighbors. A warm feeling settled in her stomach. The idea that she might be aiding Henrietta as much as the woman was helping her appealed to Antonia.

  Her neighbor waved toward the bundle she’d left on the chair. “I brought my son Charlie’s old clothes from when he was your boy’s age. Charlie’s thirteen now.”

  Such generosity. Antonia gaped at the woman before catching herself and offering her thanks.

  Shaking her head, Henrietta waved away her appreciation. “Might as well put them to good use. They’ve sat useless in a box for too many years.”

  “Henri can be wearin’ them to school and church.”

  “You probably wonder why I’ve held onto Charlie’s clothes for so long, instead of doing something useful with them.” Henrietta glanced away, swallowed and looked back. “We had another son, who I thought would grow into them, but Paddy didn’t live past his fifth birthday, and then I’d hoped we might have another boy. But Paddy was the last. . .”

  “I be sorry,” Antonia said, knowing the pain of losing a child aches in a mother’s heart for all her lifelong days.

  Her neighbor sniffed and pulled out her handkerchief again, blowing her nose. “This is certainly a day for sorrow, isn’t it?” She tucked her handkerchief back into her cuff. “Mourning is such an odd experience—crying one moment, laughing the next, and then crying again. Ah, lass, the changes life brings.”

  “My boy starts school tomorrow.” Antonia heard the uncertainty in her voice as she spoke of the change to come in her life. “I want him to go, yet—”

  “You don’t know if you can let him out of your sight for so long.” Henrietta finished Antonia’s sentence for her. “Why, I had the hardest time sending Sally off to school on her first day.” She smiled, as if remembering. “A milestone, it is, but I cried, nevertheless.”

  Antonia didn’t know what a milestone was, but she wasn’t about to interrupt and ask.

  “Our young children stay with us all day, every day, unless they are with their father for a while. We are rarely parted from them. Then, all of a sudden, we send them off to town for most of the week. I certainly missed Sally. Worried about her. I had an easier time with Charlie, because I knew what to expect. Also I didn’t have to fret because I knew Sally would take care of him. But I found letting go of my twins was hard, for I was all alone without my children at home. Then, saints be praised, I came to enjoy doing my work without them underfoot. Sure and I do like having a little time for myself.”

  “Did Sally walk to school and back by herself?”

  “The first three days, I insisted her father take her behind him on the mule and go and pick her up, too. But after that, she walked. Course, town isn’t as far for us as it is for you.”

  “It still be a far piece. And I fret about him being alone. . . .”

  “Why, he won’t be alone, Antonia!” Henrietta exclaimed. “Or least not longer than from here to our place. Charlie and my twins will walk with him.”

  Gratitude rushed through her. In that moment, Antonia knew she’d been wrong to believe nothing the O’Donnells could offer would diminish her family’s pain. She’d never known how grief shared, assistance offered, could bring comfort. How could I be knowin’? I never had no neighbors afore. Visitin’ the tribe wasn’t the same as havin’ someone be livin’ close.

  With a sense of wonder, Antonia glimpsed a whole new future spreading out in front of her, the possibilities as vast as the blue sky over the prairie—living as part of a close-knit community. On the day of her arrival in Sweetwater Springs, she’d been too numb, too frightened, to fully appreciate what the Nortons, Camerons, and Carters had done for her—for all of them. Now she could see how much their help had aided her—probably Erik as well.

  With sudden longing she wished Jean-Claude could be here with her. We be experiencin’ this together.

  But even as Antonia thought the words, she realized such a future could never have been. Her husband had thrived in the solitude of the wilderness—in exploring new territory and doing for himself. For the last couple of years, he’d chafed at living so long in one place, even as he’d recognized the need to do so. But he’d intended to uproot the family once the winter had passed.

  With sadness, she remembered how a few weeks before his death they’d argued about leaving. She’d longed for roots and an education for her children, but Jean-Claude wanted new hunting grounds, planning to move even farther away from Sweetwater Springs. And I would have gone along with him.

  If Jean-Claude had lived, I never be findin’ this kind of settled life, never realized what I be missin’ or the cost to my children.

  Antonia felt a pang of betrayal to think of her husband with complaint. . .to wonder if she’d have become dissatisfied with their way of life or even worse, with her husband. She thought of the dream she’d woken from this morning,
of Jean-Claude in the meadow. How she’d thrown herself into his arms. Be it really only a few days ago?

  Now, if Jean-Claude appeared, alive and well, and held out a hand, would I go to him? The thought that she might reject her beloved husband made Antonia’s heart ache.

  The next morning as dawn was breaking, Erik drove the wagon to town. He was tired from not sleeping well, but he was determined to start his stepson at school.

  Henri huddled next to him, dressed in Charlie’s clothes and too-big cap, which tipped low on his forehead. He held Erik’s old slate in his gloved hands.

  This early, the air was chilly, and one of Antonia’s bearskins was spread over them—far more efficient for keeping warm than a woolen blanket. In the back, Erik had piled straw to support the cans of milk—though they often clanked together—and a basket of eggs for the mercantile, and Henri’s lunch pail, as well as to provide some cushioning for the O’Donnell children they’d be picking up this morning. He’d tucked a blanket back there for them as well.

  The pale rays of sunrise lightened the purple dawn shadows. The dew lay heavily on the prairie, sending up the scent of green grass and shy wildflowers. A wren almost hidden in a thicket broke off its song as they passed.

  So far neither man nor boy had uttered a word.

  Henri slumped in his seat, his body speaking of his utter dejection at the prospect of attending school.

  With each creak of the wagon wheels, Erik grew guiltier. He kept arguing with himself that he was doing the right thing in taking Henri to school today. The boy was already far behind others his age, and only a few months were left in the term before summer vacation. Plus, attending school would go a far ways to helping Henri adjust to his new life.

  But still, like a flea-bitten dog chasing its tail, Erik’s doubts skittered around his mind. After all, the boy had just lost his Pa and been uprooted from all he knew. Should I have taken him away from his mother so soon?

  From time to time, Erik eyed Henri, feeling prompted to impart some sage advice. But, truth be told, he didn’t know what he could say to make the first day of school easier for the child. Once he makes friends, everything will be different.

  But will such a quiet boy be able to do so?

  A man with three brothers should know tips for teaching a boy how to make friends. The best Erik could come up with was to pick a fight. He imagined telling Henri, “You pummel each other and roll around in the dirt. You’ll forget what caused the argument in the first place and become the best of friends.” After all, that’s how he’d acquired his childhood sidekick, Tom.

  No, that isn’t the best advice.

  When Erik was Henri’s age, he had a gang of friends, which included his brothers. They didn’t have much playtime—just before and after school and during recess—or sometimes when chores were done. He remembered sailing bark boats on the pond, games of tag, hide-and-seek, or cowboys and Indians. They teased and argued and played tricks on one another.

  Happy memories. Thinking about his childhood made Erik’s lips curve, yet sadness weighed heavy in his belly. He’d left his gang and his family behind when he’d come to Montana, determined to homestead his own land, to forge his success. Once Daisy had arrived, he hadn’t given much thought to his family and friends. Farmwork kept him too busy and tired to mull over old memories and wonder what everyone was up to now.

  Sometimes, letters from his mother mentioned the news of his friends. Except for Tom who’d joined the army, everyone else had settled nearby, some on their parents’ farms.

  When Erik had thought of his old friends, he nurtured a vision of a triumphant return home to brag—in a modest way—about his life. Daisy and their passel of children would travel with him—a goal his wife shared. She, too, looked forward to flaunting their success before their hometown. He’d just wanted to visit with the people he cared about.

  Abruptly, Erik realized he had to write to his parents about Daisy’s death and that they now had a new granddaughter and a new daughter-in-law. But even worse, he had to write to Daisy’s parents.

  Remorse filled him, thinking of their pain and grief when they learned of the loss of their treasured only daughter. They’d never forgiven Erik for leaving Indiana in the first place, because they hadn’t wanted Daisy to follow him.

  When she became pregnant, his wife had wanted to return home until after the baby was born. Her parents had money and a servant girl for the house. Daisy wouldn’t have to do any chores and would be cossetted through her whole pregnancy.

  Erik hadn’t let her go, insisting he would take care of her and that he wanted to be there when his baby came into the world. Secretly, he feared she might not return after she’d become reacquainted with the relative luxury of her parent’s home. He’d known she’d sometimes found the work of a farm wife more than she could—or wanted to—handle, and he’d taken on as many of her duties as he could manage.

  Doubtless her family would blame him for her death—not that they’d be wrong.

  With dawning horror, Erik realized that if he hadn’t married Antonia, he would have been faced with Daisy’s formidable mother arriving to take care of Camilla. Maybe she’d even force him to let her take the child back with her to Indiana. When I write to them tonight, I need to stress that Antonia is nursing Camilla, and the baby is thriving in her care.

  In the distance, the O’Donnell farm grew bigger. Like his place, the house was set well back from the road, and he saw the three children trudging down the mule track to meet him. They’d probably reach the road before he arrived, but Erik had arranged with Henrietta for them to keep on walking toward town. He’d pick them up whenever he caught up with them.

  The memory of his encounter with Henrietta O’Donnell yesterday banished any lingering panic about his in-laws. He’d walked in on Antonia and Henrietta engrossed in altering one of Daisy’s dresses, which they’d spread out on the table.

  After his initial surprise, Erik had accepted his neighbor’s condolences and agreed with her idea of making over some of Daisy’s clothes for his new wife. He’d put his foot down, though, on the idea of bartering clothing. He didn’t need to unexpectedly come face-to-face with a woman wearing one of Daisy’s dresses. Perish the thought!

  After the women were through, he’d sent Henrietta home with some hens to replace the ones that had disappeared—hopefully, not stolen by Indians—and in appreciation for her help with his new wife’s and stepson’s wardrobes. He’d also filled her basket with some eggs and one of the Nortons’ jam jars.

  Truth be told, he was relieved Henrietta had accepted Antonia, and the two looked to be starting a firm friendship. His new wife needed the support and guidance of other women, and he was glad to see his neighbor looking in far better health than Henrietta had been since she took ill.

  When the wagon reached the children, Erik pulled up, setting the brake.

  The O’Donnell siblings were dressed warmly in shabby coats, scarves, hats, and gloves, and carried their books and slates.

  “Good morning, Charlie, girls.” Erik didn’t say the twins’ names because he could never tell the two apart. The identical ten-year-olds had their father’s navy-blue eyes and dark hair, as did thirteen-year-old Charlie and Sally, their older sister who’d gotten married.

  “Hello, Mr. Muth.” Charlie grinned. “Thanks for the ride.” He gave Henri a short salute. “Howdy, Henri.”

  The boy mumbled a hello.

  “You probably know I’m Charlie.” He tugged on the nearest girl’s braid, lifting the end to show the blue ribbon. “This is Idelle. Her color is blue.”

  Idelle grimaced and elbowed him.

  With a cheeky grin, Charlie released her and pointed at the other girl. “Isleen has the green ribbons. Don’t worry. I won’t let them switch colors on you. We all promised Ma we’d be friendlylike.”

  Knowing Charlie was a talker, Erik cut short the introductions. “Into the back you all go. And cover yourselves with the blanket.”


  “A ride under a blanket instead of a long, cold walk? Boy, are we lucky.” Charlie flashed him a grin and set his schoolbooks over the side of the wagon. The girls did the same with theirs.

  Once the children had clambered aboard, Erik released the brake. Then he hesitated. “Would you like to ride in the back?” he asked Henri.

  The boy shook his head.

  Maybe he will tomorrow. Erik flicked the reins, and the horses started up. They traveled the rest of the way to Sweetwater Springs listening to Charlie’s constant chatter.

  When they reached the town, they drove past children walking or riding to school. From the back of the wagon, Charlie called out greetings.

  Henri shrank down under the fur as if he wanted to hide, although his gaze darted around, taking in the sights of the town.

  The boy had probably been overwhelmed when he’d arrived here after his father’s death and hadn’t noticed much.

  Even this early, men were hard at work on a nearby office building and farther down the street on the banker’s new hotel going up near the railroad station. A breeze blew the smell of sawdust their way, and the sounds of sawing and hammering rang through the air.

  Erik pulled up before the school, set the brake, and tied off the reins, taking the fur off of them.

  Charlie launched himself over the side, grabbed his things, and called, “See you later, Henri,” and tore up the steps of the school.

  “Here you are, Henri.” Erik tried to make his tone hearty but suspected he fell flat. After checking to make sure the O’Donnell twins were out of the back and headed toward the school steps, he walked around the wagon to escort Henri to meet the teacher. They’d arrived early enough that she hadn’t yet appeared on the steps to ring the bell.