Healing Montana Sky

by Debra Holland

  Antonia held Camilla in her arms, gently rocking the baby. “Yesterday’s cuttin’ be lost,” she lamented, thinking of all the work they’d done to make more hay. She glanced at Erik, wondering if he was upset.

  His hair was still damp from driving the cows into the barn to be milked. “We had an unusually long sunny spell. I didn’t expect even two days’ worth, so we’re ahead.”

  She raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “My outlook has changed, Antonia. Last year at this time, I’d have bemoaned the ruined hay.” He shrugged. “Now I know what real loss is. So I’m seeing things differently. I’m focusing on being grateful to have hay for the livestock, and I have even more than I’d originally thought I could manage because you helped.”

  She pursed her lips, struck by the truth of his words.

  Jacques banged on the floor with his spoons.

  Antonia glanced at her youngest son.

  With a wide smile, Jacques tapped again, apparently delighted at using the floor for a drum.

  “I tell you, wife.” Erik’s voice changed from serious to playful. “I have a powerful hankering for fried chicken. Would you mind cooking up one for Sunday dinner tonight?”

  “No, I be not mindin’.” The agreement slipped out before Antonia realized she did, indeed, mind. She’d grown fond of the chickens and didn’t want to serve any of them up for a meal.

  “And, would you mind. . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Mind what?” she prompted.

  “Well, Daisy always made my favorite kind of fried-chicken, even better than Ma’s—not that I ever admitted that to my mother on pain of being disowned.”

  Disowned?

  “The recipe is in her box, there.” He waved toward the shelf that held the tin box with the red flowers on the lid. “Daisy was particular about keeping everything written down. Her ma’s and grandma’s recipes are in there, too.”

  Antonia’s stomach chilled. Now be the time to tell him I cain’t read. Since they’d arrived at such accord, she didn’t want to do anything to damage their growing intimacy. She’d seen how Erik prized book learning. He’ll be ashamed of me.

  “Would you try using her recipe? I promise I won’t compare.”

  “And how could you not?” Antonia said tartly.

  His expression fell. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have asked,” he said in a deadened voice. “You just fry the chicken your own way.” Erik turned back to the window. The drizzle has stopped. “I think we can go to church after all.” He reached for his coat. “I’ll go hitch up the horses and ready the wagon.”

  Antonia regretted her sharp response. But she didn’t know how to explain. “Breakfast be waitin’ for you. I’ll fry some ham and eggs, quick like.”

  He frowned. “If we’re going to town, then we probably don’t have time. Can you make something for us to eat on the way?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then, I’ll get the milk and butter from the springhouse,” he said, his tone back to normal. “And if you’ve eggs to spare for the mercantile, we’ll take them, too. The Cobbs only open up the store for an hour after the service, but they’ll still let me drop off everything beforehand.”

  “I have plenty of eggs.”

  “The more to sell then.” He left the house.

  Antonia made a scooting motion to Henri, who’d lain and watched them from his bed of furs. “School clothes, son. Be gittin’ on with you now.”

  Henri’s mouth pulled down. He was slow to slide out from the covering.

  She shifted Camilla to one arm and walked over to ruffle his hair. “Natalia probably be there. You haven’t seen her for three days.”

  The mention of meeting up with the older girl he idolized banished the sullen expression from Henri’s face. Once on his feet, he hurried to the bedroom to change his clothes.

  Antonia shook her head at her son, grateful he’d taken such a liking to the girl who was helping teach him. Far better for him to be wanting to go to church and school than for me to be a pushin’ him out the door.

  Now, who will be pushin’ me out the door?

  Camilla wiggled.

  “You want to be gittin’ down, do you?” Antonia dropped a kiss on her daughter’s head, her lips brushing the fluffy hair, softer than the finest corn silk. “Sweet babe,” she crooned.

  Camilla gurgled a noise of pleasure and waved a hand, promptly smacking Antonia’s chin.

  She grabbed the baby’s hand. “You be dangerous, little one.” She kissed Camilla’s fingers and laid the baby on her back next to Jacques, propping her up a bit with some folds of the fur.

  The baby waved her spoon and kicked both feet, seeming just as delighted in her makeshift toy as Jacques was with his.

  Antonia boiled eggs and sliced ham, wishing she had bread for they’d used up all of her last baking. Slowly, she walked to the bedroom, feeling no desire to change out of her comfortable clothes, go to town, and attend an unfamiliar church service with people she didn’t know.

  I can’t avoid Sweetwater Springs for the rest of my life. But oh, how she wanted to. I’m doing this for Henri and Jacques. She glanced at Jacques and Camilla. For my family, so we be part of this community. The thought gave her strength. She would do anything for her children—indeed, had already done so.

  You be knowin’ some good people. Antonia thought of the Nortons, the Camerons, and the Carters, and realized she’d like to see them again. Maybe goin’ to church be not so bad.

  She stripped off her Indian garb and opened a bureau drawer, shoving aside the corset to reach her chemise, then had a sudden unpleasant thought. I’ve regained the weight I’d lost. I might have to wear the corset to fit into the dress!

  Antonia let out a French curse she’d learned from Jean-Claude. Realizing what she’d said, she clapped a hand over her mouth. Feeling guilty, she lowered her hand and peeked out the door to see if her sons had heard her.

  The boys sat across from each other, playing a game with Jacques’s spoons.

  Camilla lay next to them, her head turned to watch her brothers.

  Good, they didn’t hear me. Antonia quickly donned her undergarments, slid the dress over her head, and buttoned it. With relief, she realized the waist fit her perfectly. She glared at the corset and slammed the drawer shut. I be spared the ordeal of wearing that contraption, she thought, using some of the big words she’d learned from Erik. She made a mental note to try to speak properly while in town.

  I’ll have to be watchin’ every word that comes out of my mouth. Antonia caught herself. I’ll have to watch every word, she amended.

  Erik strode into the house. “The wagon’s in front,” he called a moment before he appeared in the doorway of the bedroom. “I’ve packed up the food. There’s straw in the wagon, and I’ve folded your bearskin and laid it across the seat.” He stopped talking and gazed at her. “I like how that dress makes your eyes shine like gold.”

  Antonia could feel heat creeping into her cheeks. Jean-Claude had been fond of giving her extravagant compliments, most of which she’d laugh at and dismiss. But something about Erik’s quiet words and the admiration in his eyes made her heart flutter.

  With his forefinger, he tapped the side of his chin. “You’ve left your braid down.”

  Embarrassment made her good feelings flee, and Antonia wished she could follow suit. How can I tell him that I’ve never worn my hair any way but loose or plaited, or maybe in two braids like the Indian women?

  She reached over to finger her braid and decided to admit her ignorance. “I don’t know another way.”

  Erik rocked back on his heels as if stumped. Then he shrugged. “I can probably help. I saw Daisy do it often enough.” He walked toward the bureau.

  She moved closer. A white glass chicken sitting on a nest was positioned on top of the drawers near Daisy’s comb and brush, which Antonia now used.

  He lifted the hen. “Daisy kept her hairpins in here.”

  To her surprise, th
e hen separated from the nest, which turned out to be hollow. Antonia tried to hide her astonishment from Erik about not knowing such a thing and moved closer. Inside the nest, she saw a scattering of bent wires shaped like long narrow horseshoes.

  “A hairpin.” He picked one up. “My sister Kirsten once described it as ‘a piece of wire used for the express purpose of stabbing a woman in the head and tormenting her with too-tight hairstyles.’ She complained that wearing her hair up gave her headaches, and when no company was around, she refused to do so, no matter how much our mother scolded.”

  Antonia thought she might like Erik’s sister. She wondered if Kirsten wore corsets at home but figured she couldn’t ask him such a question.

  In the mirror positioned above the chest of drawers, Erik’s gaze met hers. He reached over to finger her braid. “Your hair’s a lot thicker than Daisy’s. You’ll probably need plenty of these.” He laid the hairpin back in the nest. “Tell me if I poke your scalp.” He made a twirling gesture with his finger.

  She turned her back to him.

  He twisted the plait up and over the top, looping the braid around and around. “I like how your hair shines auburn in certain lights.” His fingers brushed the nape of her neck.

  An unexpected shiver trickled down her spine.

  “There,” he said, satisfaction in his tone. “Hold this for me, and don’t let go until I say.”

  Antonia reached up and grasped the mound piled just above her neck.

  One by one, Erik took a hairpin and eased the ends into her hair.

  One went too deep, poking the back of her head, and she winced.

  “Sorry.” He pulled out the hairpin and tried again. “How’s that?”

  “Fine,” she said, not sure that wearing her hair up like this was fine at all.

  “Done.”

  She lowered her hand.

  Erik stepped back and examined his work. “Not bad. The bun’s a little lopsided, but not enough that I think anyone will notice. Well, maybe the people right behind our pew will.”

  Antonia thought a bun was bread. But in remembering back to her childhood, she realized both had a similar shape. She turned her head from side to side. The unaccustomed weight of her hair pulled but didn’t hurt.

  Erik strode over to a stack of three round containers covered with flowered wallpaper, next to the bureau.

  Antonia had never looked inside them.

  “Now for Daisy’s Sunday bonnet.” He lifted the lid of the first one and brought out a blue-gray cloth bonnet with velvet ribbons and flowers of the same color. Holding it up, he glanced from her dress to the hat. “Um.” He shook his head, set the hat on the bed, moved the first box aside, and took off the lid of the second one. “Her summer hat.”

  This one was straw with shiny pink ribbons and pink and white blossoms on the top, like nothing Antonia had ever seen blooming. She imagined Daisy looked pretty wearing it. But I’ll look like a gawky walking flower garden.

  “I don’t know, Antonia,” Erik said in a skeptical tone, waving with his free hand, from her skirt to the hat he held. “Daisy set great store by her hats matching her dresses—or at least not clashing. I remember her nattering at. . .uh, telling me that much. But what do I know about female fashions?”

  This whole business of hats be silly. Antonia thought back to their wedding. Although she hadn’t really paid much attention at the time, Mrs. Cameron and Mrs. Carter had, indeed, worn hats that seemed a similar color to their dresses. Only Mrs. Norton, in her worn blue dress and faded black bonnet, hadn’t matched. That thought gave her hope. Maybe it doesn’t matter after all. Or, at least, not to all women. She pointed at the last box. “What’s in that?”

  “An old one that Daisy refused to wear any longer.”

  He slid the box out from under and pulled off the lid. Inside was another cloth hat. This one had faded to a sage green, and the ends of the ribbons were frayed. With a comical expression of dismay, he glanced between the hats. “Looks like it’s a choice between blue or pink that don’t seem like you at all, or this old thing.”

  In spite of the tension in her stomach, Antonia couldn’t help but smile at the face he made. She reached out to touch the green hat. “If we trim the end of the ribbons, this be not so bad.”

  “All these choices are bad,” he muttered.

  “We be both havin’ the worst kind of bad, so what does a hat matter?”

  Erik shot her an expression of admiration. “You’re right, wife.” He laid the bonnet on the bed, walked over to a shelf, and lifted the lid of the sewing basket. He rummaged around inside before pulling out a tiny pair of scissors. Picking up the end of each ribbon, he carefully cut off the frayed edge. “There.” He extended the hat toward her.

  Antonia took a step, reaching for it. Her toes caught on her hem, pitching her forward.

  As Erik moved to steady her, she did a quick step for balance, causing him to tread on her toes.

  He caught himself, shifting his foot away from hers. “Did I hurt you?” He looked down to check.

  “No.”

  “You’re wearing moccasins, Antonia.” Erik frowned.

  Her stomach clenched.

  “I didn’t realize. I’m so used to seeing you in them. And on the day we bought your dress, I was too stricken to notice you weren’t wearing shoes. You could have been wearing shoes made out of gold, and I still wouldn’t have seen them.”

  Antonia realized he wasn’t criticizing her but himself, and her stomach calmed. “I ain’t needin’ no gold shoes.” She tried to lighten his mood. “Likely they’d be hurtful to walk in.”

  His frown remained.

  She touched his arm. “I’ve managed without.”

  His expression hardened. “After church today, we’ll buy you a hat and shoes. I don’t want people to think I can’t take care of my wife.”

  Why does be matterin’? But she didn’t say so, for it obviously mattered to Erik. He’s plumb picky about it.

  The uncharacteristic frown lingered. His brow furrowed. “Now that I think of it, you need a shawl and coat. You can’t keep wearing that ratty raccoon skin of yours.”

  “Why not? It be warm.”

  “For around here the coat is perfect. But for town. . .” As Erik said the words, a pained expression crossed his face.

  “We can use the money I got from the furs to buy ’em,” she offered, guessing what the problem might be.

  “Absolutely not. I want you to keep that money,” he said in a firm tone. “The milk, butter, and eggs I’ve been delivering have paid off your dress and undergarments. We’ve started building up credit at the store that we can use for these purchases.”

  “Oh. Credit be good.”

  He let out a sigh and rubbed his hand over his head, mussing his hair. “Antonia, after what we’ve been through. . .if something happens to me, I want to know you have money put by. Not that you won’t have the farm and all, as well as everything I’ve saved, which at this point isn’t much.” He pointed in the direction of the barn. “I put everything into that.”

  A movement in the doorway caught her eye. Antonia glanced over to see Henri watching them.

  Her son tilted his head as if studying her, and his eyes looked troubled. “You don’t look like Maman.”

  “I don’t ’spose I do.” She walked over to drop a kiss on his head. “But I still be your maman, and that be never changin’.”

  Erik handed her the bonnet. “Let’s pack up the children and get in the wagon. I’ll hurry and swap out what I’m wearing for my good clothes. We don’t want to be late for church.”

  Antonia turned toward the mirror and set the hat on her head, tying the ribbons under her chin. A stranger stared back at her—not a trapper’s wife in squaw clothes—but one who looked like any of the other women she’d seen in town. Be this really me?

  The woman in the mirror no longer was Jean-Claude Valleau’s Antonia. She was Erik Muth’s Antonia. As much as she wanted to adapt and become like o
ther white women, she grew sad at the thought of losing more of her connection to Jean-Claude.

  The pewter sky had cleared to shades of blue, ranging from eggshell to turquoise to slate, filtered through elongated layers of white and gray clouds. The sight was beautiful enough to make a man stop and stare if he wanted to look like a fool in the middle of Main Street, with all the Sunday traffic—families walking, riders on horses and mules, wagons, buggies, and a few coaches—converging on the church.

  Erik had already delivered his dairy goods to the mercantile, and now for the first time, he walked with his new family through Sweetwater Springs to attend Sunday service. He carried Jacques, who seemed thrilled with his new surroundings and cast charming frog grins at anyone they passed.

  Antonia walked next to him, holding Camilla and looking around with wide-eyed interest. She glanced at him and smiled. “Different today, eh?” she commented.

  “Much better.”

  Henri shadowed his mother’s other side, an uncertain expression on his face.

  The closer Erik came to the building, the more apprehension built inside his chest. Memories overwhelmed him. He and Daisy hadn’t made church service often, usually due to the weather or the press of farmwork. So when they did, the day became more than an opportunity to worship. The Sabbath turned into a social outing where they met friends, shopped for necessities and the occasional treat, and caught up on the latest news of the town and the greater world beyond the borders of Sweetwater Springs.

  Somehow, living isolated on the farm, Erik had managed to make peace with Daisy’s absence. That wasn’t to say he didn’t still have times of grief and acutely missing her. And he didn’t think the guilt would ever leave him. But more and more, his new family—especially his wife—filled his thoughts. His growing relationship with Antonia provided healing, comfort, and even joy, not to mention sensual pleasures—both those they’d already explored and the future ones he’d fantasized about.