Nilda’s fingers twitched to draw such a picture so she could send it to her mother. She’d often decorated her letters with tiny drawings of leaves, flowers—things she saw around her. But she’d never had the wealth of natural beauty that she had here. She’d smoothed the wrapping paper from the packages so carefully—if she had a flat iron, they would be even smoother. As the skies opened and the rain came down in slanting torrents, she sat Eloise down at the table with a glass of milk and a buttered slice of bread with a bit of sugar sprinkled on it. She found the hoarded pencil and began to draw. If only she could catch the beatific expression of the little girl adoring the rain.
Sometime later she looked up to see Eloise asleep in one of the big chairs. Uff da, what kind of mother am I that I sit here drawing when my child needs to be in bed? Only when she stood and felt her knees creak in protest did she realize how long she’d been sitting. Looking down, she could only smile. One would have to be blind not to recognize Eloise’s face drawn on the paper on the table.
It had been so long since she’d drawn anything. Nilda flexed her fingers and stared at her hands. What was it that let her re-create what she had seen? Her mor said it was a gift from God. Looking at the drawing, she could even hear the humming that Eloise sang when she was happy—as she’d been in the rain. But there was no way for her mother to hear that funny little song.
The rain continued to thunder on the roof, the darkness giving her no hint of the time. Did she dare sit down again and write to her mother? Something made her think she must not be caught drawing and writing. After all, she was hired to cook and clean, neither of which was finished for the day. Gingerbread would be good for supper, with a vanilla sauce. The men must be working on the machinery or something in the barn. With rain on the roof drowning out every other sound, she felt tucked into her own little world, safe from the onslaughts of weather, of intrusion, of the need for hurry. She inserted two pieces of wood into the stove, settled the lid, and pulled the coffeepot to the front. While it heated, she took out the bowl and pan for making gingerbread. Good thing she had included some spices on her list the other day, though a new list was growing more quickly than Mr. Peterson would likely appreciate.
While she cracked the eggs into the bowl, she thought about the man who had brought her out here. To say he was a man of few words was an exaggeration. Or was he like that only in the house? She’d heard the two men talking while they worked outside on the fence. Had she done something to cause a silence around her? She thought back to other men in her life, those in the families she’d worked for, their guests. Most of them had few words to say because she was either in the kitchen or serving, and one did not talk to the servants while entertaining.
She drew the line at thinking of that one man, the man whose careless actions changed her life. That part of her past was closed behind a door so solid it could not be moved, secured with padlocks whose keys she had thrown away.
She caught herself humming the same tune that Eloise had been singing in the rain. It was so familiar. If only she could remember where she learned it.
Thank You, Lord, for the rain to water my garden. I wish I’d had more of it planted, but now when the sun comes out, it should sprout up almost overnight. The thought of having her own garden released something deep inside her. Showing Eloise how to plant the seeds and cover them with dirt was the same thing her own mother had done with her. If only she’d had seeds for some flowers. Sweet peas and marigolds. She hadn’t dared to put such triviality on the list for Mr. Peterson, but next year, if she was still here, she would take some of her own money and buy flower seeds. Somewhere she’d find a start for a rosebush. Surely whenever she got to meet other women, they would share their cuttings with her. When she had time, she would dig up a plot on the south side of the house for her flowers.
She added more wood to the fire, opened the oven door to feel if it was hot enough, and slid the pan of gingerbread in to bake. It was nearly time to milk the cow and gather the eggs.
That evening, when she served huge squares of gingerbread with vanilla sauce, Mr. Peterson actually smiled. It wasn’t the kind of smile that caused creases in his cheeks, but it did more than just bare his teeth; it gave life to his eyes.
“Tusen takk.” A thousand thanks. Now that was something to remember, along with a smile. Perhaps there was a real person lurking in that hard-working body after all. At least she now knew something that would bring him pleasure—gingerbread.
Sunday rolled around again, and there was no mention of church. After the men headed out to work, Nilda left the breakfast dishes soaking in the pan and brought her Bible out of the bedroom. “Come, Eloise, lets read a story.”
Eloise left her place on the stoop and came to stand by her mother. “Story? I like stories.”
“Yes, from the Bible.” Grateful she’d finally gotten the big chair scrubbed and oiled, she settled the two of them in it and leaned back with a sigh. How nice it would be to have a chair outside, even if she rarely had time to sit down in it. Perhaps she’d mention that one of these days.
“Lets pray first.” She waited while Eloise folded her hands together; getting all the fingers laced in the right places sometimes took extra time. “Father in heaven, thank You for this day, for this home and house, for the people who live here. Thank You for Eloise, that she is healthier than she ever has been, for all the good food, fresh air, and sunshine, just what the doctor ordered. Thank You for Your Word. Amen.”
Eloise echoed with her own, “Amen.”
Nilda turned to the book of Matthew in the New Testament and read about Jesus welcoming the children into His arms. After reading the verses, she closed her eyes. “Just think, if you got to meet Jesus, and He took your hand or held you in His lap, just like I am. He’d put His arms around you and maybe tell you a story.” As she spoke the words, she put her arms around her little one and started to sing, “Jesus loves me, this I know…”
“Sing more.”
“You sing with me. Jesus loves me…” Together they strung the words into a necklace of peace. “Now, again. Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.” Nilda finished the verse. “Yes, Jesus loves me, yes, Jesus loves me, yes, Jesus loves me, the Bible tells me so.”
“More, Ma.”
They sang it again, then Eloise scooted off her lap. “Potty.”
From the sublime to the daily. Thank You, Father, that You love me and my daughter and these men I take care of. Nilda smiled down as Eloise put her hand in her mother’s, and they walked out into the sunlight. At least she was getting back in the habit of Sundays. Now to convince Mr. Peterson.
“Ma, come see,” Eloise called a few days later.
“Where are you?”
“In garden.”
Nilda wiped her hands on her apron and strolled out the door. “What is it?”
“Here.”
When Nilda rounded the corner of the house, she smiled at the sight of a barefooted Eloise, squatting down, her bottom nearly on the ground. She was pointing at a bean sprout that had broken through the soil. “See?”
“I see. Come here.”
Eloise stood and joined her mother.
“See, the whole row, all those are beans you planted.” Green plants looked like huge rounded staples driven into the dirt, ready to pop their first leaves up and reach for the sun.
“My beans?” Eloise looked up at her mother.
Nilda scooped her daughter up in her arms and kissed her rosy cheeks. Never had her child looked so healthy and full of life.
She stared over toward the trees along the riverbank. This house needed some shade trees to keep it cool. Two rabbits Hank had brought in were baking in the oven, bread was rising, and dinner was several hours away. Mr. Peterson and the team were mowing the hay field, so now was as good a time as any.
“Come with me.” She set Eloise down, took her hand, and headed for the machine shed where the garden tools were stored. She took a shovel down from t
he rack on the wall, then stepped into the barn for a gunnysack and a scoop of oats to throw to the chickens— Eloise loved to have all the hens come running and cluck about her feet, scratching in the dirt to find every last grain.
“Look, Ma.” Eloise pointed to a burnished red chicken lying in a small hollow, fluffing her feathers and wings, raising a small cloud of dust around her.
“She’s taking a bath.”
“In dirt?”
“Yes, she wouldn’t like a bath in water. Here.” She held the scoop down so Eloise could take out a handful. “Call them.”
“Chick, chick, chickens.” Eloise tossed the grain through the wire fence as she called. The hens came running, some with wings spread to speed them ahead of the others. The big red rooster with glorious tail feathers of dark brown and black pushed out his breast and crowed a mighty “cock-a-doodle-do” before strutting over to join the pecking hens, all the while keeping a beady eye on Nilda and Eloise.
Eloise finished throwing the grain and grinned up at her mother. “Will we get eggs?”
“No, we’ll do that later. Right now we have something special to do.”
“What is it?”
“We’re going to dig two holes.”
“I like to dig.” Eloise understood dig. She’d taken a spoon from the house and dug holes in the garden, as if the trenches her mother dug with the hoe were not sufficient.
Once she’d dug two holes between the house and the road, Nilda wiped the sweat from her forehead and neck, then took her daughter’s hand and headed for the riverbank. Even though the sand was softer than the dirt around the house, the cottonwood saplings took effort to dig up because she needed to make sure she got enough roots. Perspiration dripped from her forehead, demanding she repeatedly wipe it dry with her apron. When would she find the time to sew sunbonnets?
As each sapling came loose from the earth, she stuck it in the gunnysack, wishing she’d thought to come out and water the ones she wanted so more soil would cling to the roots. On the way back she picked up a dried cow pie and put that in the sack also.
“Stinky,” Eloise announced.
“Good fertilizer. It will help our trees grow.” Back at the house, she knelt on the ground to plant her trees, first breaking the cow pie into smaller pieces and laying the pieces in the bottom of each hole. She set a sapling in the first hole, held it upright with one hand, and shoveled dirt into the hole with the other. “Here, you can help me.” Together mother and daughter pushed and patted the dirt into the hole around the tree trunk, leaving enough space at the top of the hole for water.
“Baby tree.”
“That it is.”
“Ooh.”
Nilda turned to look over her shoulder at her daughter’s sigh of delight. Three cows and their calves stood in a row, watching them at work. Were they dangerous? Should she jump up and shoo them away? Was it better to remain still and not frighten them?
“Pretty.”
They were pretty, with the sun glinting on their red coats. One of the white-faced calves took a step forward, watching Eloise. Did offspring of one species recognize the children of another? The thought gave her pause. What a drawing that would make, Eloise and the calf, staring at each other like that. She stood slowly, and the cows backed away.
Two weeks ago her daughter would have hidden behind her mother’s skirts at the sight of the big animals. And here she stood, so brave, so curious.
Nilda debated. Plant the other tree or shoo the cattle away? Daisy was taming with the attention; would these do the same?
The calf took a step closer. Eloise did the same.
“Come, child, let’s plant the other tree.”
When she dug in the gunnysack for the other sapling, the cows backed up again, and when one started up the road, the others turned and followed, the curious calf the last to leave.
Eloise took three steps after the calf before her mother realized what she was doing. “No, you stay here. Those cows are big, you could get hurt. Here, hold the little tree.”
Eloise did as she was told, but when Nilda glanced up from pushing the dirt down around the tree roots, her daughter was eying the ambling cows.
Nilda picked up two buckets, and they headed for the pump. When she’d poured a bucket of water into the holes, she set the buckets back under the wash bench and leaned the shovel against the house. Perhaps tomorrow she could dig another hole nearer the southern side of the house.
“Who left the shovel here?” Mr. Peterson growled when the men came in for dinner.
“I did. I’ll put it back.” Nilda set the platter on the table. “But I had to finish cooking dinner.”
“Leaving tools out like that is when they get lost or broken.” The tone of his voice sent Eloise scampering to hide behind her mothers skirt.
“I’m sorry, I won’t do it again.” She squared her shoulders. I’m not a child to be scolded. She set the bowl of baked beans down with a little more force than necessary. Uff da. Men.
“Are you hurt?” Ragni’s heart thundered so loud she could hardly hear his answer.
“I’ll live. My foot just fell through. Take my hand so you don’t slip.”
Ragni looked to the proffered hand. Since attempting to scoot down to the edge of the roof had gotten her in all this trouble, perhaps doing as he suggested…or was it more than a suggestion? The tone sounded closer to an order. She never had taken orders well. But then I’ve never been stuck, literally, on a roof before.
When she threw caution over the roof peak and glanced at him standing downslope from her, she saw a face now bordering on stern that looked to be losing patience. Sometimes accepting a hand was the better part of valor. She reached out and connected—pure electricity. She might as well have grabbed a lightning bolt.
Did he feel it too? Looking in his eyes might tell her, but she didn’t dare look at him again. Instead, she hung on and allowed him to pull her to her feet. Only a slight ripping noise told her that her pants had suffered on the aging shakes. At least there was no stinging from a cut.
Taking baby steps and making sure each one was firmly planted, she followed him back to the stepladder. But when he climbed down and looked to see why she wasn’t following him, she balked. Standing right below her, he’d know sooner than she did how bad the rip was. “I’m coming.”
“Just sit down and…”
“That’s what got me in trouble last time.”
His eyebrows headed into his hatband. Gritting his teeth erased his smile lines.
“Just let me do it in my own time, and I’ll be fine. Hang on to the stepladder, Erika. Please.” She added that as an afterthought.
But Paul beat Erika to it. With a groan of dismay, Ragni sat down with one foot on the top of the ladder.
“I could go home and get a real ladder. Much safer than this thing.”
“No, I’m coming.” She turned and found the first step with her foot. A warm hand circled her ankle, planting her solidly. Once she had both feet on the ladder, she took four steps to the ground. Good, solid, safe, wonderful ground. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He bent down to pull up his pant leg.
“Are you all right?” Erika asked her aunt.
“All but my pride.” Ragni turned so Erika could see the back of her. “How bad is the rip?”
Erika held her fingers several inches apart. “Not bad.”
Ragni glanced over to see Paul staring up at the hole where his foot had gone through. Luckily some shingles and sheeting were all that was broken. “I’m sorry,” she said.
He waved a hand at her, hopefully signifying, “Nothing to worry about.”
But she saw the scrape on his shin. “We have antiseptic in the car.”
“Wasn’t the first scrape I’ve had, and most likely won’t be the last. I’ll go get some tarp to cover that with.” Paul pointed toward the roof. “By the looks of those clouds, we could be in for a storm.”
“Guess we’ll find out where t
he other leaks are too.”
His tight jaw implied that he was less than pleased.
“I’m glad you didn’t break anything.”
“Other than the roof, you mean?” He dusted off his pant leg and slid it over the top of his boot. “I knew that part was rotten too.” He glared up at the gaping hole.
The fact that he hadn’t sworn made an impression on her. She certainly felt like swearing. A few good old Anglo-Saxon phrases might lighten the guilt she felt. If she’d not gotten caught on the nail… Actually if she’d stayed off the roof like he’d warned—either way she was to blame.
He headed for his truck. “Erika, are you afraid of heights too?”
“Nope.”
“Good. Be right back.”
As soon as the truck headed up the road, Ragni headed into the tent to change her shorts. She could have slid right off that roof and broken an arm or a leg or worse landing on the ground. Then how would Erika have managed?
Since the coming storm was already cooling the air, she opted for jeans and a sleeveless denim shirt. With her feet halfway in the legs, she hollered, “Hey, Erika?”
“Here.”
“Let’s get our bedding into the cabin and this tent down so we don’t have to dry it out. We can sleep in there now that the main area is cleaned up.”
“We just put the tent back up.” Erika’s voice sounded resigned. “What about the motel?”
“We’ll be fine.” Ragni unzipped the entrance and crawled out so she could zip her pants. “Getting stuck up there like that was purely stupid.”
“Yep.”
“You don’t have to agree with me.” She took a fake swing at her niece.
Erika dodged and grabbed one of the air mattresses and sleeping bags, along with her own duffel. “At least the car doesn’t leak.”
They’d just finished dismantling the tent and stuffing it back in its bag when they heard the truck returning. The western clouds had darkened even more in those few minutes, and the wind now tossed the tops of the cottonwood trees.
The Brushstroke Legacy Page 20