Healing Montana Sky (14 page)

Antonia hastened to his side. “Erik, what be wrong?”

“Everything’s wrong!” he snapped. “Starting with the fact that you frightened the bejeezus out of me. Dear Lord, Antonia, when I heard the gunshots, I thought—” His voice hitched. Erik forced himself to steady it. “I thought the worst.”

She looked from the rabbits to him. “I be gittin’ us some breakfast meat.”

“That’s breakfast?” The words came out sharp enough to cut.

She flushed but met his angry gaze. “You don’t be likin’ rabbit stew?”

“Rabbit stew for breakfast? What happened to ham and eggs, pancakes, biscuits and gravy, toast with jam, bacon, sausage, porridge, stewed fruit?” He ran out of all the breakfast items he could think of.

She looked at the ground. “I be not knowin’.”

Her quiet words deflated him. “Forgive me. I’m acting like a jackass.” The apology came out sounding stiff. “You frightened me. I reacted poorly. This is your home now. Everything in it belongs to you as well as me. Why don’t I show you around after breakfast, so you’ll know where everything is?”

She nodded.

Just like that his anger dissipated, and he remembered to feel grateful for her. “When I saw Camilla breathing this morning. . . . She was the most beautiful sight!”

Antonia’s small smile showed her understanding. “With each of my sons when they been new, but especially Henri, I’d check to see him breathe. The relief at each one. . .” She let out an audible breath. “Even more so with Camilla. I be lookin’ keenlike on her four times last night. She took the teat but twice.”

“Thank you for your care of her.” Erik reached out to take the rabbits.

She swung them out of his reach. “No need. “I be doin’ it. You must have plenty of work already.”

Puzzled, Erik studied her. “I do,” he said slowly. “But are you sure?”

“Did I tell you Jean-Claude be a trapper?” She gave him a faint smile and shrugged. “Yesterday be a blur, and I cain’t remember half of what I done said to no one.”

“Me, neither. A few minutes ago, I couldn’t remember what day it was.” Erik pointed to the house. “The meat storage is on the north side. Plenty of hooks for hanging game. Shed attached to it is where you can dress them. You’ll find everything you need.” He glanced at the barn. “I really should be getting back to my chores.”

With the hand that held the rifle, she gestured toward the barn as if urging him in that direction.

Erik walked away from her, his thoughts churning. While he was glad about the lack of danger, he couldn’t get over Antonia’s matter-of-fact attitude about shooting and skinning the rabbits. His sensitive Daisy couldn’t even bear to wring the neck of her chickens.

This new marriage will take a lot of getting used to.

Erik took a seat at the table and looked around. Antonia sat opposite him, Jacques on her lap.

The toddler had smeared jam on his face, obviously having begun on breakfast earlier.

Henri sat to his mother’s left.

They all watched Erik with solemn eyes, their bodies stiff. Discomfort lay heavy in the air.

Erik glanced at the bowl in the center of the table, stacked with hard-boiled eggs, and winced. He liked his eggs fried and flipped over, the yokes poked and spread over the surface, and turned again. He surveyed the rest of the food. Antonia had set out half a loaf of bread, but she hadn’t already sliced it. An open jar of jam was next to the bread, a knife stuck into the middle. He didn’t see any butter. A plate held slices of ham. At least those looked just the way he preferred his ham, lightly browned in spots.

Daisy hadn’t permitted jars or crocks on the table, and she always scooped jam into a small saucer. She’d also insisted on dishing out the food onto their plates before placing them on the table. “I don’t run a boarding house,” she’d stated in the beginning of their marriage. She’d liked things fancy, had his wife.

He glanced over at Antonia, who was watching him with an anxious expression, and flinched, wondering if he’d have to start thinking of Daisy as his
first
wife.
No!
Even if it’s the truth,
I can’t bear the thought.

Lest Antonia see the resentment in his eyes, he lowered his gaze to his empty plate, trying to talk himself out of his ill humor.
This situation isn’t her fault. She’s as unhappy as I am.

He glanced down at the cradle where Camilla lay. The baby was awake and her blue eyes—Daisy’s eyes—gazed at the ceiling. He wondered what she saw up there, what she was thinking.
Do newborn babies think?

Erik gathered his wits enough to speak. “Shall we say grace?”

Antonia gave him a blank look, glanced at the table in puzzlement, and then around the room as if searching for something. Her wary gaze returned to him.

Erik didn’t know what to say to her obvious bewilderment. They’d prayed before the meal at the Cameron’s house yesterday, and she’d seemed ill at ease then, but he supposed she’d been as numb to what was happening around her as he’d been.

Deciding to go ahead, he clasped his hands together and bowed his head. “Lord, we are grateful for your blessings.” He said the words by rote, but resentment churned in his belly. He didn’t feel blessed, or grateful.
Perhaps I should find a different prayer?
He let out a sigh.
Another change.

I’ll figure out a prayer at the next meal.

He reached for the bowl of eggs. Antonia hadn’t used Daisy’s prized rose-patterned serving platter—the one she’d inherited from her grandmother.
Who would have thought a simple meal could be so fraught with changes—with pain?

With a spoon, he took three of the eggs and deposited them on his plate, and then passed the food to Antonia. She took one for Henri, and one for herself.

Discretely, Erik glanced over at the stove, trying to see if Antonia had boiled coffee. But he couldn’t see any on the stove. Nor, when he sniffed the air, did he smell the rich scent.
I’ll have to show her where everything is.

Was there ever a more awkward meal?
He reached for the loaf and cut off a slice, wishing Antonia had made toast. “Would you like some?” He extended the piece to her.

She nodded.

He deposited the bread on her plate.

Erik looked at his stepson. “Henri?”

The boy bobbed his head, his gaze sliding away.

After Erik set the bread on Henri’s plate, he pushed back his chair and strode to the larder. He returned with a crock of butter, which—disregarding Daisy’s rule—he put on the table, not wanting to take the time to scoop some spoonfuls into a serving dish. “I’m making an egg sandwich,” he announced, taking a seat. After buttering his bread, he passed the crock to Antonia.

With a wide-eyed expression, she stared at it. “Butter be a rare treat.”

Curious, he cocked his head.

“Ain’t many cows at an army fort,” she said, accepting the crock. “If there be any, the milk and cream goes to the officers’ table. And Jean-Claude and I never be havin’ a cow.”

A small feeling of pleasure rushed through his discomfort.
At least, I can give this family dairy products.
“Well, from now on, you’ll have plenty of milk and sour milk, cream and butter.”

“We’ll enjoy that.” Her small smile didn’t reach her eyes.

Not knowing what else to say, Erik focused on eating, for his body needed the sustenance. He usually had a hearty appetite and devoured a lot of food at each meal. But today, the knot in his belly kept him from feeling hunger, which was a good thing given the scanty nature of the breakfast.

From the slow way the others ate, they seemed to feel the same. Only Jacques seemed comfortable, gnawing on a crust of bread and stuffing small bites of egg from his mother’s plate into his mouth.

He peeled the hardboiled eggs, and then sliced them, piling them on the bread he’d already buttered. As Erik chewed, he wondered if he should say something to Antonia about how he liked his eggs cooked, or if that would hurt her feelings. He’d already gotten angry about her shooting the rabbits, which was enough chastisement for a new wife for one day.

Erik pondered the dilemma, wondering which would be worse—making her feel bad about her cooking, or eating hard-boiled eggs for the rest of his life? And what if she found out the truth? Would she feel bad because he hadn’t told her? He couldn’t help thinking such trivial questions were ridiculous given the nature of the changes they were going through.

But Daisy had always been firm with him about the importance of honesty. One of their early arguments had been when she discovered he didn’t like salt in his stew. She’d blown up at him for not telling her right away, when he’d thought he was sparing her feelings.
Are all women like that, or just Daisy?

Erik let the others finish before talking again. “I know this is all new to you—not knowing where everything is. . .figuring out a routine and all.” He waited for her to say something.

But Antonia watched him, her golden gaze impassive.

He wished he knew what she was thinking. “I don’t know what you like or want. What will please or displease you. Nor do you know those things about me. Normally, we’d discover those things when we were courting. . . .”

“Perhaps not.” She gave a wry twist of her lips. “I know Jean-Claude and I learned much about each other after we were married. But, then again, we didn’t wait long to wed after we met.”

“Daisy and I grew up together. . .went to school together. We knew from the time we were young that we’d marry someday.” He paused, remembering. . . . “We were apart for several years after I moved to Sweetwater Springs to establish the farm. We wrote back and forth. Then she insisted on waiting no longer. I agreed. Against her parents’ wishes, she joined me here, and we were wed.”

“You be lucky, knowin’ her for so long,” Antonia said in a wistful tone. “Although from Jean-Claude’s storytellin’, he be wild when he be young. Perhaps ’tis best I be not knowin’ him.”

Jacques bounced, as if to get down.

Antonia set the boy on his feet.

The baby promptly plopped on his bottom and crawled away from them, heading toward the door.

Antonia glanced at her oldest son. “Henri, take Jacques outside and watch him good. Be stayin’ close and no goin’ into the barn unless Mr. Muth be with you.”

“
Oui, Maman
.” The boy slid off his chair and hastened after his brother, opening the door and coaxing the baby to crawl out. He followed Jacques, shutting the door behind him.

Erik frowned, wondering how to begin the discussion. “Perhaps it’s best if we set everything out on the table.”

Her eyebrows pulled together in puzzlement. Her gaze flicked between his plate and the dishes, obviously wondering if he wanted more.

“I mean, strive for honesty between us.”

Her brow relaxed. “Yes.”

He gestured toward the eggs. “For example. . .I’d like to tell you how I like my eggs done, but I don’t want to be critical.”

She bit her lip. “We didn’t eat chicken eggs. Other types, sometimes.”

“Antonia,” he said in a gentle voice. “Even if you had chickens and cooked eggs every day, you wouldn’t know how
I
like them.”

“You be right. This be plumb different for me.”

“That’s why we need to talk.”

She gave him a direct look. “How be you likin’ your eggs, then?”

He thought of the topics that were far more important than eggs, even though that’s what he’d started with. “How ’bout I show you tomorrow?”

She let out a sigh, as if in relief. “That be good soundin’.”

He glanced at the cradle.

Camilla waved her hand in the air. She kicked off her blanket. “Perhaps we should decide how the children address us. Your boys are now my stepsons. They can hardly call me Mr. Muth. And Camilla will only know you as her mother.”

Antonia reached down and pulled the blanket over the baby. “Jean-Claude was French Canadian. Henri called him
Père
.
”

“And I’ve heard Henri use
maman
with you.”

“That’s right.”

“The boys could call me Pa. That’s different enough from
Père
.”

She gave a decisive nod. “Yes. Then when I say
Père
, they know I mean Jean-Claude. And Pa will mean you.”

“And the same for you—
Maman
. And Ma for Daisy.” For the first time, he saw warmth in her golden eyes.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Keeping Jean-Claude—” Her voice broke. “Honorin’ his memory.”

“Not trying to take over from their father.” He gave a bitter twist of his lips. “My daughter will never know her mother, except through what I tell her.”

“Jacques won’t remember his
Père
. I hope Henri will, though.”

Camilla started to fuss.

Antonia leaned forward and plucked the baby from the cradle. Holding her in the crook of one arm, she raised her hand to let down the flap of her tunic and hesitated. Her cheeks reddened. She seemed more modest today than yesterday.

Corresponding heat flushed Erik’s face and burned the tips of his ears. “I’m your husband,” he reminded her, his voice thick. “Would you prefer me to turn away when you nurse my daughter?”