Healing Montana Sky (16 page)

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 done.” 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.

Antonia wondered if the mules were as unsettled by their new home as she was or if they enjoyed their new quarters. She lifted Camilla to her shoulder, pressed a kiss to the baby’s downy head, and rubbed her back.

A fat tabby sat on a straw bale, watching them with alert green eyes.

Erik walked over to the cat and rubbed her head. “Eh, Delilah. Catch anything for me today?”

The cat tilted her head.

He scratched under her chin. “I think we’ll have kittens, although we have to wait a bit. You’ll like that, eh, Henri?”

The boy shrugged.

“Henri’s never seen a barn cat,” Antonia explained. “He only knows the big mountain cats—dangerous they be. But I recall kittens. Sweet little ’uns.”

“They are. And plenty of folks looking for one. The kittens will go fast.” Erik took them around, pointing out everything in great detail. He showed obvious pride in his barn and livestock. While he talked, he seemed to forget his sadness. His shoulders straightened, he gestured with his hands as he spoke, and his expression grew more enlivened.

Antonia studied him, seeing Erik as a
man
, not as a grieving widower, new father, or unwanted second husband. She saw the strength in his large frame, the light in his blue eyes when he discussed his plans for a dairy herd, and remembered the gentle way his work-worn hands had earlier cradled his daughter.

How would I be feelin’ about Erik if I met him before Jean-Claude?
Would I be drawn to him?
Antonia thought perhaps she might have and, for a moment, wondered what their life together would have been like if they’d met and married when they were young.

Feeling disloyal, she turned away from the sight of him. With all the agony she was now experiencing, Antonia wouldn’t trade the years with Jean-Claude, even if the price for the joy of that time was living in pain for the rest of her days.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

F
or a few minutes, Erik had forgotten. His barn—only a year old—and the livestock within were his pride and joy. Seldom did he have visitors to show around the place. Antonia and Henri made the perfect audience, looking about with curious golden eyes and taking in everything. Their obvious awe of the place gave him a warm feeling of satisfaction.

They stopped at the stalls where the mules poked their heads over the doors.

With a flash of animation, Henri hurried over to the nearest mule, rubbing the nose, and murmuring what sounded like French.

The boy looks like he knows what he’s doing,
Erik thought in approval.
He’s certainly old enough to have chores.
At about half his age, Erik and his brothers had started helping their father. “I’ve fed and watered the horses and mules but haven’t had a chance to muck out the stalls yet.”

Guilt stabbed him. He’d never neglected his livestock before. “It’s been several days for the horses, actually. Perhaps you can help me with that, Henri?” He made his voice sound hearty. “Truth be told, I could use another hand around here.”

The boy gave him a sideways glance but didn’t answer.

Antonia briefly touched her son’s shoulder before returning to rubbing Camilla’s back. “Of course. He be a good worker.” Although Antonia said the words to Erik, her gaze rested on her son. “Eh, Henri?”

“
Oui, Maman
.”

“Then we’ll begin after I finish showing you around.” Erik pointed toward a smaller door on the backside of the barn. “The pigsty is out there. And I want you to meet the cows in the pasture. I have twin calves. Born. . .born—”

The memory of that morning hit him like a mule kick to his gut. Walking to the house, feeling elated about the birth of the calves, not knowing that his wife had gone into labor.
If I’d been there when her pains first started, I could have bundled her into the wagon and rushed her to the doctor.
My pride, my selfish neglect, caused her death.
The image of her laboring to push out the baby came to him, of the unstoppable blood, the light fading from her eyes. . .

His chest tightened until he couldn’t breathe.
I need to get some air.

“Erik?” Antonia shifted Camilla into the crook of one arm, stepped forward, and touched his shoulder.

Unable to bear any comfort, he pushed away her hand, turned, and jogged down the aisle, bursting out of the open doors. The bright sunshine was a shock to his watering eyes, and he had to blink back moisture to see. A wrenching ache clutched his gut, and all he could do was run from the pain.

Unthinking of where he was going, Erik hurried past the springhouse. He picked up speed, blindly racing along the pasture fence. He gulped for breath, trying to force air into his constricted lungs. But something else took up the space in his chest—something dark and heavy.

Without conscious volition, he moved toward Daisy’s grave. In the distance, he saw the cross like a beacon and headed toward it.

At the edge of the mound, Erik’s knees crumpled, and he threw himself down. A heavy sob broke through the constriction of his body and burst from his mouth. Sprawled across the grave, he dropped his head into the crook of his arm. Inhaling the smell of the newly dug earth, he wept.

Her hand still outstretched, Antonia watched Erik flee.

The cat leaped off the straw bale and followed him outside.

Camilla made a noise, as if sensing her father’s obvious distress.

Her stomach tight, she lowered her arm to cradle the baby and rocked her, trying to recover from Erik’s rebuff. His rejection of her attempt to comfort him stung, making Antonia wish she’d never reached out in the first place.
I already have enough pain, without feeling hurt by him, too.

At the same time, Antonia was distressed by her strong reaction—so unlike her, especially when she knew all too well how grief grabbed one at the oddest moments.
And married or not, I’m a stranger to him.

“Where be he going?” Henri asked.

Antonia stared after Erik. “I don’t be knowin’.” She thought through what had happened. Although she didn’t know why the mention of the twin calves had caused him to become upset, she’d become familiar with how waves of sorrow crashed down without warning.

I probably be doin’ the same thing, if he be tryin’ to comfort me.
But the matter-of-fact words didn’t make her feel better.

“
Maman
?”

How to be explainin’?
“Mr. Muth. . .ah, your new pa be sad. Camilla’s mama—his wife, Daisy—died like
Père
did.”

“We done bury her like you done with
Père
in the garden.”

“Yes. Just as we be sad about
Père
, he be sad about Daisy.”

“Will he cry?”

“Maybe. Or maybe he be trying not to cry.”

“I be tryin’ not to cry.”

Antonia shifted Camilla, so she could rub Henri’s head. “So do I. But maybe sometimes we be needin’ to.”

Henri glanced around the barn. “We could be muckin’ up.”

He’s so thoughtful
. Tears pricked Antonia’s eyes. “You be a good boy,
mon fils
. You be doing
Père
credit.” She stooped to kiss his forehead.

From his expression, Henri seemed pleased, but he squirmed away.

Straightening, she stood and looked around. Although in some ways the barn was an even greater contrast to the shed she’d left behind, Antonia felt more at home here than she did in Daisy’s kitchen. Mucking up after animals was pretty much the same, no matter how fancy the surroundings.

Erik had stacked the small pile of possessions they hadn’t brought into the house in the corner by the door. She’d left their homemade rake behind but brought Jean-Claude’s store-bought shovel. She pointed to their things. “Find our shovel, and then be startin’ with our mules. I be doin’ the horses.”

He retrieved the shovel.

“I be fetchin’ the cradle for Camilla and bringin’ Jacques and his rocks near. Then we start mucking up for your new pa.” Just the thought of tackling the chores—something she could do for Erik—released the tightness in her chest.

Henri opened the stall door and propped the shovel in the corner. The mule nudged him. Although he felt a little guilty about having favorites, he loved Kenny better than Rocky and knew the mule loved him back.
Père
always said Rocky was as stubborn as a rock.

Feeling sad at the thought of
Père
, Henri hugged Kenny’s neck as high as he could reach, inhaling the comforting smell of the mule’s hide.

Kenny snuffled Henri’s shoulder.

Feeling a little better, he led the mule out of the stall and tied him up in the aisle.

A shovel and rake hung on the wall, and
Maman
took them down, walked over to the nearest horse stall, and set the tools against the door. She checked on Camilla in her cradle, and then glanced through the door to where Jacques played with his rocks.

I be explorin’ later and bringin’ Jacques some more.

Henri glanced at the back door, remembering the muckheap he’d seen outside. At home, they’d just shoveled and raked everything out of the shed and around the corner to pile near the garden. He looked at the clean concrete floor of the center aisle. Seemed like a long way.

He looked up at
Maman
and waved from the door to the floor of the stall. “How we be gittin’ this out?”

Maman
pursed her lips in the way that mean she was thinking. She walked down the aisle, her head turning back and forth, obviously looking for something.

Curious, he followed her.

“There.” She pointed to a single-wheeled wooden cart, shaped like an arrowhead, tilted into the corner at the back of the barn. “A wheelbarrow.”

Henri had never seen anything like it. At home, they’d heaped the droppings onto pine boughs and dragged them to the dung heap.

Maman
walked over and stepped between wooden poles attached to the back, grasping them and lifting. She turned the wheelbarrow in his direction and pushed it toward him.

Fascinated, he watched the wheelbarrow come toward him, feeling some excitement break through the heaviness that had weighed in his chest since
Père
died.

The cart wobbled at first until
Maman
figured out how to balance properly. She set the back end down in front of Henri. “
This
we be usin’.”

“Can I be tryin’?”

She nodded and moved to let him pass, and then tapped the poles. “Grab both these shafts and be liftin’ ’em at the same time. Then be holdin’ steady.”

Henri stepped between the shafts and hefted the handles. The wheelbarrow was heavier than
Maman
made it look, and he could barely lift the back legs. He staggered several steps and the wheelbarrow wobbled.

With a clutch of fear, he wondered if it would tip to the side. He tried to compensate and the other side dipped. His arms grew tired, but, determined to make the wheelbarrow move where he wanted it to go, he didn’t want to stop.

“Take’s a mite of practice, it do,”
Maman
said.

His muscles aching, breathing heavy, Henri pushed the wheelbarrow down the aisle, dropping it to a stop in the doorway of the barn. Triumph filled him. He glanced up at
Maman
and saw pride shining in her eyes.

“Well done.”

Her expression and quiet words made him feel good, like he’d accomplished something for both of them.

Jacques, apparently entranced by the sight of the wheelbarrow, abandoned his rocks and crawled toward it.

In one of her gestures of affection,
Maman
rubbed the back of her hand against Henri’s cheek. “The wheelbarrow be too heavy when it be full. So I be wheelin’ out, and then you be drivin’ back,
oui?
”

Jacques reached up for the edge of the wheelbarrow.

Maman
made a grab for the handles so the baby could pull himself up without toppling the thing over on him.

Once Jacques reached his feet, he flashed them his
grenouille
grin and banged on the side of the wheelbarrow.

“Jacques be wantin’ a ride.”

“We start, he won’t want to be stoppin’,”
Maman
warned. “We be finishin’ the work first. Then we can be puttin’ some straw inside and givin’ him a ride.”

Henri hurried back to the stall, anxious to get finished so he and his brother could play.

Erik trudged back to the barn, fighting the compulsion to turn and head in the other direction. He’d treated Antonia rudely—run out on her, allowed his emotions to rule him and make him weak.

A mourning dove perched on the barbed wire fence, the soft
ooo-ahhh croo-ooo-oo
sound so familiar he rarely paid attention. But today he glanced at the gray bird, fancying the mournful coo was a tribute to his grief for Daisy—even though he knew the bird was probably just calling to its mate.

He stopped and eyed the prairie—not his fenced-in pasture or the planted acreage, but the other direction—at the vast emptiness of the undulating grasslands, green with spring. He usually liked to think in terms of conquering this land—building a homestead that would last for generations. Someday, he hoped his great-grandson would walk in his footsteps and feel a similar connection with this patch of earth.