The Brushstroke Legacy (18 page)

Darkness had taken over the sky but for a thin line on the western horizon by the time they returned to the hotel.

Erika disappeared into the bathroom as soon as they reached their room, and soon Ragni heard running bath water. Ragni was grateful for some time alone. After calling Susan, she intended to flip through the bird book they’d picked up at the Western Edge Bookstore along with
High Prairie Plants.
Having a light to read by in bed measured somewhere close to having running water on the bliss scale.

When she’d hung up the phone a few minutes later, she couldn’t stop thinking that something was wrong. Susan had said to go ahead with the roofing and have the bills sent to her. No problem with that— one decision taken off Ragni’s mind. All she had to do was decide what kind of roof and what color. No big deal for an artist, right? That’s what Susan had said. But Ragni felt overwhelmed. Just because she knew color didn’t mean she knew roofing.

You could ask Paul for advice.
The thought made her pause. Yes, she would ask his opinion, if for no other reason than she liked talking
with him.
Watch it, girl
, she cautioned herself and dragged her meandering mind back to the phone call with her sister.

So what gave her the feeling something was wrong? Tone of voice? Susan rambling on about Dad’s care? Susan never rambled. She said things straight out, and that was the end of it. Perhaps she was lonely for Erika—or for Ragni. After all, they usually talked or e-mailed every night. But come to think of it, for the last few weeks Susan had been acting strangely.

Ragni wanted to ask Erika if she’d noticed anything different about her mom lately, but she decided not to. No sense making the kid worry if it was nothing. “Fret not.” Not only had she memorized that Bible verse, but she had painted a plaque of the verse. Worrying was surely genetic.

Sometime later, with Erika already sound asleep, Ragni still couldn’t let go of the sense of secrecy or danger in Susan’s voice.
Fret not
. Easier said than done.

“Today I will wash the clothes. Tomorrow the bedclothes.”

The announcement dropped like a rock in a shallow puddle. Splashes of surprise showed up on the faces of both men.

Nilda set the platters of sliced ham, scrambled eggs, and pancakes on the table and returned to the stove for the coffeepot. “That is part of my yo—er, job right?”
Why are they looking at me like that?

Mr. Peterson nodded. “Ja, but we just wait till the river warms up and take a bar of soap to scrub our pants and shirts with as we swim. So we don’t have clean clothes to change into right now.”

“I see. Then I will wash some of your clothes today and some tomorrow, after the bedclothes.” These men might not want to be clean themselves, but she could at least get them to wear clean clothes.
All I want is for things to be clean.

“What will you hang things on?” Joseph asked.

“For now, the tree branches by the river.”

“Do we have a post tall enough?” Joseph looked to Hank for an answer.

“One, but not two.” The men seemed to talk in parts of thoughts, as if they read each other’s minds.

“Use one tree, and sink one post.”

“Or the corner of the house.”

Nilda heard Eloise’s first plaintive call. “Coming.” She left them talking about building a clothesline and headed for the bedroom. She’d hoped Eloise would sleep until Nilda had gotten the men fed and out the door.

“Ma-a.” The smile on the little girl’s face took away any frustration. “Birds singing.”

“I know. You go back to sleep for a bit while I work.”

“No.” Her wispy hair fluttered as she shook her head. “Potty.”

While she wanted Eloise to learn to use the outhouse, she didn’t dare let her go alone yet. And right now she didn’t have time to take her out there. Nilda pulled out the chamber pot that had been added to the supply list for just this kind of situation. “Use this.” While Eloise hoisted her nightdress and used the commode, Nilda laid out a clean shift and drawers. She would save the frilly pinafore for church. Did the men go to church? Surely there was a church in Medora. But no one had said grace at the table. Was it her job to mention that, or should she just continue to say grace privately with Eloise?

She heard the men talking but couldn’t guess what they were saying. From what she could figure out, having her around was causing them to do some things they hadn’t counted on or even thought about. But if it was a clothesline that they were talking about, how much easier the laundry would be. Did they have flatirons? She shook her head. One thing she’d not thought to put on the list. How would she iron without flatirons? Not that wearing wrinkled clothing was a sin, but—uff da, she hated not being prepared. Surely the wind would
blow most of the wrinkles out. While she’d thought of blueing, she’d not included starch either.

She thought back to milking the cow before dawn. Hank had milked her the night before, after he brought her back from her wanderings and repaired the fence.

“I s’pose you get lonesome too, fenced off all by yourself like you are.” With her head planted firmly in the cow’s flank, she couldn’t see if she was listening, but then, why should a cow listen to her? Hank had said she’d become friendly. How long did it take to make friends with a cow? Hank also said Eloise could ride on the horses’ backs. So high up if she fell, she would surely break something. What was the man thinking of? It didn’t seem sensible.

Her arms ached again by the time she was half finished, but she had managed to do the chore all by herself. She set the bucket up on the grain bin lid, as Hank had said, and went to let the cow out. “I think we should call you Daisy since your pasture has plenty of daisies in it.” Before releasing the stanchion, she stroked the cow’s shoulder and her neck. “Good girl, Daisy. I wonder what you might like as a treat.” She pulled up on the nail to open the stanchion and watched Daisy back up and turn to the pasture door, strolling out, her bag now hanging limp and swinging slightly with each step. “Now don’t you go wandering off again.”

Following the cow, Nilda pulled the bar back in place to keep the cow out until milking time. No sense letting her mess in the barn more than necessary. After taking the milk to the house, she headed for the windmill to pump water for the chickens. If the men were going to be spending their time with the garden and a clothesline, she’d take over caring for the chickens along with the cow.

Besides, it gave her another reason to be outside—dawn in Dakota ran a close second to the sunset if what she’d seen the night before was any indication. After filling the can that watered the chickens, she raised the small door that led from the henhouse outside to the wire-enclosed pen. Hank had explained that chicken hawks loved to raid the farm, so they covered the run with wire on all sides. Other critters raided the henhouse whenever hungry, so the chickens were locked in at night. Even so, one enterprising varmint had burrowed under the wall and snatched a few. Now the henhouse had a wood floor.

Back in the house, she strained the milk and stirred the ground oats she’d left cooking all night. Humming, she set the boiler water to heating. Hank must have filled it for her before he went out. What a kind and thoughtful man he was. Nothing like Mr. Peterson, who seemed to keep his words in a locked box for safekeeping. By the time she’d dressed Eloise and returned to the kitchen, the men were pushing away from the table. One thing they never wasted time on was conversation. Eat, give the orders, and go about their business.

“I’ll be disking the garden first thing,” Hank said before he went out the door. “Joseph’s bringing in a post. Soon as the garden’s done, I’ll be fencing it. Hate for the cattle to eat up all your hard work.”

“So will the fence go all around the house?”

“Did you want it to?”

“I worry about Eloise wandering off.”

“I see.” He nodded and headed on out the door.

After setting Eloise at the table with a bowl of mush, Nilda walked through her bedroom into the men’s where two bunk beds took up one wall. She gathered up the dirty clothing that had been thrown in
a corner and saw the empty pegs in the walls where clothing should be hanging. The beds were the only furniture; the floor had not been sanded or oiled in there either.

The beds were like hers—tightly strung ropes covered with a hay-filled tick. Robes made of animal hides hung over the ends of the beds. As soon as they cut the hay, she would wash and refill all the ticks. They’d said there was an abundance of waterfowl. Her mother had told stories of using goose and duck down to make feather beds. Nilda supposed she could do the same, although it would mean eating a lot of birds. She wrinkled her nose at the smell of the dirty clothes. Obviously the men saved soap and water like they did words.

After carving curls of soap into the steaming boiler, she threw in the shirts and used the broom stick to push them down into the water. Perhaps in the afternoon, she and Eloise could walk over to the river and look for a sturdy limb to use for a couple of wash sticks. Boiling and stirring the shirts would free up much of the dirt before she attacked the washboard with them.

“Done.” Eloise held up her bowl.

“More?”

The little girl shook her head. “I go outside?”

“You can go with me to pump water.”

“I want see the cow?”

“Perhaps.” With the dishes set in another pan of water on the stove, Nilda picked up the two water buckets. She clasped the handles in one hand and took Eloise’s hand with the other. “You must walk fast so we can set up the washtub.”

But Eloise had to stop at every flower, pick up a rock, point at a bird flying overhead. Nilda tried to hurry her along, but she finally
gave up and went on ahead. As she pumped the handle, she watched her little girl enjoy the outdoors in ways she herself longed to do. But Nilda’s delight, besides studying each flower and weed, would be to draw them. The brown wrapping paper she’d saved so carefully whispered her name. Her fingers itched to pick up that pencil and copy the beauty that grew so rampantly around them.

When the water gushed into the bucket hanging on the spout, Eloise climbed the two stairs to the platform and stuck her hand under the flowing water. When it splashed up her arm, her chortle rivaled that of the sparrows singing from the weeds growing along the road.

“You’ll get wet,” Nilda told her.

“Ja, get wet.” Her eyes sparkled, and the wind tossed her hair, gold-white feathers in the sunlight.

The blades of the windmill creaked and groaned in the wind, playing tenor in the song of summer. A crow flew overhead, announcing his news as if everyone around should want to know his opinion. Eloise watched the flight, the sun kissing her upturned face in a benediction of warmth.

Nilda switched buckets and kept pumping. When finished, she took the cup hooked to the frame and dipped out water cold from the earth and fresh as the morning. She handed it to Eloise, watching the drops that didn’t make it past her lips trickle down her chin to make dark dots on her blue shift.

“Come, little one. I must do the wash.”

After two more trips to the pump, one washtub was filled with cool water for rinsing and the other with hot water for scrubbing. Both sat on the bench she’d pulled slightly away from the house.

Soaping and scrubbing the shirts turned them from dark brown to light tan—perhaps they’d once been white, but without bleaching they’d never be white again. She wrung the soap out of them and tossed them into the rinse water where she’d added a cap of blueing. Of course hanging in the sun would help too. The long Johns she’d not boil on the stove, or they’d be child-sized instead of man-sized.

After adding wood to the firebox, she thought a moment about dinner. The rising bread dough, thanks to the yeast Mr. Peterson had brought from town, would be ready to punch down soon. Perhaps she’d fry some to go with the beans and rabbit stew from the night before.

Hank and the horses went back and forth and crossways over the plowed ground. She could hear the jingling harness, the creak of metal, and the gentle thud of hooves on soft dirt. The sound of an ax ringing on wood came from the grove of trees bordering the riverbanks.

“Look, Ma.” Eloise leaped to her feet and tugged on her mother’s skirts.

Nilda brushed the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, along with the hair that sopped it up. “Ja, what?”

Eloise tugged again and pointed up the road. “Cows.”

Nilda stopped scrubbing to see what she meant. Sure enough, a line of cows, their calves alongside, were ambling down the road.

“Where they go?”

“I don’t know.” Three strands of barbed wire fencing kept them out of the hay field. She heard Daisy bellow. A red cow with a white face, one horn curled in toward the middle of her head, answered her.

Eloise dove behind her mother and peeked around at the creatures that looked so much bigger up close than off in the pasture.

Hank left the team standing and came to join them. “Don’t you worry none. They’re just heading for the water trough. Sometimes they drink from the river, and other times they parade on by. One thing about cattle. Once the lead cow decides to go somewhere, the others will take a hankering to go along.” He squatted down in front of Eloise. “You don’t be afraid of them, little missy, but you don’t go chasin’ after them neither.”

Eloise tugged on Nilda’s apron and raised her arms in silent pleading. Safe in her mother’s arms, she stared at Hank, a tiny frown wrinkling her brow. But when he smiled at her, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She buried her face in her mother’s shoulder and peeked out from beneath eyelashes fine as a spider’s web.

“Say good morning to Mr. Hank.”

At the pained look on his face, Nilda gave a slight shake of her head. Propriety was propriety where children were concerned. And “mister” was proper.

“G-morning, Mist…” She looked up at her mother, question marks all over her face.

“Mis-ter Hank.” Nilda enunciated carefully.

“Mis-tah Hank.” Ever a mimic, Eloise grinned back at him.

“Close enough. I better get back to my chores.”