The Brushstroke Legacy (15 page)

When she checked on Eloise, certain that the loud clanging had awakened her, she found the child sleeping peacefully—surely another answer to prayer.

Both men filed in, hanging their hats on the pegs by the door.

“Smells good in here.” Hank dipped water from the reservoir and washed his hands in the basin. “You might set up a wash bench outside.”

Joseph took his place at the end of the table without a word—and without washing.

Uff da
, she muttered inside.
That man needs some lessons in cleanliness, that’s for sure. Should I tell him now, or will he get the hint when water and a towel sit on a bench beside the door?

As soon as she’d dished up the mush and set bowls before them, she pulled the skillet to the hotter surface and carefully broke eggs into the grease. “How many fried eggs would you like?”

“Two.” Hank raised that number of fingers at the same time.

Nilda waited. Mr. Peterson continued the steady motion of hand to mouth with spoons of mush disappearing at an alarming rate. “Mr. Peterson?”

He glanced up as if he’d not heard her before. “Ja?”

“How many eggs?”

“Four.”

Have I done something to displease him, or is he always this abrupt?
Nilda flipped Hank’s eggs onto a plate, added bacon and biscuits and set it before him, then broke four more eggs into the sizzling fat. She
most likely should have served the owner first but he hadn’t answered her first. Was he hard of hearing?

She filled his plate and set it before him along with a plate of biscuits. “I have two more eggs if either of you want them.”

When both men shook their heads, she gave the mush a good stir to keep it from sticking to the pot and folded a towel to pick up the coffeepot and fill their cups. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No.” Mr. Peterson glanced up from shoveling in his food. “You going to eat?”

“Of course, but I thought to wait until you were finished.”

“Why?”

Because that’s what the help does.

He pointed to the other chair. “Sit and eat.”

She filled a bowl with mush and did as he said. Hank passed the plate of biscuits.

“You don’t like bacon and eggs?”

“I was saving those for Eloise.” She poured cream on her mush and added brown sugar.

“We are short of food here?” Mr. Peterson sopped the egg yolks with half a biscuit.

“No, but—”

“Need to eat to get strong.”

Nilda didn’t know what to say. In the houses where she used to work, the family ate far better than the help—the help just finished off what was left. She felt guilty biting into the crisp slice of bacon.

“Is your supply list ready?”

“No, I thought—”

“I leave right after breakfast.”

“All right.” She retrieved her paper and pencil and sat back down to add to the list while she finished eating. When Hank got up and brought the coffeepot back, she started to rise. “I’m sorry.”

“Just doin’ what we always done.”

“Ah, Mr. Peterson, could I ask a question?”

“Ja, of course.” A frown wrinkled his forehead. He paused. “What?”

What was there about the man that made gathering her thoughts and speaking clearly difficult? She’d never had such a situation before. “About the list?”

“Ja.”

“Ah, when will you go to the store again?”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure how much to put down.”

“You want garden seeds?”

“Ja, please. But how big will the garden be?”

He shrugged. “Hank will plow whatever you want.”

“I see.” She wrote down all the seeds she could think of:
carrot, turnip, rutabaga, cucumber, bean, corn, pumpkin, dill, cabbage
, and
beets.

“We need grain for the cow and the chickens, barbed wire for the fence.” Hank looked to his boss for the nod. “Unless you want hog wire.” This suggestion earned him a shake of the head.

At the movement, some of Mr. Petersons hair flopped into his eyes, and a new thought struck Nilda.
Does giving haircuts fall within my responsibilities? They both need one. How do I ask such a personal question?

She added the things he’d mentioned to the list and glanced up again. “Do they sell soap there?”
Or will I have to make it?
“And is there a washboard?”

He shook his head. “Used the river.”

“I see.” She wrote down
washboard and
a
washtub.
The thought of washing clothes in the river went against her sensibilities, but if he didn’t purchase these things, she’d have to learn. She added thin rope for the clothesline. “Do you have a boiler?”
Clothespins, blueing?

“No, write it down.”

She studied the list. What gardening tools did he have? She’d not seen jars for canning, but she didn’t need those now.

“Ma?” The plaintive cry came from her bedroom.

“Coming.” She stood, paused to check their cups to see if they needed more coffee, and continued on to the bedroom where Eloise sat in the middle of the bed, rubbing her eyes.

“Hungry.”

“I am sure you are, but Ma has to finish with Mr. Peterson. Can you put your shift on and wait for me?”

Eloise nodded. “Then eat?”

“Put your shoes on too, so you don’t get a sliver in your foot.” She’d have to do something to smooth out the floorboards, but not right now. The list had to be finished, or she would go without. Hurrying back to the table, she added
salt
and
pepper, baking soda
, and
raisins.
“Do they carry yeast?”

“Ja, we are not at the end of the world, you know.” Joseph teased.

“Pardon me. I’m used to—”

“Write down
coffee.”

She did so and added
tea
to her list. That might be a luxury but
she was used to a cup of tea in the afternoon, even if she didn’t take time to sit and drink, but sipped it on the run. All the other houses where she’d worked had full pantry shelves and bins for flour and sugar set into the cupboards, along with canisters of various sizes. Here the beans were falling out of a hole in the gunnysack; the flour and the corn meal probably had weevils that she’d sifted out.

Gathering up her courage, she cleared her throat and said, “I would appreciate some tins and crocks to store the flour and other dry goods.” At Josephs frown, she added apologetically, “If you can afford those things, that is.”

Mr. Peterson pushed back his chair. “You know how to churn butter?”

“Ja.”

“Good, I get a churn. Maybe take two wagons.”

“Oh, I’m sure you don’t need…” She glanced up at him, expecting another frown, but was that a twinkle she caught in his eyes? Surely not, just a trick of the light. “I’m sorry to have such a long list, but you really are short on the necessities.”

“Ja. And short on time. I will be back for supper.” He picked up the tablet and ripped off the two sheets she’d filled with her list. He folded the pages and tucked them into the pocket on his shirt, a pocket that could surely use a needle and thread. Good thing she’d brought those things herself. What needed washing also cried out for mending.

Uff da, how will I ever get all this done?
And she still had no idea when he’d be going to town again.

She heard the river calling her name.

Glancing at her watch—the one she’d decided not to wear for the duration of the vacation—Ragni figured she should go to Paul’s and get Erika fairly soon. No clock and the inability to tell time by the sun had bugged her. Perhaps by tomorrow, she’d take the watch off again. She flexed her fingers and rotated her wrist in circles. Scrubbing rust off cast iron wore on one’s arm muscles. Now if she’d been weightlifting like she’d promised herself, her arms would have been toned and far stronger. They’d ached at the spa too. Moving a mouse around at the office didn’t build the same muscles that killing rust did.

She wiped away the sweat that trickled from under the bandanna wrapped Indian fashion around her head. The river, oh for the cold water of the river.

She hesitated. It wasn’t as if going to the river was play; heaven forbid one should play on one’s vacation. She needed more scrub water.

She carried the dirty water back outside and almost doused the base of the rosebush once again but instead watered a seedling tree that was struggling under the rose canes. As soon as she got a pair of
clippers, she’d liberate that little tree. Whatever kind it was, it didn’t deserve to be strangled by the rosebush.

She stopped at the car for a bottle of water and grabbed her journal at the same time. Then, bucket handle over her arm, she took the now-worn path to the river. She and the log at her destination might become friends if she ever took time away to come visit. Like now. She sat on the spot where the bark had been worn away and leaned over to unlace her new boots. While sandals would be much cooler, since Paul had warned them about rattlers, she’d decided to wear her boots all the time and only dream of sandals. She squinted at the river. Somewhere she’d read that the best way to break in boots was to wear them in water and then wear them until they dried.

Now was as good a time as any to try out that bit of advice. After all, they were work boots, not fine leather fashion boots. She retied the leather laces and strode into the water. When it flowed over her boots, she sucked in a breath. Warm it was not. Chilly it was not. The Little Missouri might look friendly, but it was still downright cold. Wading in to just below her knees, she leaned over and wove her fingers back and forth like fins in the water. The sun beat down on her bent back, the breeze dried the sweat on her face and neck, and the cold water convinced her body thermostat that she no longer needed to keep dripping. Interesting—if she’d been this warm in Chicago, she’d have cranked up the air conditioner, but here she ignored the heat and perspiration and kept on with the physical labor. Was there a difference between working at her job and working here, in her attitude perhaps? If someone had warned her that she would be taking great delight in slaving to restore an antique stove, she’d have thought they’d suffered from heatstroke.

She stretched her arms above her head, then bent her right hand behind her head and grabbed her right elbow to pull the stretch further. Reversing and doing the other arm, she watched a pair of big birds wheeling in the thermals above the butte across the river. Could they be eagles? A wild
screee
called her to watch more closely and listen with more than her ears. Hawk or eagle, it didn’t matter, the cry pulled at her, demanding she pay attention. She watched until they disappeared into the blue that grew deeper the farther out it went.

What would it be like to rise on the thermals with a lift of the wingtip feathers, to know no bounds, to sing to the sky?
You’ve been there before.
The voice whispered, nearly lost in the chuckles of the river.
What do you mean, I’ve been there before? I’ve never been a bird like that.
She shook her head and laughed at herself. Sometimes she wondered if she had other personalities living within her, like the character in that old movie
The Three Faces of Eve.
She knew that wasn’t her problem, but sometimes the thoughts that dressed as voices seemed more auditory than imaginary.

“I’ve been there before?” She stared upward, hoping to see the birds again. “Crazy.” Her mind played with the words:
to know no bounds, to sing to the sky.
She turned and walked back to the log, sat down, and opened her journal. She pulled the pen from the coiled wire binding and wrote the words down, then described everything she could remember of the moment. Wading into the river with her boots on, seeing the birds, hearing their cries, dreaming of freedom.

But what do I need to be free from? When was I free before?
She wrote the words and stared at them.
Am I free now?
A resounding
No
leaped off the page.
What is the opposite of free? Bondage? What am I in bondage to? A job, my promise to Mom, taking care of Erika, fixing up
this place.
She studied what she’d written and crossed out
fixing up this place.
She could leave here at any time. She could have come out here, assessed the damage, and made arrangements to repair the more critical problems, like the roof and the window. Oh, and get rid of the resident critters. Everything she said she would do. All that was required.

If the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.
Her fingers penned the words without any volition on her part. She’d memorized the verse in Bible school, most likely in the sixth grade. That was the year of the memory verse contest, one she was determined to win—and had. Or was it
truth will make you free?
She shook her head. Either way. The Son was the truth, too. She thought a moment. An easy verse to memorize—if only the believing and doing were as easy.

She started a new paragraph.
So Ragni, do you really believe those verses? Of course, I believe the verses… So how can they change your life?
She stared at the written words as she squeezed her toes in her wet boots, enjoying the sun on her neck and shoulders.

How to be free and from what
—
those are the questions.

Hearing voices, she glanced back at the cabin, but it was hidden behind the berm. A clattering of rocks brought her attention to two horses with riders coming toward her along the riverbank. She shaded her eyes to see better. Sure enough, Erika, who must be over the tree-tops with joy, was riding beside Paul. He’d loaned her a Western straw hat, and she looked as if she rode every day.

She waved as soon as she saw Ragni, then turned to laugh at something Paul said. This would most likely be the highlight of her vacation. At lease one of them was having fun.

Don’t be such a grouch
, she ordered herself.
Had you gone along, you most likely could have gone riding too.

Paul touched the brim of his hat with one finger when he saw she was watching them. “Good day for riding.”

“Good day for cleaning, too.”
Get the grump out of your voice
—
now!
Ragni made sure her smile was wide enough to be seen. “So how was Sparky?”

“He let me pet him, he really did.” Gone was the bored look. Joy flew around Erika like sparks from a fall bonfire.

“He didn’t just let her; this girl has the patience of a real horse trainer. She waited until that curious little guy came to her.” Paul smiled and nodded toward his riding partner.

Erika bloomed with the praise. The grin took up her whole face. She leaned forward to pat her horse’s neck. With a sigh, she shook her head slowly, a study in amazement. “I never felt anything so soft as his little nose.” Her eyes darkened as pleading took the place of awe. “I can go again tomorrow, can’t I?”

“I don’t know why not. If Paul doesn’t mind.” Ragni glanced up to see the man staring at her. She glanced down.
He probably thinks I’m nuts to wear boots into the water. Ah, well.

“I don’t mind at all. Little guy needs to be handled as much as possible, and after we start haying, there’s no time for coddling colts. I’d appreciate Erika’s help.” He’d crossed his arms on the saddle horn, his lazy smile sending a shiver from the top of Ragni’s head to the chill of her toes.
With a smile like that, I can’t figure why he doesn’t have a wife and six kids by now.
Ragni kept her smile in place and her thoughts tight inside. No wearing her thoughts on her face or her sleeve this time, no matter how often she’d been accused of that in the past.

“Well, I need to get back and finish fixing that swather.”

A swather? Whatever that is.
She almost asked.

“Oh, sure.” Erika dismounted and handed him her horse’s reins. “Thanks for the ride and letting me play with Sparky.”

Ragni recognized the adoration in Erika’s face when she grinned at the man on the horse.
I sure hope that is only hero worship and not infatuation. That’s all I need
—
teenage angst over an older man.

“See you tomorrow, then.” He smiled at both of them, touched the brim of his hat, and reined his horse around.

Erika, hands in the back pockets of her jeans, watched him go, and when she finally turned back toward her aunt, Ragni was sure.
Yep, stars in the eyes and that sappy grin. Dead giveaway every time.

“He is one cool dude.” More sappy smile.

“I’d say were the dudes, and he’s a real cowboy.”

“You know what I mean.” But the tone was definitely dreamy, not sarcastic.

Ragni handed her the newly filled bucket and picked up her things. With every step, her feet squished in her boots.
This promises to make for a real comfortable afternoon.
Perhaps she could at least drain the water out; the leather would still be plenty wet.

“So what do you want me to do next?” Erika asked after pouring river water into the big pot on the camp stove. “You want me to light this?”

“Sure. How about if you finish washing down that cabinet while I work on the oven? The two other things I’d like to accomplish today are to take the stovepipes outside to clean out and fix that window-pane. That cardboard is keeping the birds out, but I like seeing out windows.”

“Okay.”

Hey if hero worship or crush, take your pick, is what brought on peaceful agreement, I’m all for it. At least for now. Lord, I don’t want her to get hurt. Of course we’ll be leaving again in ten days, so she can’t get hurt too bad. I just hope and pray Paul has good sense in this.

“There’s more artwork up here on the top shelf.” Erika beckoned Ragni to come look.

“Which kind?”

“The rosemaling. I like the flowers and trees even better, I think.”

Ragni climbed up on the ladder. “I just can’t figure why she would hide such beautiful work.”

“I think she was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” Ragni looked into her niece’s eyes. “Have you ever been afraid of someone seeing your drawings and paintings?” Shutters closed the trail to Erika’s soul as she looked down at the wet cloth in her rubber-gloved hands. Ragni cupped her niece’s cheek with a gentle hand. “Who hurt you?” The words whispered across the narrow space.

Erika shrugged, looked away, and rolled her lips together. “I promised myself I’d never tell anyone.”

“I’m not ‘anyone.’ I’m the aunt who has always loved you and who helped you with your first finger painting. Remember?”

“Sort of.” Erika’s eyes moved off to the right as if searching. She sighed.

Ragni waited, scarcely daring to breathe for fear she’d break the spell.

“My teacher when I was in the third grade. She wouldn’t put my pictures on the wall because I colored the people wrong. She thought
I colored everything wrong and deliberately didn’t do anything according to her instructions.” Ragni caught the small movement as Erika’s jaw tightened. “And my drawings were better than anyone else’s.”

Lord, please give me wisdom.
“You’ve always drawn way beyond the average. Even when you were three, I could recognize who and what you were drawing.” Ragni climbed down the stepladder and leaned against the counter. “One time I remember you telling me a whole story about the picture you had drawn, all about the mommy and the daddy and twin girls you called Patty and Patsy.”

“I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did. And they had a wiener dog named…” Ragni scrunched her eyes to remember better. “Hot Dog, I think.”