The Brushstroke Legacy (26 page)

She smiled at Ragni. “You’re even prettier than Paul described you.”

Ragni swallowed her tongue. Paul said she was pretty? Was there something wrong with his eyesight? He had mentioned his mother was a bit forthright, but Ragni immediately liked the woman. “Thank you for bringing these to us. Paul said he’d look in the attic for me.”

“Well, when I got there this morning, I went up and found these. Might be more, but I thought this would be a start. Some of her paintings are in the historical museum in town. After her husband died, she moved to Medora and left the farm to Einer. I’m sorry your mother hasn’t been back for so many years.”

“She is too.”
Makes me wonder why. Did something happen? More
questions.

“Be that as it may, I’m glad you came now. I’m making lunch and would love to have you two join us. Ivar, that’s my husband, is tinkering with one of the machines. Makes him happier than a blue jay at a picnic. He’d be out on the swather if he had his way, but Paul beat him to it.”

Erika set the second box on the step.

“Thanks, dear. I’ll leave you to exploring. Oh, lunch is at noon.”

Ragni looked at Erika, who nodded slightly with pleading eyes. “We’ll be there; thank you for the invitation. Then I’ll go on to Dickinson after that, and Erika can either stay to play with Sparky or come with me.”

“Good, I’ll see you then.” Myra strode back to the truck and with a wave, climbed in and drove off.

“Boxes or breakfast?”

“Both.”

“Save room for lunch, now that we’re going somewhere.” Ragni picked up one box and headed inside to set it on the counter.

Erika did the same with the other box.

They’d started opening the boxes when Erika closed a flap. “Wish Grammy was here.” Erika caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “Maybe we shouldn’t look at these until she can.”

Ragni shook her head. “When we have more time, we’ll flip through them, so when I talk with her I can tell her what we found. She’ll be pleased.”
At least I hope she will be.
She thought back to her sister. There was a secret there, something she’d been deliberately not thinking about.
I didn’t know our family had secrets.
Why did Nilda hide her paintings? And now Paul’s mother brings over these two boxes of her belongings.
More secrets.
What else would they find?

The more Nilda thought about it, the madder she got.

So now to make a decision. Tell him what she thought, or bide her time—which was usually her way. To give up drawing was not even to be considered. One other option: to get on the train and return to the East, where Eloise would turn back into the little ghost that was fading away daily out here. No, she might look for a different position here in the West, but she would not go back to the East.

But why did the thought of working somewhere else make her steps slow and her heart feel heavy? She stared around the cramped cabin. At least it was clean now, the garden growing, the food she served of far better quality than what they’d had before.

“Lord, what is it you want me to do?”

Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.
The verse floated up like rich fat bubbling on chicken stew.
But I have been doing that. I’ve given my best. Why, Mr. Peterson even smiled once or twice.
She thought back to some of the things she’d observed about the man. He treated his animals and his help fairly—most of the time. He liked to go fishing. He was willing to buy the things she said the house needed, although he wasn’t willing for her to go to town. Why was that? Who was the real Joseph Peterson? This man or the one at the windmill?

Is he afraid I will leave? Hmm.
That bore some thinking about.
But he didn’t have to say what he did about my drawings. My drawings never hurt anyone. Most of my employers have enjoyed them. My mother loves to get letters with drawings. They make Eloise smile
—
and anything that makes her laugh is worth doing over and over. There’s been far too little laughter in her young life. There’s far too little laughter in this house.

“Come, Eloise, we must milk the cow.” She set the string of fish in cold water and grabbed the milk pail. Supper might be quite late tonight if the men were waiting for her to scale and gut the fish.

“Ma, I want to see chicks.”

“No, we already did that. You stay out of the manure and near the barn door.”

“Worms, Ma?”

Eloise had discovered the dried-up cow pies frequently had earthworms underneath them. What was the difference between earthworms from the garden and earthworms from under cow pies? Still, Nilda had said, “Ishta,” and brushed them out of her daughter’s hands. Then she felt bad; Eloise had been so proud of her worms.

“Stay out of the pasture.”

“Ja. I watch chickens.”

“Good. Don’t wander off.”

“I stay by chickens.”

Nilda unbarred the door to the cow stall. “Come, Daisy.” Not that the cow needed an invitation. She’d been waiting patiently for her can of grain and stuck her head right into the stanchion, turning her head to look for Nilda to provide. Nilda dumped the grain in front of the cow and dropped the bar to hold the stanchion closed. Then, after brushing off the cow’s udder, she set to milking, her arms now strong
enough that they no longer ached with the effort. With the milk pinging in the bucket, her thoughts returned to Mr. Peterson.
Why did he get so upset? Perhaps this is the key to understanding the man better. For certain, I must be very careful to put away anything I draw so he doesn’t see.
And here she’d been dreaming of painting a design above the door like a picture she’d seen of a farmhouse in Norway.

She repeated his words again in her mind. He thought drawing was a waste of time. Did that mean he didn’t think she worked hard enough? She who had yet to take a day for herself? Always she’d had at least one day off a week. Had that not been mentioned in their agreement? “Uff da!”

She stripped the cow and with a smooth motion swung the pail to the side and stood. She hung the three-legged stool on the wall, stroked the cow’s neck, and released the stanchion.

“Thanks, Daisy. I’ll bring you some corn as soon as I thin the rows.”

When she stepped outside, Eloise came running, her arms flapping. “I bird, Ma!”

“Well, don’t you go flying away.”

“No.” The little girl shook her head. “I want to stay here.”

Nilda glanced over at the windmill. The bottom rungs were gone.

Hank was just finishing cleaning the fish by the front door when they reached the house. “You can bury the heads and guts in the garden, makes good fertilizer.”

“Thank you. I was going to clean the fish.”

“I know.” He plopped the last filet into the pan of clean water and sluiced the waste over the bench to clean it. Finished, he turned to her. “He didn’t mean nothin’ by that.”

“You heard?”

He nodded, his gaze somber. “’Twere long ago now, but—you know, some things scar you.”

“What things?”

“Not for me to say.” He dropped his voice. “But I learned a long time ago to let hard words run off me, like water off a duck’s back. Don’t hurt no one that way.”

“You are very wise, Hank. Mange takk.”

He nodded. “Hey, little Missy, want a horsy ride?”

“Horse?” Eloise smiled up at him.

“Up here.” He patted his shoulders.

She looked at him, puzzlement furrowing her brow. As usual, her sunbonnet hung down her back by the strings.

He glanced up to catch a nod from Nilda.

“Here, I’ll lift you up.” Hands on Eloise’s waist, he lifted her up to his shoulders. “Hang on now.” With her small hands grasping his ears, he hung on to her feet and walked in a circle.

Nilda watched Eloise’s face go from frown to laughter.
Why had she never thought to give her rides like that?
She either carried her on her hip or made her walk. Hank added a couple of bouncy steps and Eloise giggled. When he did more, she chortled.

Nilda looked up to see Mr. Peterson watching the fun. What was that she saw in his face? Sadness? Longing? She shook her head as she turned back into the kitchen. Time to get the fish frying, thanks to Hank. What a funny little man Hank was, and how he enjoyed making Eloise happy. Their laughter floated in the window, more cooling than the breeze that carried it. She added wood to the stove and got out the cast-iron skillet.

That night just before bedtime, Mr. Peterson stopped by the chair where she was darning the socks he and Hank had worn holes in. “I am going into town tomorrow, if you would have your list ready.”

“We have extra butter—would you like to see if the store owner will take that in trade for some of the things we need?”

He nodded, but she could tell he wasn’t very pleased about the idea.

“I’d hate for it to spoil.” She kept the extra butter in jars in cold water as she did the milk, changing the water every afternoon.

“I will ask.”

I want to go along to town. Why doesn’t he offer? I should just ask, but not after today.
She trapped a sigh before it could be heard.

“Good night then.” He started to leave, paused as if he might say something else, but headed on to bed.

Nilda always made sure she was the last one to go to bed so the men wouldn’t walk through her room when she was sleeping. Early in the morning they used the outside door in their room. As soon as she heard them moving around, she always rose and washed before dressing so that when she came out tying her apron on, she was ready for the day.

The next morning, Hank stopped in the kitchen on his way out to check on the cattle. “We will be going along to town if there is something you need?”

“I’m afraid that what I need, they won’t have. I would like some mineral oil and turpentine so I can mix some paint. And a brush.”

“To paint the walls?”

“No, to paint pictures.”

He stared at her for a moment. “You are an artist?”

“No, I just want to paint some designs. My mother used to do so when I was little. It is called rosemaling. Norwegians have been painting thus for centuries.”

“I see. What colors would you like?”

“Blue, red, and yellow. From those I can mix anything.”

“I will see.”

“I have money.”
Not a lot but some.

“You can pay me back if I find anything.”

Nilda watched him go whistling out the door. She hated to keep secrets. One in her life was bad enough.

She’d written the list the night before and that morning added a couple more things. She was sure Mr. Peterson would balk at the six yards of gingham to make curtains for the kitchen windows, but when he read the list, he never blinked.

“Mr. Peterson, if they have ticking so I can make fresh pallets for the beds, I would appreciate your purchasing that too. I plan to fill them with new hay and the corn husks from the garden until we have enough feathers to use instead.”

“I see. Do you need anything for—for Eloise?”

She stared at him, then dropped her gaze.
Oh well, it’s worth a try.
“A tablet and pencils so I can teach her letters and numbers.”
And I can have more to draw with.
Was this his way of apologizing for his outburst yesterday? Or had he really begun to care about them? On the other hand, he was smart at guarding his investment—he’d paid for them to come west, after all.

“Keep her close,” he said with a nod toward Eloise.

Nilda smiled her sweetest. “Thank you.”

After the wagon rolled away, the day stretched before her, to be used as she wished since she would not have to make dinner. What was the best thing she could think of? A picnic by the river. They could go wading and then while Eloise slept, she would draw some more.

In the meantime, she needed to churn butter again and there were always weeds to pull.

When the men returned she had supper nearly ready with juneberry pudding for dessert. She’d picked enough berries that she’d simmered some for syrup to be used on pancakes in the morning.

As they unloaded the wagon, Mr. Peterson handed her several packages. “For you,” he said, his eyes crinkling slightly.

“Thank you.” She smiled back, for surely he had been on the verge of smiling.

“The gingham is here too and the spices.” He took a small paper sack and handed it to Eloise. “You share that with your ma.”

She stared at him round-eyed, then gave him a wide smile.

“Open it,” he directed.