Healing Montana Sky (28 page)

His expression hardened. “After church today, we’ll buy you a hat and shoes. I don’t want people to think I can’t take care of my wife.”

Why does be matterin’?
But she didn’t say so, for it obviously mattered to Erik.
He’s plumb picky about it.

The uncharacteristic frown lingered. His brow furrowed. “Now that I think of it, you need a shawl and coat. You can’t keep wearing that ratty raccoon skin of yours.”

“Why not? It be warm.”

“For around here the coat is perfect. But for town. . .” As Erik said the words, a pained expression crossed his face.

“We can use the money I got from the furs to buy ’em,” she offered, guessing what the problem might be.

“Absolutely not. I want you to keep that money,” he said in a firm tone. “The milk, butter, and eggs I’ve been delivering have paid off your dress and undergarments. We’ve started building up credit at the store that we can use for these purchases.”

“Oh. Credit be good.”

He let out a sigh and rubbed his hand over his head, mussing his hair. “Antonia, after what we’ve been through. . .if something happens to me, I want to know you have money put by. Not that you won’t have the farm and all, as well as everything I’ve saved, which at this point isn’t much.” He pointed in the direction of the barn. “I put everything into that.”

A movement in the doorway caught her eye. Antonia glanced over to see Henri watching them.

Her son tilted his head as if studying her, and his eyes looked troubled. “You don’t look like
Maman.
”

“I don’t ’spose I do.” She walked over to drop a kiss on his head. “But I still be your
maman
, and that be never changin’.”

Erik handed her the bonnet. “Let’s pack up the children and get in the wagon. I’ll hurry and swap out what I’m wearing for my good clothes. We don’t want to be late for church.”

Antonia turned toward the mirror and set the hat on her head, tying the ribbons under her chin. A stranger stared back at her—not a trapper’s wife in squaw clothes—but one who looked like any of the other women she’d seen in town.
Be this really me?

The woman in the mirror no longer was Jean-Claude Valleau’s Antonia. She was Erik Muth’s Antonia. As much as she wanted to adapt and become like other white women, she grew sad at the thought of losing more of her connection to Jean-Claude.

The pewter sky had cleared to shades of blue, ranging from eggshell to turquoise to slate, filtered through elongated layers of white and gray clouds. The sight was beautiful enough to make a man stop and stare if he wanted to look like a fool in the middle of Main Street, with all the Sunday traffic—families walking, riders on horses and mules, wagons, buggies, and a few coaches—converging on the church.

Erik had already delivered his dairy goods to the mercantile, and now for the first time, he walked with his new family through Sweetwater Springs to attend Sunday service. He carried Jacques, who seemed thrilled with his new surroundings and cast charming frog grins at anyone they passed.

Antonia walked next to him, holding Camilla and looking around with wide-eyed interest. She glanced at him and smiled. “Different today, eh?” she commented.

“Much better.”

Henri shadowed his mother’s other side, an uncertain expression on his face.

The closer Erik came to the building, the more apprehension built inside his chest. Memories overwhelmed him. He and Daisy hadn’t made church service often, usually due to the weather or the press of farmwork. So when they did, the day became more than an opportunity to worship. The Sabbath turned into a social outing where they met friends, shopped for necessities and the occasional treat, and caught up on the latest news of the town and the greater world beyond the borders of Sweetwater Springs.

Somehow, living isolated on the farm, Erik had managed to make peace with Daisy’s absence. That wasn’t to say he didn’t still have times of grief and acutely missing her. And he didn’t think the guilt would ever leave him. But more and more, his new family—especially his wife—filled his thoughts. His growing relationship with Antonia provided healing, comfort, and even joy, not to mention sensual pleasures—both those they’d already explored and the future ones he’d fantasized about.

Surely, people will be kind and understanding of our hasty marriage, not judgmental.
He didn’t mind so much for himself, but for Antonia. He was established here, known by most. But she was a stranger and still coping with grief, and—he glanced at Henri—the boy as well, for all he’d seemed better.

Only one cutting remark causes harm.
And if they hurt, he would, too.

No hint of nervousness showed on Antonia’s face or in her upright carriage. Her expression remained calm. She’d left the raccoon skin coat in the wagon and now wore Daisy’s blue shawl, which was too small and the color didn’t become her.

When Erik studied his new wife, shame washed over him. He’d vowed to cherish this woman even if, in a haze of grief, he’d said the words to a stranger he’d met a few hours earlier, scarcely knowing what came out of his mouth.
But I haven’t done a very good job.

Perhaps because Antonia seemed to want so little for herself, he’d been blind to her wardrobe needs. Daisy would have set up a screech to get what she wanted—especially regarding clothing—and he’d assumed Antonia would do the same.

Will others see what I do when I look at her? The strength in her features, the gilded eyes, a smile that warms me when it appears? Or will they see the moccasins on her feet? A faded bonnet and a too-small shawl that’s the wrong color for her dress—items they recognize as having belonged to Daisy?

Mrs. Carter’s words, uttered in the store on the day of Daisy’s death, came back to him.
A lady can wear rags, but as long as she holds up her head and carries herself proudly, people will see her, not her clothing.
She’d meant to chide Mrs. Cobb and Mrs. Murphy and bolster Antonia’s confidence, but she should have directed them straight at him.

Maybe I’m taking on too much of Daisy’s thinking.
Plenty of women in this town only had one or two dresses that had to last for years. The same with their hats, shawls, coats, and shoes. Until now, Erik hadn’t realized how he’d come to view the social world through Daisy’s eyes, as well as his own.

Daisy had always approached church with an air of smugness that increased when she wore a new outfit, especially a fashionable one sent from her parents. She was secure in her appearance as a pretty, popular woman, with—she’d once told him—a husband who was both handsome and as strong as an ox. She’d basked in her popularity, smiling and waving at everyone and calling greetings to her particular friends. They’d stop a dozen times to have short conversations before they even reached the building.

Today, though, as the street grew crowded, few people did more than nod in their direction. Others slid their gazes away and quickened their steps. A few gave him strained smiles but didn’t stop to talk. Here and there, someone openly stared at them.

Erik couldn’t really blame them. He never knew what to say to someone who’d suffered the death of a loved one. Better not say anything at all, than something that might cause more pain instead of bringing comfort.

But he also noticed men stopping to talk to one another. From the serious expressions on their faces, he wondered what was going on. Maybe the storm damaged their places—homes, barns, livestock—although such discussions wouldn’t exclude the womenfolk. . . . Erik shrugged.
I’m probably not the only one who shields my wife from unpleasant discussions.

Antonia’s face brightened. “There be Pamela and John. Oh, I hope to meet their children.”

“I know them.” Henri skipped ahead a few feet and waved. “Hiya, Lizzy!”

Erik exchanged an astonished look with Antonia and felt himself relax. The boy’s despondency had weighed on him.

Lizzy Carter, holding her mother’s hand, wore a blue dress with lace at the cuffs and sleeves, a frock that looked like it cost more than the price of a cow. She gave Henri a shy smile and curled her hand in a tiny wave, and then tugged her mother in their direction.

Pamela Carter, stylish in a brown-and-cranberry plaid dress with balloon sleeves—a new style Daisy had coveted until her parents satisfied her craving by sending her a gown of the fashionable design—glanced their way and smiled. She bent to say something to Lizzy, and the two came over to them.

“My dear Antonia.” Pamela released her daughter and placed a hand on Antonia’s arm. “I’m
so
pleased to see you are looking well.” She glanced up at Erik. “And you, too.” She leaned over Camilla. “Let me see this dear one.”

Antonia held out the baby so Pamela could view her. “Oh, she’s grown so! Such lovely eyes.” She placed a hand over her heart. “The sight of her makes me teary.”

Sadness welled in Erik.
Don’t get me started.
He wanted to get through this day without becoming emotional.

Antonia shifted Camilla to one arm and took Pamela’s other hand. “She be makin’ me be teary sometimes, too.”

Pamela patted her chest as if pushing down her rising emotion. “Enough sentiment.” She lowered her hand. “Come meet my dear friends, Nick and Elizabeth Sanders.” She gestured to a couple talking to John. The woman held a baby.

As with the Carters, Erik didn’t know the Sanders except for an exchange of greetings. Even Daisy had been intimidated by the wealthy Boston belle who’d come to visit the Carters and ended up married to a local cowboy. The couple joined the Carters and the Thompsons as leaders of the town, although that group also included Banker Caleb Livingston, Reverend Norton, Dr. Cameron, the Cobbs—as unpleasant as they were—Ant Gordon the newspaper owner and his wife the schoolteacher, and now the new female sheriff, K.C. Granger.

Blonde, blue-eyed Elizabeth Sanders’s beautiful countenance was one a man could stare at.
If said man wasn’t married, of course.
She was plumper since the birth of her daughter but wore the serene glow of a contented wife and mother. The babe-in-arms, about five months older than Camilla, was bundled in a pink blanket. The mother glanced down at her child with a loving gaze.

I wonder if Daisy would have looked so after Camilla’s birth?
Somehow, he couldn’t see her taking the same delight in her daughter as Elizabeth Sanders did in hers. The thought made him feel disloyal, even more so because he suspected Antonia enjoyed being a mother far more than Daisy would have.

Jacques wiggled to get down.

Erik clamped his arms around him. Once on the ground, the boy would be filthy quicker than a dog could roll over.

“Pa,” Jacques demanded. “Paa!”

On second thought, perhaps it was better to let the boy get out his fidgets before the service, for containing a baa, haa, paaing Jacques would be well-nigh impossible.
Erik set the boy on his feet and held his hand, taking small steps while he walked and hoping the toddler would stay upright and out of the dirt.

Jacques seemed content enough, at least for now, toddling along at Erik’s side.

They reached the other couple.

John greeted them, his gaze lingering on Antonia’s face. He gave a slight nod and a satisfied smile. “Antonia, may I say you are looking better than when last I saw you?”

“I could hardly not be,” she said in a teasing tone.

John’s lips turned up. “Yes, definitely better.” He laid a hand on the shoulder of the man next to him, who wasn’t much older than Erik. “May I introduce my godson, Nick Sanders, and his lovely wife, Elizabeth, who happens to be Pamela’s best friend.”

Antonia was taller than both women, closer to Nick Sanders’s height, and not without her own appeal.

Elizabeth sent them a glance of compassion. “Pamela and John shared with us your tragic circumstances. I’m sorry Nick and I weren’t in town at the time to support you through your ordeal.”

Her genuine graciousness surprised him—
not
what he would have suspected from a former East Coast socialite. “We were well supported.” He nodded at John. “A debt I can never repay.”

“Nonsense,” John said. “As I told you before, in this town, we help each other out.”

Pamela laughed. “Why, the first day after I arrived here from Boston, newly married to John, the entire town turned out to welcome me.”

Making a comical face, John leaned over as if to confide in Antonia. “And all of them came straight away to clean out and freshen up the hovel my house had become. Thank goodness they did, else Pamela might have turned around and high-tailed back to Boston.”

The men laughed.

“Never.” Pamela wrapped her hand around her husband’s arm. “Luckily, they all brought food, else I’d have been sunk, for John’s larder contained only beans and beef.”

Elizabeth bent closer to Antonia. The breeze wafted a hint of her perfume. “How is the baby doing?”

“Everyone’s wanting to be seeing. . .
to see
our Camilla. Perhaps I should just hold her up in front of me like a sign,” Antonia joked.