The Brushstroke Legacy (22 page)

“That’s what I told her,” Erika said.

“And it appears to me your vacation time is flying by,” he added.

“It is, and there is so much to do.” Ragni stared at the bags of supplies, the standing easel legs poking out of the plastic.
Have I ever felt
like this before
—
that if I don’t paint, I might dissolve, become like those puddles out in the road? That if I don’t paint, I might quit breathing for the air would be gone?
She went to stand in the open doorway, to inhale rain-washed air.

“Does it all have to be done in these two weeks? Once the roof is replaced and the place is weatherproofed again, you can come back.” He cleared his throat. “If you want to, that is. I know this is nothing like the life you lead in the big city.”

“The light is too poor to see well enough to paint.”
It won’t be when the sun comes out again. Use this time to get set up. Is everyone against me, or is it just me?

“You’re welcome to come to my house. That big window overlooking the meadow ought to give you plenty of light.”

But you don’t understand. The only other time I was even close to feeling like this, I painted around the clock.
Standing in the doorway, the mist blowing into her face, she remembered.

The riot of color in a flower garden—she’d taken a zillion pictures and had them blown up, cropped, push-pinned all around her, everywhere she looked was color and form, light and shadow. She drew the outlines on her easel, almost holding her breath at the thrill of it. A big canvas, three feet by five, vertical on the easel. She drew papery poppies, spikes of delphinium, red-hot pokers, and hollyhocks. Clumps of hostas and feathery grasses. A rock green with lichen. A birdhouse weathered silver.

When she started with the first stroke of phthalo green, she forgot time and the world that existed around her. When it was finished, so was she. She slept for three days.

That was before I got that promotion. Before I worried so much
about time. Before Dad…
She’d never again captured that feeling, that joy in creating. Oh, she’d enjoyed working on advertising designs; after all, that’s what paid the bills. And she’d puttered with some landscapes, some never finished because she lost either the time or the inclination.

Her coffee had gone cold. She made a face and crossed to the coffeepot for a refill.

“Well, I better get on home,” Paul said, eying the brightening sky. “Erika, you want to come play with Sparky now?”

“Sure.” She came and stood by Ragni who was back to staring out the south door, watching the patch of blue expand.

“Mom always said that a patch of blue the size of a Dutchman’s britches meant the sun was coming back out,” Ragni said.

“Grammy has some strange sayings.”

“I wonder what Great-grandma would say?”

“She’d probably say quit mooning around and get your chores done.”

Ragni sighed. “So why did she hide her paintings?”

“You found some of her art?” Paul poured water in his cup and rinsed it out.

“Up there, on the backs of the cupboard walls.” Erika brought the stepstool out and set it in front of the cupboard where the rosemaling had waited all these years for someone to appreciate it.

Paul climbed up and peered into the cupboard. “My mother’s mother used to do this. She and Nilda Peterson were good friends. My mother did a lot of sewing and gardening, never painting. I’m sure there’s stuff packed away in the attic. Next time you come over we’ll have to look.”

“Do you know much about my great-great-grandma?” Ragni asked.

“Not a lot, but there were some of her paintings on the walls when Einer lived here. I’m going to have to ask Mom and Dad if they know anything more. How about dinner on Sunday? I’ll get more of the family together so you can meet them, ask them questions. If things dry out, I should start haying, but Mom has a fit if she catches any of us working on Sunday. You’re welcome to come to church with me, if you like.”

Erika rolled her eyes but kept her mouth shut.

Ragni studied the man, who so offhandedly planned a family gathering and didn’t miss church to do so. Who also obviously respected what his mother had to say. Was he a mama’s boy? She almost snorted at the thought.
Not hardly.

The blue patch outside doubled and tripled in size, melded with another. “Oh, look. A rainbow.”

Erika joined her at the doorway. A dazzling arch, colors clear and crystalline, hung against the hills across the valley. Ragni closed her eyes to block out this new scene that screamed,
Paint me, paint me!

“You coming, Erika?” Paul asked.

Ragni watched them file out the door, then raised her voice. “You got any lanterns over there that I could borrow?”

“Sure do, we’ll bring ’em when we come back.”

The truck hadn’t gone two yards away from the cabin before Ragni had the easel upright and was tightening the screws on the legs.
Hurry, hurry, before you lose it.
The orders drummed in her head like the rain had on the roof. Hurry was right.
Why in the world have I been wasting my time arguing about it?

He never said haying would be one of her chores.

Nilda stared at the man giving the orders for the day and wondered if she’d heard right.
How can I cook and clean if I am driving a wagon of hay?

“I can’t get anyone else to help until tomorrow, and we need to get it stacked before it gets rained on.”

“I see.”
No, I don’t, I don’t see at all. Is it not enough that I need to weed the garden, and I had hoped to go to work on the floor with the sandstone? Along with cream to churn and
… Her day’s list of chores was as long as her right arm.

“Two days and we should be finished with this cutting.”

Nilda glanced down at her daughter, who was playing with her fingers, throwing shadows on the floor in her spot of sunlight.

“She can come too.” Mr. Peterson had yet to say Eloise’s name. “She can ride on the hay wagon.”

He started to say something else, then snapped, “The cattle have to have feed in the winter.” He turned and stormed out the door.

Nilda watched him through the kitchen window. She’d not said no. He’d not given her much chance to say anything. Why was he
so angry? While she’d questioned inside herself, she’d not even frowned—had she? He was the boss; she worked for him. Of course she would do what he said. But never having driven one horse before, let alone a team, she certainly hoped he would teach her how.

“Come, little one, we are going to ride on the wagon.” She bound a kerchief over her hair, changed her inside apron to her outside apron, put a couple of cookies in her pocket for Eloise, and headed out. Good thing the rabbit stew was baking in the oven. She would put dumplings on it when they stopped for dinner.

The flat wagon now had a high rack in front and one in back. It waited by the water tank where both horses were now slobbering water on Hank, who stood at their heads.

“Hey, there, Eloise, want to pet the horses?” He beckoned her over and lifted her up to stroke the dark neck. “Good horse. Someday you can ride him.”

Again Nilda shuddered inside at the thought of her little daughter so high up. She looked like a fairy sprite with her flyaway hair and faded red shift. Nilda stared at the wagon. How was she supposed to get up on that bed?

“Come over here.” Mr. Peterson beckoned from the wagon. “You can climb up the rack and slip under this bar.”

Nilda nodded, trying to swallow her heart back where it belonged. She was supposed to drive this wagon—piled high with hay.
Dear God, be with me.
She set her foot on the low bar of the front rack and, bracing one hand on the wagon bed, reached for the higher bar. Then just as he’d said, she swung herself up and under in one almost-smooth motion. One thing was certain, she had gained more strength with all the raking and hoeing she’d been doing. Hank set Eloise up
on the wagon bed beside her mother and swung himself up by bracing his arms on the edge and lifting his body up and around. He turned to look at her over his shoulder.

“Been doing this for some time.”

“I see.”

Eloise clapped her hands and ran across the boards to him with a giggle.

“Back by me.” Nilda used the brace on the front rack to pull herself to her feet.

“Come see how to drive the team.” Mr. Peterson nodded to the two long leather reins that attached to the horses’ harnesses.

Nilda went to stand beside him at the front of the wagon, her arms through the tall rack that would brace the hay and matched the one attached to the back of the extended wagon bed. Looking down on the horses’ backs made her aware how big they really were. She closed her eyes for a moment, rocking with the wagon as the horses plodded toward the gate to the hay field.
You can do this.

“You hold the reins like this, one in each hand, and when you pull on the right rein, the team will turn to the right. Same with the left. To make them go, you flap the reins like this.” With a flick of the wrist, he sent a wave down the reins. The horses picked up their feet a little faster. “To stop, you pull back evenly and say
whoa.
You don’t jerk the reins, you keep them even. Sam on the right side has a habit of hanging back and letting Ted do all the pulling so sometimes you flick his rein, show him you know what he is doing.” He handed her the reins. “Which rein will you pull to turn into the field?”

“This one.” She lifted the right one. “But how much do you pull?”

“Until they turn.”

Don’t waste any words, Mr. Peterson, they are worth so much.
As they neared the gate, she glanced at him.
Do I pull now or wait until we get there?
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth.
Now? Wait? What?

“Pull now.”

She pulled on the right rein, surprised that it felt so heavy. The horses turned and walked through the middle of the open space.

“Turn left. We’ll start between those first windrows. All you have to do is keep up with us so that we can fork the hay up on the wagon.”

“I see.” He must’ve meant the long rows of dried grass that had been turned and raked. She pulled back on the reins and told the team, “Whoa.”

“Why did you stop?”

“So you could get off.”

Mr. Peterson shook his head. “We’ll let you know when to stop.”

By the time they’d crossed the field and back, she had it down fairly well, keeping both men in her side sights as they heaved huge forkfuls of hay up on the wagon. As the load grew, one or the other would climb aboard and distribute the hay more evenly. Hank always had a word of cheer for both her and Eloise, while Mr. Peterson just grunted.

“We will be up for dinner as soon as we unload this one, so stop here at the house.”

Nilda stopped the team and stared around.
How do we get down?

“Over here.” Mr. Peterson called.

Nilda looped the reins around a post. Taking Eloise by the hand, she bounced her way toward the edge. She looked over to see Mr. Peterson waiting.

“Just slide off. I will catch you.”

She could feel her eyes widen as if she had no control over them. “But Mr. Peterson, this is not proper.”

He tipped his fedora-style hat back on his head and rolled his eyes. “Just sit the child down, and she’ll show you how.”

“Her name is Eloise.” Instead of clapping her hand over her mouth, Nilda raised her chin, her sunburned chin. Her face felt on fire. Both the men wore hats; she had to have a hat to protect her from that glaring sun.

“I know that.” He stepped closer to the wagon. “Come on, Eloise. Slide down.”

“Like Ma,” Nilda said as she sat down. “And slide.” She gave her daughter a gentle push. While she shrieked on the way down, Eloise landed in Mr. Peterson’s arms, clamped her little hands around his neck, then looked back at her mother with a big grin. “Slide, Ma.”

Mr. Peterson set Eloise down on the ground and looked up at Nilda, one eyebrow cocked in an “I dare you” fashion. Her brothers had often looked at her just that way. “I dare you.” They’d said it too. Nilda closed her eyes and scooted off. With a rush that lifted her stomach into her throat, she slid down the slick hay and right into Joseph Peterson’s arms. He took a step backward, at the same time letting her get her balance.

“See?” He stared for one brief moment into her eyes, his hands warm on her sides.

“Ja.” She forced the word past the sudden closing in her throat. Stepping back so she could breathe again, she murmured, “Mange takk,” and headed for the house. If she’d thought her face hot from the sun, now the heat went clear down her front—every place that they had touched. “Come, Eloise, we must get dinner.”

After a stop at the outhouse, Nilda washed her hands in the wash basin on the bench by the door and dried them on the towel. After untying the kerchief, she shook out the hay seeds and brushed as much as she could from her clothing. When she was finally back in the house, she added more wood to the fire and pulled the cast-iron pot of stew out of the oven.

She mixed eggs, flour, salt, baking powder, and a bit of cream, dropped the dumplings in the bubbling stew, and set the iron lid half on. If only he had told her earlier that she would be helping with the haying, she would have baked more the day before. As it was, they had one loaf of bread left and half a cake. Even though she’d put canned beans in the stew, she opened another can and set them on to heat. After all the full-course meals she’d served in the houses back east, this seemed a paltry performance.

While dinner finished cooking, she rinsed off the dishes she’d left in the dishpan on the stove and handed the plates, one at a time, for Eloise to put on the table. When she still had a few minutes, she sat down at the churn and raised the handle. The raise, thunk, and swish rhythm were the sounds she was used to, not the jingling of harness and the squeal of wagon wheels.

Eloise came to stand beside her mother. “Slide more.”

“Ja, I’m sure we will.” Was it a sin to look forward to that slide also?—for a far different reason.

She dreamed of Joseph that night, that “I dare you” look, the feel of his arms catching her. So when the other man and his half-grown son
showed up in the morning to take their places on the wagon, she felt a pang of regret. But no matter how much her shoulders ached, she’d proven that she could do the job. Accomplishment was such a satisfying feeling.

The next afternoon, she cut out sunbonnets for her and Eloise, wondering what she could use to stiffen the brims. She had no wool to felt, starch would sag under the perspiration, and leather was too heavy. When she asked Mr. Peterson if he had any ideas, he shook his head. While they surely had buckram at the general store, he had no time to go to town.

“I didn’t ask you to go to town. I asked if you had any ideas.” Her words fell softly in the lamplight.

He thought for a long moment. “Whalebone?”

She shook her head. She’d given up corsets the year Eloise was born. Slim waists and high bosoms were more a hindrance than a help.

“Willow twigs?”

Nilda nodded. “That could work.” It might look strange, but anything to keep from getting sunburned would be a help. “Is the store open on Sunday?”

“No. Why?”

“I thought when we went to church…”

His eyes narrowed. “No.”

“No…what?”

“No, we don’t go to church.”

Don’t go to church? Too far? Too busy? Nilda puzzled on his words. “B-but I want to go to church. We always, or at least most
Sundays, went to church.” Unless Eloise was too sick. “Sunday is the Lord’s day.”

“Maybe so, but…” He shook his head. “Not driving clear to town for church.”

She shifted her gaze back to the needle and thread in her hand.
We’ll see about that.

While the men hayed, Nilda weeded her garden, delighting with Eloise when the feathery fronds of carrots greened their rows, the peas sent out their first tendrils, and the rounded potato leaves spread for the sun. Dreams of the meals she would cook with fresh food and visions of jars filled for winter made her smile as she wiped away the perspiration. The willow-stiffened brim worked.

From now on, Nilda carried any dirty dishwater from the house to the bucket set in the aisles between the rows. Eloise delighted in giving each plant a drink, using one of the cups that had a chip in it. She dipped her cup in the bucket, leaned over, and dribbled the water around the beans and along the carrots, each hill of corn and the next, all the while humming her little song, as if singing the plants into growing.