The Brushstroke Legacy (24 page)

She turned off the lamp, blew out the lantern, and pulled her air mattress and sleeping bag over to the rectangle of white splashed across the floor, so she could watch the moon as she fell asleep.

As soon as the sky lightened Ragni hauled herself out of her sleeping bag. How wonderful a shower would feel. Or the river. Hearing her mother’s voice admonishing that one always swam with a partner, she gathered towel and soap, donned her dirty clothes to wash while she wore them, and slid her feet into her thongs. After grabbing the long stick by the door, she took the path to the river, thumping and swishing the stick as she went along. Even the birds sounded sleepy, their
voices more chirps than song. She stepped out of her thongs, put a foot in the water, yelped and backed up, took a run, and did a flat-out racing dive. Fast entry did not keep her from screeching when her face cleared the water.

She let her feet down to see how deep the water was, stroked back toward the log, and stood when her feet found the bottom. So much for fancy shampoos. She soaped her hair, arms, clothes, and the rest of her. Then she ducked and rinsed. Floating face up, she let the current carry her away, then rolled over and breaststroked back to the log. Swimming against the current made her realize how deceptive the lazy water appeared. She staggered from the water, pushing her hair out of her face with both hands. What a shame she’d waited this long to swim. Yes, it was chilly but, after the first shock, bearable. As she strolled across the berm between river and cabin, a mist hung over the hay field. A meadowlark heralded the rising sun, not yet visible above the hills on the other side.

“I don’t want to go back to Chicago—yet.” She realized she’d just put voice to a thought that had been growing, especially since she’d started painting. Was there any chance she could ask for an extension? Ha, James hadn’t wanted her to leave in the first place, and she still hadn’t figured out who sabotaged the project. Though she’d promised herself to work it through during these three vacation weeks, she hadn’t given it much thought.

The morning breeze blew chill through her wet clothes. She shook her head hard enough to spray some of the water out. Once back at the cabin, she dried off, pulled her dirty jeans back on, added a denim shirt she knotted at the waist, and pumped the stove to heat the coffee.
I’ll scrub in that next room until the light is better, and then
I’ll paint.
A shiver of excitement accompanied a drip of water running down her back. The painting of the storm still sat in shadow. She took the one of the pond from the easel and set the other one where the sun would reach it. Her gaze kept returning to the painting as she poured water from the jug into a cup to go brush her teeth. After all these years of not painting, could she transfer the image she’d seen in her mind to the canvas? And bring it to life?

How will I know if she’s gone in the river?

Nilda stopped at the edge of the flowing water. Shading her eyes, she looked up the river and down. No little girl on the bank. No sign that she had been there. Nilda spun and charged back up the path. Would she have gone to find the men? She’d never disobeyed like this before.
Why, oh Lord, is she not sitting on the stoop like I told her? You said You protect Your children. Please keep her safe.

Back at the road she headed toward the barn. “Eloise!”

“Ma?” The voice came faintly.

She heard feet pounding the ground and shaded her eyes with her hand. Mr. Peterson was running across the field. Was something wrong with Hank? “Eloise!” she called again.

“Ma.”

But where was she?

Mr. Peterson leaped up on the deck around the windmill pump and paused. She followed his gaze, and her heart jumped. Eloise clung to the rungs near the top of the ladder.
Be calm. Do not frighten her.
Such wise words when she wanted to scream.
Do not frighten her!
All
the while she trotted toward the pump, she kept her eyes on the man now swiftly climbing the ladder.

As she drew near, she could hear him: “just hang on, baby. Hang on there, that’s a good girl. Don’t move.”

He clamped an arm around her and clutched the ladder for an interminable moment.

Nilda clung to the bottom of the ladder, and her tears made the scene above her shimmer in the sunlight. She was safe, her baby was safe.
Tusen takk, Father God, oh, thank You.
She couldn’t say the words for the gratitude swelling her throat. She watched as the man’s scarred boots found their place coming down, one rung at a time.

Back on the platform he turned and handed Nilda her daughter. White lines bracketed his mouth and eyes. “We’ll finish that fence tomorrow, with a latched gate.”

“Th-thank you. Mange takk.”
I cannot say thank you enough.
She waited, expecting him to yell at her, knowing she deserved any and all recriminations. She covered her daughters head with kisses, all the while keeping her gaze locked on his.

He sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes, slowly opening them again on a long exhale. “I’ll take the bottom rungs off this ladder before night.” While speaking, he pulled his leather gloves off and slapped them against his leg. “But there are many dangers here for one so little as she.”

“Ja, I know. She never left the stoop or the garden before. I don’t know why…” Now that the danger was past, Nilda felt like shaking her daughter, but gratitude allowed her to kiss Eloise’s hair and cheek again.

“You might tie a long rope on her.” He shoved his gloves in a back pocket. “And anchor her to the clothesline post.”

“I’m sure the fence will be sufficient. Thank you again.” She settled Eloise on her hip and turned away. Tie her up? Like a dog? She resented what he’d said—yet at the same time, perhaps that was a good idea. There was so much to capture the attention of an inquisitive girl who’d never had the energy to be curious before. As she walked back to the house, the desire to stop and look back at him slowed her step.
Don’t you do that
, she ordered herself. The memory of his horror-stricken eyes stayed with her.

After putting Eloise down for a nap, she tried to calm herself by stirring up a batch of cookies. Usually rolling out the dough made her feel peaceful. Not today. The dough stuck to the rolling pin, and the oven was hotter than she thought, so one pan of cookies nearly burned. She cleaned up her mess and gave up. The only thing that worked when she was in turmoil like this was painting or drawing. She brought out the pieces of paper and sat down with her pencil.

Nilda stared at the drawing on the brown paper.
What could I use to make paint?
If only she could paint the cow the deep red of its coat that set off the white face; the blue of the sky and the blue of Eloise’s shift, the many shades of green in the grass and trees. Might the red rocks of the buttes be used for red? If she could pulverize it fine enough and mix it with some kind of oil? The memory of the paints and supplies she’d left behind brought burning tears.

“Uff da! Be content with what you have. You know that’s what God’s Word says. You have paper and pencil. That’s far more than many other folks have.” She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Somehow the inner scolding didn’t carry a lot of weight at the moment.
When I get paid, perhaps I can buy some paints. But where?

Staring down at the drawing, she shook her head, smiling both inside and out. The picture of Eloise attacking that young steer was priceless, although the horns on its head had given her pause. Hank used the horns for various things. Right now he was replacing the broken handle on a knife with one of horn. He’d said deer antlers were useful for lots of things too, including buttons if one had a saw small enough to cut them and a drill for the holes.

She eyed the growing stack of letters to be mailed. She had yet to find time to learn to drive the horses so she could go to town, especially since they worked from dawn to dusk too.
Where there is a will, there is a way.
Her mother had quoted that saying as much as her Bible verses.
When I get to town, I will ask the store owner about paint and brushes.
Since she would be using her own money, surely Mr. Peterson would have no objections. She would also need a mortar and pestle. Perhaps Hank could figure out a way to make those for her. He seemed able to make most anything. Gratitude warred with guilt every time she thought of Eloise on the windmill.
How could I have let her get out of the yard like that?

Sitting there in the quiet, she let her thoughts roam as her fingers drew a windmill. She had extra butter but no way to keep it cool so it wouldn’t go rancid. She could make cheese with all the milk, if she had a cheese press—and if she had rennet as a starter. If she took butter and cream to town, would someone want to buy it? So many ifs.

Since haying was nearly finished, she decided she should mention her ideas. They would need a root cellar for the bounty from her garden. Perhaps she was making too many changes in his house and life, but…

“Ma?” Eloise called from the bedroom.

“Ja, come in here.”

Eloise peeked around the door, waved, and dodged back.

“I see you.” What a giggler her daughter was becoming, livelier every day. “I see milk and bread with sugar for a good girl. And even a cookie.”

Eloise, barefoot because the floor was now sanded smooth, darted in to lean against her mother’s knee. “I be good.”

Oh, thank You, Lord. Thank You for Mr. Peterson, who saved this little one, and thank You he didn’t yell at me.

“I know you are.” She put aside her papers and hugged her daughter close. “You climb up on your chair, and I’ll fix a bowl for you, but you must say please.”

“Please.” Her most winning smile accompanied the word.

Nilda broke a slice of bread into small pieces, poured milk over it, and sprinkled sugar on top. While Eloise ate, Nilda creamed butter and sugar in a bowl, broke in eggs, and set out the remaining ingredients for a spice cake. Mr. Peterson had told her how much he enjoyed the last one. The man did enjoy his sweets—almost as much as she enjoyed making them.

With the cake in the oven, she and Eloise went out to the garden to weed, a never-ending chore but one they both liked. When Eloise brought her a fat worm, Nilda admired it and told her to put it back in the earth to help the garden grow.

“Worms like that are good for fishing.” Mr. Peterson leaned against the corner of the house.

Nilda swallowed her shock. How long had he been watching them? “Hank said he uses grasshoppers.” She scooped up a pile of weeds and threw them in the corner of the plot so they could rot and help keep the weeds down along the edges of the garden.

“But worms are better. You want to go fishing?”

Do I want to go fishing?
“I have a cake in the oven. A spice cake, and there are cookies in the crock.”
Now if he’d asked me if I wanted fish for supper, I’d know to say yes, of course.

“Then I shall go fishing myself. I’ve a hankering for fried fish.”

“Maybe next time.” Where that came from, she wasn’t sure.

“Maybe.” He turned away, whistling as he went.

She’d not heard him whistle before. Was that a sign of happiness? Tonight might be a good time to mention building a cooling house like she’d heard of.

She’d returned to the kitchen when Hank showed up with a tow sack of green leaves. “You cook these with bacon or a bit of ham, tastes real good.”

“Where did you find them, and what are they?”

“Sorrel. There’s a patch downriver a bit on the edge of that swampy area. They’re usually all gone by now. They like the cooler weather of spring.”

“What other wild things could we use?”

“Well, you saw the juneberries. There are more ripe, and I’ll go pick some.”

“Would they make good jam?”

“Yep, for sure. And syrup for pancakes. The Indians used to dry
them, like raisins. Up the draw there are chokecherry bushes. Good for jelly and syrup. Later there will be crab apples. Jellied, juiced, pickled. The strawberries are all done, but I’ll show you where they are next spring. The Indians eat cattail roots, but I don’t care much for ’em.”

“Thank you. I’ve heard of wild onions. Do they grow around here?”

“They do, but I don’t think they are ready yet. I’ll watch for them and show you.”

“Do you ever go out where the rock is red?”

“Sometimes.”

“Can a wagon go there?”

“Some places.”

“I thought to make a stone ring around each of my trees, to protect them. The red rock would look good, almost like bricks.”

“Your baby trees got over the wilt right away.”

“Ja.” At first she wasn’t sure the little trees would survive, but a bucket of water every day that it didn’t rain did the trick. “I think anything will grow here.”

“Ja, if it gets water and the grasshoppers don’t get it all.”

“Grasshoppers? What you fish with?”

“Sometimes they come in huge hordes and devour everything in their path. Fly in like a black cloud. Ain’t much you can do about them. They like anything green. Even been known to eat clothes right off the line. ’Course then there are hailstorms too. We got our hay up in good time this year.”

Nilda blinked and blinked again. “Surely you are making a joke.”

“Nope, no joke. You got a can for me to put juneberries in?”

“The milk pail be all right?”

He took it from the hook on the wall and walked off, whistling.

Juneberries boiled and sweetened would be good on top of spice cake. When she thought of all the good things she used to cook for her last family, she shook her head. Was money a problem? Mr. Peterson had bought all she asked for, but her list had been basic. She reminded herself to write tapioca on the list when she went inside. They lived without so many of the things that made life comfortable. Feather beds. Gaslights, running water, books, spices, cupboards with doors instead of just open shelves—beauty. Had the men lived on bacon and beans, along with whatever they hunted, all winter and summer too?