Healing Montana Sky by Debra Holland Page B

his head, as if the gesture would give his brain some energy to think. “Her best dress, I guess.” But then he paused and held up his hand, signaling her to wait. Daisy was awfully proud of her navy-blue dress with the puffed sleeves and the lace around the collar and neck—the one her parents had sent her at Christmas. But he’d loved his wife in her second-best dress, a light blue shirtwaist and skirt that made her eyes match the sky. That’s the one. He described it to Antonia.
    Giving a nod, she vanished into the house.
    Erik walked over to the pitcher and ewer, set on a bench at the end of the porch, and washed his face and hands. With a sigh, he settled down to wait. For the first time, fatigue hit him, and he realized it had been a long time since he’d slept. He thought about getting up and poking around the kitchen for something to feed his guests, but he didn’t have the strength. Thank goodness, Mrs. Cameron had sent along a basket of food. That will have to do.
    Mrs. Norton came out onto the porch. She looked at him, compassion in her eyes, and nodded.
    It is time. With a heavy sigh, he stepped over the threshold and into his comfortable main room.
    On the braided rug, Mrs. Carter knelt in front of Jacques, holding his hands and letting him bounce up and down. “Ma, Ma, Ma,” he chanted, grinning.
    Antonia sat in the rocking chair, nursing Camilla. She looked up when he entered, her eyes shadowed. She didn’t say anything.
    But Erik could feel her gaze on him as he crossed the room to enter the bedroom. He paused at the door, then with a deep breath forced himself to enter.
    His wife lay on the big bed, a cover pulled up to her shoulders. She looked almost relaxed, her eyes half-lidded, her mouth slightly open.
    If he squinted, he could believe she slept. But when Erik touched her hand, he failed to feel any warmth, any life, and he knew Daisy was really gone.
    Erik let out a slow exhale, maybe the first deep breath he’d taken since this whole tragedy started. He dragged the ladder-back chair to the side of the bed and settled onto it. He rubbed his hand down Daisy’s unresponsive arm, desperately wishing she’d open her eyes and come back to him. Yet at the same time, he knew she wouldn’t.
    Baby Jacques crawled through the open door. He reached Erik’s leg and pulled himself up. The baby solemnly glanced up at Erik and patted his knee, as though comforting him.
    Erik gave Jacques a small smile.
    The baby reached out one chubby hand toward the bed, trying to touch Daisy.
    At first, Erik was tempted to push away Jacques’s hand. But something in the little one’s face stayed him—curiosity, but also tenderness beyond his years. It seemed to him as if briefly an old soul peeked through those dark eyes, lending an elder’s wisdom and compassion to the baby’s countenance.
    With one finger, Jacques touched Daisy’s hand in a tender gesture that brought tears to Erik’s eyes. He rubbed a hand over the boy’s black curls, feeling a connection to the child, akin to the love he had for Camilla.
    The wise look on the boy’s face faded, and then Jacques was only a baby, whose legs gave out. He plumped down on his bottom, then turned, and crawled out the door.
    Erik stared after the baby, feeling awe and the first stirrings of peace since Daisy had gone into labor. Then he pushed the strange incident to the back of his mind and turned his attention to his wife. “Daisy, we have a beautiful daughter. Thank you for giving her to me. I swear I will do everything in my power to keep her alive and happy.”
    He paused, not wanting to say the next words. “For Camilla’s sake, Daisy, my love, I’ve taken another wife. I think you would like her. She’s saved our baby, Daisy. And for that alone, she’ll have my undying gratitude.”
    A fanciful thought struck him, and he stopped to think it over, feeling that maybe it wasn’t so fanciful after all. “Perhaps, my dearest, you already know this.