Gingham Mountain (8 page)

Honesty forced Grace to admit that wasn’t purely true. In the very beginning she’d wanted to punch him pretty regularly. But lately only once. Exactly three years and nine months ago.

A body hurled past the window. The glass in the window rattled, but it didn’t break for a change.

She lowered her hand to her stomach, did some quick figuring, and raised her eyes to her husband. And by golly she almost did punch him then.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“What?” He straightened away from her, alarmed.

“This is your fault.”

He arched his eyebrows. “Most things usually are.”

“It had better be a girl this time.”

Daniel froze, staring at her as if she’d grown a full set of longhorns. Then he screamed and ran out of the house.

Which was only what she expected.

He left the door open so she could watch him as he vanished into the trees. How long would it take him to calm down this time? She also apologized to her little unborn daughter for the torture that was in store for her from her brothers.

The table, teetering on three legs, crashed over on its side. Grace sank back into her rocker, and her eyes fell shut. No way would this baby be anything but another unruly little boy. There was something wrong with Daniel that he could only make boy children.

A stick flew in through the window, shattering the glass. The stick landed near her feet and shards of glass rained down on her. She didn’t bother to get up. She could brush the glass off later.

She unfolded Hannah’s letter and read it again, more slowly this time. There was no denying that her sister was in reach for the first time in years.

She had to get out of here a few times this winter. Going to see Hannah was the perfect solution.

She looked down at her stomach and conjured up the only voice she had that the boys obeyed. With a jab of her finger straight at her belly, she said, “And there’d better only be one of you in there!”

T
hey were still a merry band when they got to town.

Grant thought they’d made it just in time. Benny ran ahead and as good as erupted into church. Grant saw the minute he followed his last child in that services had already started. Grant, with Libby hoisted in his arms so she could keep up, immediately began shushing the kids to settle them down and let Parson Babbitt go on with his prayers. But Grant had his hands full curbing their high spirits, especially with the two youngest boys.

The parson gave him a kind smile and moved along with his preaching.

Grant had learned to expect a strong shoulder and a kind heart from Parson Babbitt. And the rest of the congregation spared Grant quick glances and smiles. Not all of the citizens of Sour Springs were kind, but the people who worshipped in this little white church on Sunday were good to the orphaned children in their midst.

Grinning down the two rows his family filled, he settled in with his squirming, whispering family and had almost relaxed when he caught the snippy woman from the train depot looking over her shoulder at him. Glaring her disapproval, she might as well have shouted at him from across the room.

Grant realized that his sons all still had their hats on. He reached over and pulled them off Benny’s and Charlie’s heads. Joshua caught
on and tugged his off. As Grant dropped Benny’s snow-soaked wool hat onto his lap, Grant realized he still wore his own battered Stetson. Feeling his cheeks heat under Miss Cartwright’s glare, he tugged it off, looking straight forward. Miss Fussbudget oughta keep her eyes to the front, too.

About that time, the parson announced that Hannah was the new schoolteacher in Sour Springs and that school would start Monday.

Grant’s heart sank. He’d dealt with teachers many times who thought orphans somehow didn’t deserve to be given the education that other children received. Try as he might to control his rising temper and listen to the sermon, the devil gnawed at his good nature, and Grant kept looking back at the stiff-necked Miss Cartwright, rehearsing the set-down he’d like to give her. He knew already that his children wouldn’t last a week in her school.

Settling into a slouched lump of irritation, he knew they wouldn’t last two days. No matter what happened that first day, even if Miss Prim-and-Proper Hannah didn’t throw his kids out, some parent would get in a snit about some story a child brought home from school and there’d be a group before Grant got there the next day. Of course, the Brewsters had moved, so it wouldn’t get as nasty as most years, but he’d still end up schooling his young’uns at home.

When it came time for music, Josh went to the front by the parson and played his mouth harp for the whole church. It was the only musical instrument in Sour Springs. It lifted Grant’s spirits briefly, but once the music stopped his mind went back to being snappish.

By the end of the service, the kids were fairly writhing in their seats as they looked fearfully out of one of the windows, afraid their precious snow was melting while they sat. When the parson said his last “amen” the children fell over themselves dashing outside to the buckboard.

Grant managed to thank Parson Babbitt for the service and apologize for the noise. “It’s the snow. They’re crazy to get their sleds going.”

The parson laughed and clapped him on the arm. “I was young
once, Grant. I well remember the sound of a sledding hill calling to me during church. Don’t keep them waiting.”

Harold hollered, “I put a bunch of pumpkins in your wagon, Grant. We had more ’n we knew what to do with.”

“Thanks, Harold, Mabel.” Grant nodded at the couple.

“We’re getting more eggs than we can eat, Grant.”

Grant turned to nod at Priscilla Denby and her husband. He knew they were sharing their meager supplies, but to save his pride they acted as if they had plenty. “God bless you, Priscilla. We’ll eat ’em up fast enough.” Grant had chickens of his own, but they could always use a few more eggs.

Grant saw several people setting boxes in the back of his wagon. He never got to church without having people send things home with him. He never asked for help, and he’d have managed without all the gifts, but the clothes and extra vegetables really helped.

“I put a bolt of fabric in your wagon, Pa.” Megan, one of his girls, married and soon to have her third child, waved. Before Grant could say hello, Megan was dragged by her five-year-old son, Gordy, toward her husband, Ian, and their wagon. Grant heard the boy yammering about sledding. Ian was one of Grant’s, too. That made Gordy Grant’s grandson.

“Let me go talk to Grandpa, Gordy.”

Twenty-seven and already a grandpa to a five-year-old. Grant had to smile.

Gordy kept tugging, yelling about the snow melting.

Soon to be three children in Ian and Megan’s family, the two they had had bright red hair like both their folks. Grant looked at his grown children, the O’Reillys, and saw their young’uns looking exactly like them.

Something caught in Grant’s throat a bit to know he’d never have a child who might have eyes the same strange color of light brown, speckled with yellow and green, as his. The odd color of his eyes always made him wonder if, somewhere out there, there might be an older woman with
eyes like his, or some other orphan child, deserted just like he’d been. Or could there be a man who never knew he had a child, who lay awake some lonely nights and wished for a son with greenish-yellow eyes?

Benny ran past, storming into the crowd of redheaded O’Reillys, and Grant shook off the silly feeling.
There’s nothing about my eyes I’d wish on a child.

Ian came up with Catherine, his toddler daughter perched on his hip. He clapped Grant on the shoulder. “Two more, huh, Pa? Heard about it.”

Grant nodded. Ian, only two years younger than Grant, had lived only a short time in Grant’s home. But he seemed to like the sound of the word Pa, even though Grant had told him to stop calling him that several times.

Pointing, Grant said, “The boy is Charlie. He’s already helping with the younger kids. And Libby is the little girl.” Grant watched as Joshua boosted Libby onto the back of the wagon. “She hasn’t talked since we brought her home. She’s gonna need special care.”

“You’re up to it, Pa.” Megan came up, winning her tug-of-war with Gordy. She tied her no-nonsense wool bonnet on her head. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Megan, his daughter, now gave him advice. It was pretty good advice, too. “Thanks. Appreciate it.”

Ian rested a hand on Megan’s waist, and she smiled a private smile at him.

That look made Grant’s stomach a little twitchy, but he wasn’t sure why.

“How’d you get them off the sledding hill this morning?” Megan asked.

“It wasn’t easy, especially since I didn’t want to quit either. And now we’ve got to run. They’re scared to death that the snow’ll melt out from under ’em.”

“It probably will.” Ian settled his Stetson on his head.

Gordy started jumping up and down, yanking on Megan’s hand. “Let’s go!”

Ian interceded. “You’re wearing your ma out. Dangle yourself from my hand for a while.”

Gordy giggled and dived at his father’s hand.

Megan rested one hand on her midsection and gave Ian a grateful smile.

“Pa, we’ve got to go!” Benny barreled into Grant’s leg, knocking him sideways.

Grant rested one gloved hand on Benny’s shoulder and grinned down at his son.

“Gordy was sledding before first light himself.” Megan laughed. “And he’s itching to go back. We’d better get a move on.”

Grant nodded good-bye as Benny grabbed his hand and dragged him toward the wagon. He plunked his hat onto his head and jogged along with his son. Benny let him loose, obviously convinced his pa was going to do the right thing.

Someone caught Grant’s sleeve. He recognized that insistent tug. His heart sank into his scruffy boots. He rolled his eyes but got them under control before he turned around to face Hannah.

“Mr. . . .Grant, I’m coming to visit you this afternoon.” She released his coat as if he might infect her with some disease born in filth. “I want to meet all the children I’m going to have in school.”

“We’ve got a busy afternoon, Hannah.” He used her first name just for the pleasure of annoying her. “We’ve got chores, and the children want to spend any spare time sledding. We won’t have time for company.”

“Mr. . . .Grant, I’m not asking permission,” she snapped. “I’m telling you I’m coming out. I want to see exactly the conditions these children are living in on your ranch. Why, you have them dressed in the next thing to rags. Their hair hasn’t seen a comb in days and—”

“We didn’t take time to change for church is all. They were sledding, and I let them go until we didn’t have a second for breakfast or cleaning
up.” Grant was annoyed with himself for explaining. He didn’t have to justify his actions.

“You haven’t fed them yet?” Hannah’s eyes flashed, and Grant wondered if she’d snatch the whip off his buckboard and thrash him with it. He was sure he could take her, but she had a lot of rage so he didn’t want to put it to the test.

“I feed my children, Hannah. And they have decent clothes.”

Benny came dashing back to Grant’s side, the brim of his woolen hat ripped halfway off the crown. His coat, a hand-me-down through a dozen boys, hanging in rags off his back.

“Can’t we go, Pa?” Benny danced around frantic. “I’m cold and hungry.”

Heat climbed up Grant’s neck. He looked down at his own coat, which was no better. He noticed the tip of his bare toe showing out of his right boot, a hole in the leather opening up to a hole in his sock. Of course they hadn’t worn their Sunday best to go sledding, and Benny’s coat might be ugly, but it was warmer than his good one, the one handed down through only about four sons.

Grant had to force himself to stand still and listen when his wildly impatient children dashed back and forth begging for him to come. He thought of all the cutting comments he’d rehearsed when he should have been worshipping, and the fact that he’d spent his church time wallowing in the sin of anger was all her fault.

He drew himself up to his full six feet. She wasn’t a tiny bit of a woman, at least five-six, but he still towered over her, mainly because his anger made him feel a lot bigger. “Miss Cartwright, I have had enough of your—”

“Pa.” Marilyn stood beside the two of them.

She diverted Grant’s attention from the scalding comments he wanted to make. Grant had spent the last ten years putting children ahead of himself. It was second nature to set aside what he was doing and listen when Marilyn talked.

“What is it?”

“I’d like for Miss Cartwright to visit. Maybe if she waited a couple of hours, let the children run off some of their steam on the sledding hill, she could drop in for a while this afternoon. The snow will be gone by then anyway.”

Grant’s teeth clicked together in frustration. He saw the children almost bouncing with impatience and felt the vibration of Hannah’s acute disapproval. It was too much pressure coming from all directions. He caved.

He turned with exaggerated politeness. “It would be a pleasure to have you drop by and visit. Come around three.”

Marilyn frowned a little at his tone then, with a half-amused shake of her head, went on to the wagon.

“You can stay for an hour. Interview the slaves. . .uh. . .I mean the children. Inspect the prison. . .that is. . .our home. Maybe we’ll give you a bit of gruel and some stale bread to eat before you set off for home.”

Hannah jammed her fists on her slender waist. “Mr. . . .Grant!”

Grant turned away and jumped up on the wagon seat without letting her finish. He turned back to her. “Are you deciding whether we’re worthy of the fine school here in Sour Springs, Hannah? If you are, don’t bother. I’ve already decided that your school isn’t worthy of my children.”

He released the hand break and slapped the reins against the horses’ backs. They snorted, tossed their heads, and jingled the traces, then pulled the creaking wagon away from the church. Grant left her standing in a swirl of snow. He knew he shouldn’t have been so rude. Why was it all right for her to be so nasty to him, but somehow he wasn’t supposed to be mean back?