Mary Connealy (85 page)

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?

“She’s just worried about us, Pa.” Sadie spoke as if she’d read Grant’s mind. “Maybe she’s seen orphans mistreated before. If she’s really trying to rescue us, then she’s not such a bad person. Having her out to visit will make everything better.”

“You’re right.” Grant shook his head slowly, wondering at himself. “But that woman does have a talent for bringing out the worst in me.”

Sadie patted his shoulder. “Your worst is still real good, Pa.” Sadie sank back to sit on the floor of the wagon box to wrangle with her brothers and sisters about who got first turn on the toboggan.

Grant let go of some of his bad temper. Fine, he’d let Hannah come out and inspect.

Then he thought of the home she’d be inspecting. If she came out to inspect, she’d see his tiny house and his hodgepodge of clothing and furniture. She’d see the scanty food he had on hand and find how many chores he asked his children to do.

His hands tightened on the reins to turn his team around to forbid her to come. Then, with a sinking heart, Grant let the horses go on. He could forbid till he was blue in the face, the stubborn woman would still visit. And whether her problem was disapproving of orphans or disapproving of him, she’d still do one or the other. So what difference did it make?

He sped the horses along and planned on another term of schooling his children himself.

“There he goes.” Prudence watched until Grant disappeared, then dropped the curtain and turned to Horace.

Horace sat at the kitchen table scooping stew into his mouth. Prudence looked at him with envy. He got to stay out of sight. He dressed in comfortable clothes and didn’t have to take a monthly bath. He had the easy half of this cheat.

“You should’a gone to church.” He spoke through a mouthful of food. “Good chance to meet him.”

Prudence rolled her eyes and sighed. “I
know!
You don’t need to tell me what I already know. I’ll go. I figured the storm’d be a good enough excuse to miss this mornin’. I can’t stand sitting there all morning listening to that preacher go on and on.”

Horace nodded as he shoved a biscuit into his mouth. “I’ve got the worst of it though.” He swallowed hard. “Digging in that stink hole.”

“It pays better’n sewing.” Prudence paced, her arms crossed, as she tried to figure out how to corner a man who barely showed his face in town and, when he did, was surrounded by that gaggle of children.

“Yeah, but I’m gettin’ real sick of it. Can’t you get your hooks in that man? You’re losin’ it, Prudy. Losin’ your looks. We’ve gotta make this score a’fore you’re an ugly old crone.”

“Shut up!” Prudence picked up a plate off the sideboard and was tempted to throw it at him. Anything to stop his mouth from telling her what she already knew.

“I’ve had a couple of people in LaMont ask me where I’m finding the oil. Mostly people don’t know what it is, or I s’pose they know and just don’t recognize its value. And I just put it on the train and ship it out fast so no one pays much mind. But a few have noticed. Last time I had to ride the wrong direction out of town then circle around before I lost a man tailing me. Digging that black gold out of the ground is hard work, and I hate it. But much as I hate it, I don’t want to lose it. This is our big score. We need to own it then sell it. We can go to California, buy a hacienda, and settle down for good. No more slavin’ our lives away. But it won’t happen if you don’t get your hooks into that man. You’re gonna lose everything for us.”

Prudence nodded. “I’m working on it. I may have found a way in, too. The man needs clothes—anyone can see that just by looking at the rags he and his children wear. I’m watching to catch him alone and that’s the tricky part. I’ve already offered to do sewing for him, but so far he keeps refusing. I suppose he’s got no money. But I’ll offer to work cheap. I’ll get him. My business is getting a little better. A few men want me to sew them a shirt from time to time. No more women than there are in town to sew, I’m making a slim go of it. But Grant’s never come in with an order.”

“Make it quick. You’re gonna have to come up with somethin’ better than sewin’ pretty soon. If you can’t get next to the man, how’re you gonna get him to marry with you?”

“Yeah, and how am I gonna be a widow who inherits his land if I can’t get him to marry me?”

“You’ve never had trouble before, Prudy. Use your head, use your body, use what’s left of that pretty face, and figure out a way to compromise that cowpoke. He don’t look like he’ll be any trouble to fool if you just once get your chance at him.”

“I am using my head. Why don’t you use yours? You shouldn’t be in here today. Someone’s gonna see that I’ve got a man staying with me. We’ll either have to lie about you being here or explain who you are, and then there’ll be questions we don’t want to answer.”

Horace stood from the table, swiping his sleeve across his mouth. “Too bad.”

“Well, when you’re found out, you’ll ruin everything.”

“Watch your mouth. I’m holding up my end of the bargain.” He strode across the room and shoved her back. “You hold up yours.”

“You dig in the dirt and keep your head down. I take all the risks. When he turns up dead, they’ll look to me, not you, you stupid oaf.” Prudent felt the thrill of fear that came when she goaded him, knowing how he’d react. “And now you’re ruining it by being in here. You’re a fool, Horace. A lowdown, half-witted, old coot.”

Horace backhanded her.

She slammed into the wall. Stars exploded before her eyes. Her tongue touched the blood pouring from her split lip.

Grabbing the collar of her dress, he drew back his fist.

“Not my face, you stinking pig!”

Ruthlessly, he squeezed until he cut off her air.

She clawed at his strangling hand. Her nails drew blood on his rough knuckles.

Wrenching her to her tiptoes, he went for her stomach.

H
umpf! Take those children right out from under my nose, will you?”

Hannah set out in the same direction she’d taken yesterday. Only this time she wasn’t blinded by a blizzard. Instead she was blinded by her temper.

All through the ride she talked to herself, working up her indignation. It helped to keep her mind off the unfriendly horse.

She’d barely taken the time to write her usual letter to Grace. Hannah made a point of mailing off a letter to Mosqueros every time it looked as if she’d be in one place for a while. But she’d always moved on before a letter could come, assuming Grace even got it. Assuming Grace was alive and could write back.

In her heart, Hannah knew Grace would never have had time to receive Hannah’s letter and write an answer. That gave Hannah hope for the sister who seemed to have vanished off the face of the earth almost four years ago. Had Parrish caught her? Was Grace, even now, back in Parrish’s clutches, living as a prisoner, forced into hard labor?

She had a few pennies left. Hannah wanted to send the letter quickly so Grace could have the news if the letter ever reached her.

The horse jumped sideways at its own shadow and Hannah almost fell off. She went back to paying attention to the horse.

And thinking of one ornery beast led her thoughts directly to another. Grant.

“Refuse to send them to my school?” Hannah found the thicket. The horse wanted to nibble.

“Say my school isn’t worthy?” She found the wagon wheel. The horse stopped to scratch his backside against it.

Prodding the old nag she’d rented, at last a tiny cabin appeared a mile or so in front of her, tucked in front of a ragged line of mountains. The ramshackle building was about a fourth the size of the barn that stood beside it.

Screaming erupted ahead.

Frantic, Hannah kicked her horse to get it moving. It reacted poorly to that and crow-hopped. It left Hannah behind on the second hop. She landed hard and broke through the rapidly melting snow to an impressive stand of buffalo burrs. Hannah heard her dress rip. The sound almost made her heart skip a beat. It was the only dress she had.

The horse, showing more energy than it had demonstrated up until now, took off running back the way it had come.

Hannah wanted to rub her sore backside and scold her horse and generally cry her eyes out, but the screaming kept her from doing any of that. She leapt to her feet and ran.

Grant dropped the reins on the horse he’d been leading in from the corral and ran.

He got inside the barn in time to see Benny reel backward and land on the seat of his pants.

Rushing past the other children, Grant grabbed Charlie’s upraised arm and wrenched the tree branch out of his hand.

“Give it back!” Charlie lunged at the branch.

Grant held it overhead, out of reach. Charlie clutched Grant’s arm and used it for leverage to jump at his weapon. Grant grabbed hold of the boy’s arms, and Charlie proceeded to kick him.

“Joshua, put my horse up.” Grant grunted with the impact of Charlie’s flailing hands and feet and glanced over his shoulder at his oldest son.

Marilyn rushed into the barn, carrying Libby. Sadie was right behind them.

“Yes, Pa.” Joshua was as tall as a man. Right now his intelligent brown eyes were grave. He went outside to round up the pinto gelding Grant had let loose on account of the screaming.

Marilyn, sixteen and as pretty as she was sweet—and relatively new to the family—said, “Let’s go in the house, Benny. We need to wash that cut.”