Mary Connealy (88 page)

Grant wondered what those burdens were, and if she’d had any luck forgetting. He didn’t think so. He thought his way was more honest. “It’s who I am. It’s
what
I am. Why try and forget something that is unforgettable?”

Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. She glanced at Libby in Grant’s arms, and the two females exchanged a long, secretive look.

Grant tightened his hold on his newest daughter. He’d have to keep a sharp eye out or this lady might go to stealing his children. “The second I forget what it’s like to be alone, maybe I’ll forget there are children in this world who need me. I’ll never do that.” Grant held Hannah’s gaze.

He saw her waver between compassion for the children and maybe some compassion for him. Her eyes hardened and she hugged Benny closer.

His shoulders slumped. He’d picked a life that was one long fight—wonderful but troubled children, unkind townspeople, and contemptuous teachers. He looked at the bedroll he’d shoved under the kitchen table. He didn’t even have a room to sleep in anymore.

Disgusted, he shook his head. “I’m through wasting my breath on you. Why’d I think for even a minute you might understand?”

He turned away and set Libby in a chair by the stove. “Just finish your inspection and go, teacher lady. I told you where the girls sleep. Joshua has the back bedroom, and Charlie and Benny sleep in the loft. That’s not too crowded.”

“You forgot to mention yourself, Pa.” Sadie pointed out helpfully. “You’re going to sleep where it’s warm by the fire. So the off side of the kitchen is your bedroom. That makes four bedrooms.”

Thanks a lot
. Grant knew Hannah wouldn’t let that pass. He shook his head and braced himself.

“A four-bedroom home,” Hannah said with a surprising amount of sarcasm for a woman holding a child so gently in her arms. “Why, it’s the next thing to a mansion.”

Of course Grant’s house wasn’t a mansion. The kitchen was just barely big enough to contain one long thin table, two benches on each long side, a stool on each short side, a potbelly stove, a dry sink, and a fireplace. When he’d started, he had the cabin, the land, and a few dozen head of cattle left to him by his parents, but not a penny in cash. He’d scrimped and saved, living off the land for years. These days, with his herd growing and a couple of cattle drives under his belt, he had some cash money, but counting pennies got to be a habit and it was a good lesson to teach his kids. So what if they’d never gotten much that was fancy? What furniture wasn’t left from his parents’ time, Grant had made by hand, like the extra long table.

I know how to make things sturdy, but no one would accuse me of makin’ ’em pretty
.

The girls’ bedroom was on the east side of the house. It had its own door and stretched half as wide as the little kitchen and as long as the bunk bed it contained—the room’s only piece of furniture.

Joshua’s room was a lean-to on the back of the house that had been meant as a place to hang coats and kick off muddy boots. The loft overhead dropped down a scant few feet from the peaked roof. Benny and Charlie had to shimmy in on their bellies, and it was barely long enough to stretch out in. It had been Grant’s bedroom while Benny slept with Joshua, until last night.

Grant saw Hannah inspecting through the wide open door to the girls’ room. The orphanage Grant had grown up in had bunks, and he’d done his best to build his own version with no advice or pattern.

And every spare inch of the house—of which there were few—was jammed to the rafters with children and fabric and clothes set to be handed down. Grant couldn’t help being embarrassed about the shabby little house. Hannah’s disapproval rolled toward him in waves.

Dragging his Stetson off, he hung it on one of the dozen racks of deer antlers lining one wall, coats and hats hanging from them all. “Look, I know it’s not much,” he began before she could start in on him. “I’ve been meaning to build on. But the kids need things like books and shoes and we’ve got a lot of mouths to feed. I’m not spending my money on lumber, and the only available wood to cut is on a slope too dangerous to tangle with. We need to eat and sleep and we’ve got it. We spend most every minute of the day outside anyway, tending the herd and doing chores.”

Grant snapped his mouth shut. He hadn’t intended to start listing off the work the kids had to do, but there was nothing wrong with a young’un having chores!

Hannah looked rather helplessly around the little house until Marilyn distracted her by saying, “Let’s get started on supper.”

Hannah bit her lip and looked uncomfortable. “I…I’m not a very good cook.”

“We can handle it,” Sadie said. “You’re company. You just sit and watch.”

“No.” Hannah removed her bedraggled bonnet and found a spare antler.

Grant really looked at that limp, tattered bonnet for the first time. Of course he’d noticed how Hannah looked. He hadn’t done much
except
notice her anytime she’d been within a hundred feet of him. But for the first time he looked beyond the flashing blue in her glaring eyes and the pretty pink of her insult-spouting lips.

The ride out to the Rocking C had been hard on her. Her horse had thrown her. He’d barely registered that when she’d said it, even though Joshua had thought to express concern. There was dirt streaked on her fair skin, and the neat bun she’d had at church was gone. Buffalo burrs clung to the back of her ripped-up dress, the same dress she’d had on yesterday at the train station and at church, although it was travel-stained. It was faded as if it’d been washed hundreds of times and the seams looked nearly worn through. The cuffs and collar were frayed. Grant knew enough about not having that he was abruptly, absolutely sure that this was the only dress Hannah owned.

Marilyn rested a hand on Hannah’s arm. “Sit down, Miss Cartwright. While Sadie starts supper, I’ll baste this sleeve back on and put a patch on the back of your dress. It’ll only take a minute.”

“Thank you so much, Marilyn.” Her eyes said thank you a hundred times more than her words.

How had she learned the children’s names already? Half the people in Sour Springs didn’t even bother to learn them. Of course they were as different from each other as night and day, but it took a bit of time and effort to learn someone’s name. The good folks of Sour Springs seemed to have no interest in exerting either.

As Marilyn fussed over her, Grant noticed the dark circles under Hannah’s eyes. The long train ride she’d finished only yesterday—the same one that had worn Libby and Charlie to a nub—had beaten her down, too. But even exhausted, she hurried out here to check on some orphaned children.

Grant thought again of that look between Ian and Megan. He knew nothing about what passed between men and women, and he had the unnerving notion that maybe Hannah could explain it to him.

Marilyn turned Hannah to face the lantern, and while Marilyn threaded a needle, Grant caught himself studying a chunk of Hannah’s bare back that showed through a gaping hole in her dress. His eyes narrowed as he realized what he was seeing—scars.

With a quick, unplanned step, he was behind Hannah, pulling the fabric aside. “What happened here? Did you do this falling off your horse?”

She froze while Grant’s hand traced the jagged furrow that disappeared behind the fabric. Then with jerky, uncoordinated movements, Hannah pulled away from him. He hung on until he heard a tear in the threadbare fabric. Not wanting to ruin what must be her only dress, he let go. Furious at that mark, a mark he bore himself, he wanted to see how deep it was and how long and if there were others. And how old it was. No fall off a horse this afternoon put this mark on her.

She turned so her back was away from him—out of reach, out of sight. “It’s nothing Mr…. Grant. I insist you keep your hands off me.” Her tone could have turned water into ice and her eyes were colder still.

But her trembling lip wasn’t cold. She was obviously afraid of his question.

“Hannah, tell me what—”

Pleading with her eyes, she said, “Leave it alone.”

“Please.” Grant took a faltering step toward her in the tiny cabin. No one was far apart, but even so Grant was far too close to Hannah.

Marilyn came up behind Hannah and, after a quick glance at the scar, looked up and shook her head, warning Grant off.

He clenched his fists and saw Hannah look at that sign of anger as if afraid he’d use those fists on her. And that stopped him when no words would have.

He thought of her spunk yesterday and today. But those marks had been put there by someone laying a whip or a rod to her back. Far too many of the children he adopted bore them. So how had she gotten them?

He’d have the answer…but not now.

Sadie sneaked a peak at Hannah’s back from where she peeled potatoes at the table. She looked quickly away, running a damp, trembling hand up her own arm, which had been scarred by boiling water. A man who caught her stealing food out of the garbage in his alley had thrown it at her.

Joshua came to Sadie’s side, gave her a quick hug, took the potatoes and sharp knife away, and started peeling.

“I’ll go get us a chicken.” Sadie rushed out of the cabin.

Grant looked after her. She needed a few minutes when she got to thinking about her days on the street, more so than the other children. There was a lot she’d never told and probably never would. He let her go.

Marilyn took quick careful stitches on Hannah’s dress as the room fell silent. Each of his children lost in his or her memories. Grant had plenty of his own.

Fighting the need to punch somebody, Grant noticed Libby stand from her chair by the stove and limp into her bedroom.

He remembered a job that needed a father’s hand. Glad for an excuse to leave the room and break the spell that had settled on Hannah, his children, and himself, he followed Libby into her room. “Let’s have a look at your shoe, Lib.”

Libby sank onto the bottom bunk and looked at him with wide, scared eyes. Trembling all over, she stretched her little foot out toward him.

It was wrong to hate, Grant knew it all the way to his soul. He was a believer in God and had read the Bible clear through several times. He knew, above all else, God called His believers to love and forgive. But right that minute, Grant hated every person who’d ever made any child fearful. Hannah sat in there not willing to talk about the marks on her back. Sadie shook with the memories that burned more deeply than boiling water. Grant thought of a woman working in his orphanage who had taken the job, he was sure, to have access to defenseless children and feed her hunger for inflicting pain.

And here sat this little girl feeling like her broken ankle made her unworthy of love. Grant knew her silence was rooted in her fear. How many times had she been hurt for speaking the wrong words? What made her hide inside herself this way? What had she seen that was unspeakable?

Grant sank down onto his knees in front of his new daughter and took her tiny shoe in his hand. “I want you to know, Libby, that having a foot that’s hurt doesn’t make you any less of a wonderful little girl.”

Libby dropped her gaze to the floor.

Grant barely fit in the space between the bed and the wall as he slipped off her shoe and inspected. “Does it hurt, honey?” Shaking her head, her lower lips trembled.

Setting the shoe aside on the lumpy mattress, Grant studied the thickened ridge around her ankle and the thin scars that spoke of medical treatment that helped ease Grant’s temper and shake him loose of his memories. At least someone had cared enough to try and help her.

He let loose of her foot and said briskly, so his voice wouldn’t shake, “Now, get up off ’a that bed and stand straight in front of me. I think I know a way to help your leg.”

Libby stood straight, looking at the wall over his head as if she expected him to hurt her. Grant suspected she’d been hurt plenty in her life. As he reached for her leg, Libby looked away from the wall and out the door to the kitchen. The way Libby’s eyes lit up, he knew only one person could be there.

Hannah was inspecting him again.

He wanted to turn on Hannah and order her out, but the mule-stubborn woman didn’t obey orders worth a hoot. Instead he ignored her and studied the way Libby stood and experimented with lifting her foot a bit. “Lib, I think your leg must have healed shorter than it was before. I can make the sole on your shoe thicker and maybe you won’t limp anymore.”

Libby looked skeptical, but Grant knew she was out of practice at hoping.

Grant took Libby’s worn-out little lace-up boot and went with it to the kitchen. Gathering his razor sharp hunting knife, he pulled a piece of thick leather from one of the untidy mounds of clothing and fabric. Next he hunted up several tack nails. Settling himself at the kitchen table, since that was where the only chairs in the house were, he went to work.

Joshua set the potatoes on to boil. “I’ll have a look around for Charlie. He might have cooled off by now.”

“Thanks, son.” Grant turned his attention back to the shoe.

Once her dress was repaired to the best of Marilyn’s ability, Hannah donned an apron and hesitantly offered to help cook supper.

While Grant repaired Libby’s boot, he got to watch the show.

I
thank you for all your help making my home run better, Hannah.” Grant lifted the reins and started the wagon moving. Hannah sighed and wished like crazy that Joshua had been allowed to drive her home. But the supper had been late—thanks to her. Night had fallen early as it did this time of year, and Grant had declared the trail treacherous. Hannah thought of the long, flat trail to town and wondered where the treachery was—being tormented to death by Grant maybe? “Ignoring the last two hours was too much to hope for, I see.”

“Yep.” Grant’s gloved hand settled his Stetson more firmly on his head as the wind threatened to whip it off. His dark hair, a ridiculous length for a man, had escaped its pony tail again and now whipped around his ears and collar. “You definitely made it clear to me why I mustn’t take a child without first having a wife.”

Hannah thought he might be rolling his eyeballs at her. She thanked God for the darkness.