Gingham Mountain (6 page)

Sadie grinned, her white teeth shining against her ebony black skin. “We all cooked together whilst you, Joshua, and Charlie worked with the cattle. We had the easy part of this storm.”

“Knowing we’d have a hot meal kept us going.” Grant pulled Libby closer, his arm around her, holding the book.

Six-year-old Benny, supposedly near Libby’s age but about twice her size, snuggled closer, his head resting on Grant’s shoulder. He glanced up through the shaggy hair that had flopped onto his forehead. “Want me to hold the book, Pa?”

“Thanks, Benny. I just remembered I hadn’t said a proper thank you to the girls.” He let the book settle in his youngest son’s hands. Grant wasn’t the only one in this family who needed a haircut. “Let’s get started reading.”

Grant looked around the tiny room. Yes, it was a tight squeeze for them all, three bedrooms—if those tiny spaces could be called bedrooms—for seven people. And yes, he’d be sleeping on the kitchen floor for a while. But he’d done that many times to make space. The kitchen was warm, and he didn’t mind being cramped.

He loved this tiny house, these children. He loved his whole life. God had given him the family he’d dreamed of while he shivered in the New York City alleys. Here they sat with full bellies thanks to the girls’ dab hand with a skillet, a warm, crackling fire, and a roof over their heads no one could take away from them.

He gave Libby a gentle hug, and she looked up and smiled her quiet smile. That smile meant more to Grant than if a million dollars had rained down on his head. He had everything in the world that mattered. He was a happy, contented man.

His contentment was broken by the memory of that snippy woman
at the train station. All she’d accused him of, all her insults. The smile faded from his face for just a second. Why would she come to mind now? It’s like she meant to ruin his night.

Maybe it was because she looked cold and hungry.

And why had she gotten off the train and let it leave her behind? What business had brought her to Sour Springs? She must have family here. Grant hoped she finished her visit lickety-split and got back on her way before he ever had to see her again. How dare the little meddler accuse him of mistreating his children?

He could picture her right now, sulking, judging him and his orphaned children while she sat somewhere warm and fed and comfortable.

Driven snow slit at her skin like a million tiny knives. The wind lashed her.

Disoriented, Hannah thought of the times she’d been lashed by Parrish, his belt punishing her for something or nothing.

God, no, don’t let Parrish get me. Protect me.

How often had she prayed that prayer as a child? How many nights had she been jerked awake by nightmares and been punished for screaming out in her sleep? How often had Hannah clung to God, even when Parrish came and God let the worst happen?

As the storm assaulted her, Hannah thought of how Parrish dragged her out of the bedroom she shared with her sisters. How Grace tried to turn Parrish’s anger away from Hannah. Sometimes it would work. More often Parrish would laugh at Grace and slap her aside, then whip Hannah until she collapsed.

Now, in the wind, Hannah heard her father’s sadistic laughter ringing in her ears.

And then Grace had done the unthinkable. She’d fought back. She’d had Parrish arrested. Drawing Parrish’s fury on herself, Grace had
run like a mother bird faking a broken wing. . .with Parrish in pursuit. Hannah had taken the other children and hidden away in Chicago’s streets until Grace could send for her.

Despite Grace forbidding it—Grace had a deep horror of adoption—Hannah had found homes for the four little sisters left in her care. And then, before Hannah had set out to join Grace in Mosqueros, Texas, she’d found more children.

Trevor, who tried to rob Hannah and ended up sharing what he’d already stolen. Nolan, who crept into the shed she and Trevor lived in and defiantly slipped up to their tiny bit of heat, expecting to be thrown out but willing to face danger to escape the killing cold of another winter night. Other children had come and gone and Hannah had found them homes, all but Libby with her broken body, silent lips, and heartbreaking, beseeching eyes.

Now Libby was gone. Grace was gone. Hannah, alone, shouted into the teeth of the blizzard, “God, they’re all gone.”

The horse jerked forward, startled by Hannah’s screams.

Hannah broke down and wept into the bitter, driving, merciless wind. Shuddering with sobs, holding her arm up to shield her face, Hannah blinked and, as if God himself had pulled back the veil of driven snow, she saw a blurred object. She clung to her horse’s reins with one hand and dropped her shielding arm to clutch the collar of her coat. Peering into the storm, trying to make out the shape, a strange peace settled over her.

As she calmed, she realized it was a building she’d passed just moments ago on the edge of town. She could find her way back. She could save herself.

But what about Libby? Who would save her?

Hannah knew she could do nothing tonight. Wiping the already freezing tears from her face, she headed quickly back toward Sour Springs, leaving Libby to her fate for one night. But Hannah promised it would be one night only!

She left the horse with the smug hostler, who kindly returned her two bits, only saying, “I told you so,” six or seven times. Then Hannah trudged through drifts to her room.

As she battled the storm, she saw that all the businesses were closed and shuttered. It was late enough in the afternoon that the sun had set and there’d be no customers in this weather.

Then as she passed a building near the mercantile, she saw one lone light flickering in a window. Through thin curtains, Hannah saw a tall, reed-thin shape pass the light. Prudence, maybe, the seamstress she’d met in the general store. Hannah paused, drawn by the light and life of that building, even as she knew she didn’t dare pause on the way to her own dark room.

As she watched, a second shape moved in the same direction as Prudence. A man, a giant of a man, bigger even than Harold, was in Prudence’s room with her. They’d offered Prudence the job as schoolmarm, hadn’t they? Only a single woman would be offered that job. And Mabel had definitely said Prudence was new in town. So what man was with her on this bitter cold evening?

True, it wasn’t very late, just after suppertime most likely. But people would want to get home and tuck themselves in safe for the night. The aching of Hannah’s feet prodded her onward. She had almost no feeling in them as she hurried home.

The diner was closed but the back door was unlocked, and Hannah got to her room without trouble. She spent the rest of the bitter night clutching her worn coat and the single thin blanket she’d pulled off the narrow cot around her. Leaning into the stovepipe with its meager warmth, she trembled with cold in the wretched room and thought of the glowing letters she’d gotten from Grace about her comfortable situation in Mosqueros. Hannah, with no food and no dry clothes, shivered and her stomach growled.

Hannah wrapped her arms around herself, missing all of her sisters. If Libby were here, the two of them would snuggle in bed, share their
warmth, and survive the night by being strong for each other. They’d done it many times in Chicago and Omaha and other places.

Hannah vowed to God, as she stared into the ceiling of her black room, that she’d save Libby. She’d save all those children Grant had taken. Then she’d show this town there was such a thing as a teacher who stuck, no matter the provocation.

Barely twenty, she felt like she’d been old since the day she was born. She was so tired of always having to be strong, beyond tired of all work and no play. Grim experience told her what Libby and Charlie were going through tonight and she wept. From the deepest part of her heart, she cried out to God through her tears.

Forgive me for failing them and subjecting them to that hard, miserable life.

L
et’s go sledding!”

Grant was jerked out of a restless sleep when Benny tripped over his stomach.

Benny fell with a terrible clatter against the kitchen table, hitting so hard he should have broken every bone in his body. The six-year-old bounced back to his feet and grinned down at Grant, who lay on his bedroll on the kitchen floor. “Can we get the sleds out, Pa? Can we, huh? Can we, please?”

Benny’d been on the orphan train when it turned around here three years ago. He’d ridden all the way from New York with Martha and never been adopted because he was too young. Three when Grant got him, Benny was the closest to a baby Grant had ever taken, and Grant couldn’t have loved him any more if he’d been his own flesh and blood.

Trying to shake off a lousy night’s sleep, he massaged his head to clear it. Grant rubbed a hand over his face. No bristles.
Oh yeah, I shaved last night.
Why had he shaved? Normally he’d do that Sunday morning not Saturday night. For that matter, what was he doing sleeping on the floor?

Grant sat up straight.
I adopted two more kids yesterday.

Benny didn’t wait for an answer. He dashed to the little window beside the front door and pressed his nose against the frosty pane. “This is the bestest snow I’ve ever seen.” Benny glanced over his shoulder and
gave Grant a sly look. “I mean, this is the worstest snow I’ve ever seen. We can’t get through it to church. No way! It’d be”—Benny paused for dramatic effect—“dangerous!”

Grant grinned at Benny. Then he laughed out loud.

The other children came pouring out of their rooms wearing their heavy nightgowns or union suits—depending on whether they were girls or boys. Even the older girls rushed to the window and crowded around fighting for a square inch of glass.

Libby was right behind them, still as silent as a tomb. He wondered what it was the little girl couldn’t say.

Marilyn turned and scooped Libby up in her arms so the little one could see the snow outside. Their two heads together, Libby’s dark and Marilyn’s fair, the expressions of joy and excitement matched until they looked almost like sisters.

Before they’d covered the window with their rampaging herd of bodies, Grant had seen that the sun wasn’t even up yet. Only the faintest light glowed in the eastern sky. Grant couldn’t resist saying, “If the mountain pass is snowed in, we can still make it through the valley.”

Grant heard Benny groan, which made Grant grin all the more. “I think there’s time for a couple of quick trips up and down the hill before church.”

There was a collective gasp of joy, and the children vanished out of the room so quickly Grant might have thought he’d dreamed the whole thing if Benny hadn’t stepped on his stomach again in the stampede.

If he let them go, he’d be stuck with all the morning chores. But in New York City, where Grant had grown up, there had been plenty of snow but never time for sledding. And here in Texas, it got cold, but the snow didn’t come this deep very often, and it never lasted for long. He wasn’t going to deny the children this pleasure.

Thinking of the fight on his hands to get the young’uns ready for church, he heaved himself up off the floor and groaned. He was getting too old to sleep on a hardwood floor. He quit his groaning to smile at
himself. He was twenty-six. Not too old for anything. Although, raising twenty children on his own, starting from the time he was seventeen, might have made him an old man before his time.

He got to his feet and laid more wood on the fire before he did another thing. Then he adjusted his suspenders onto his shoulders and pulled on his boots over the thick socks he’d worn to bed. With a couple of quick scrapes of his fingers, he gathered his hair at his nape then tied it back with a leather thong to keep it out of his eyes, wondering if one of the older girls would mind whacking some of his mane off for him. Pulling on his buckskin coat, he grabbed the bucket to go for water.

Benny beat him to the door, shouting with glee and running for the barn and the ragtag sleds Grant had collected over the years.

By the time Grant hauled back the first bucket of water, all six kids were long gone sledding. He poured water into a pot for coffee and a basin for washing. He hustled to milk both cows, gather eggs, and make sure the livestock in his barnyard had gotten through the blizzard in one piece. Hefting an armload of firewood inside, he stoked the stove then reached for the boiling coffeepot to pour himself a cup before he went to wrangle with the children about coming back in to get ready for church.

Then something snapped. He poured his untouched coffee back in, shoved the pot to a cooler spot so it wouldn’t burn. . .and ran.

He got to the bottom of the sledding hill just as Marilyn and Libby sailed down the slope on the little toboggan. They upended the sled in a snowdrift and came rolling out of the snow, giggling hysterically.

Grant shouted, “
My turn!
”

The kids started shrieking and jumping up and down, yelling encouragement to him.

Grant grabbed the rope of Marilyn’s sleek wooden toboggan, one that Grant had built himself last winter, and plunked Libby down on it. He trudged up the hill, giving his newest daughter a ride.