dream.”
“So wake her up,” Griffin replied.
Karl began, “I don’t know if I—”
Grace simply took action. She grabbed her mother’s shoulder, shook her hard, and said, “Wake up, Mom! Wake up!”
Hetty awoke with a cry of alarm. Her hands jerked defensively, and she hit Karl hard in the nose.
“Ow!” He used one hand to rub at his nose to ease the sting, while he kept the other wrapped around her.
She looked confused, and then startled to find herself in his embrace.
He let her go completely and said, “You were having a bad dream.”
“Oh.” She scooted away from him, then took in the presence of Grace and Griffin. “What are you two doing in here?”
“You were crying pretty loud,” Grace said.
Hetty slid her bare feet over the edge of the bed, then reached out and pulled Grace into her arms. “I’m so sorry I worried you, Grace.”
Karl got out of bed on the opposite side, found a handkerchief in his coat pocket, and handed it to Hetty.
She swiped at her eyes then blew her nose. When she was done, she turned her gaze to her son and said, “Griffin, are you all right?”
He grimaced. “I ain’t gettin’ any sleep.”
“I’m
not
getting any sleep,” Hetty corrected with a smile.
“Yeah. I kinda figured that when I heard you bawlin’,” he said, misunderstanding, obviously on purpose, the correction to his grammar.
Karl wondered why the boy had such poor grammar if Hetty always made a point of correcting him. Maybe he did it as a means of rebelling against his mother’s authority, although he was awfully young for that. Karl glanced at Grace, who crossed her arms tightly to cover what he now saw was a budding chest, undeniable without the shawl that had concealed it earlier in the day.
Karl frowned. He had to stop believing anything these three had told—or were telling—him. It was all a pack of lies.
Griffin was clearly older than seven. Grace was definitely older than nine. Chances were good they had different fathers, one of whom had not been named Clive. And Hetty, his supposedly perfect and perfectly beautiful wife, was most likely a harlot.
Hetty hadn’t slept much the rest of the night. She’d been afraid of dreaming again. Clive’s blue eyes had been so piercing in her dream, it was as though he was right there, dying in her arms. She could hear his voice as though he were in the room with her, hear his awful death rattle as he whispered, “I love you, Hetty.”
In the morning, as they began their journey to the Bitterroot Valley, Hetty had tried several times to engage Karl in conversation in order to banish Clive from her mind. Karl answered with one word or not at all. He seemed lost in thought. She wondered if he was usually so taciturn. She hoped not. The thought of living the rest of her life with this stern, silent man was disheartening.
It didn’t help that Griffin was acting so prickly. Karl had told the boy that it was his job to collect firewood and put it in the sling under the Conestoga wagon. Even though Griffin had done the same job during the journey from Cheyenne to Butte, he’d objected by retorting, “I’m not your slave.”
“No firewood, no supper,” Karl had replied.
“That seems a bit harsh,” Hetty had argued.
Karl had turned to her and said, “No firewood, no supper. And that’s final.”
Griffin had shot Karl a look of pure loathing and hadn’t picked up a single piece of firewood all day. Grace, of course, had made up for it by filling the canvas tarp slung under the wagon to overflowing. Hetty wondered if it would make a difference to Karl. She dreaded the confrontation she could see coming when they stopped for supper.
Unfortunately, Karl’s reticence and Griffin’s defiance weren’t her only problems. Karl and Dennis were riding horseback alongside the covered wagon, which was being driven by Mr. Lin. She and the two children were walking behind the wagon. Karl frequently rode ahead to scout the trail, leaving
“So wake her up,” Griffin replied.
Karl began, “I don’t know if I—”
Grace simply took action. She grabbed her mother’s shoulder, shook her hard, and said, “Wake up, Mom! Wake up!”
Hetty awoke with a cry of alarm. Her hands jerked defensively, and she hit Karl hard in the nose.
“Ow!” He used one hand to rub at his nose to ease the sting, while he kept the other wrapped around her.
She looked confused, and then startled to find herself in his embrace.
He let her go completely and said, “You were having a bad dream.”
“Oh.” She scooted away from him, then took in the presence of Grace and Griffin. “What are you two doing in here?”
“You were crying pretty loud,” Grace said.
Hetty slid her bare feet over the edge of the bed, then reached out and pulled Grace into her arms. “I’m so sorry I worried you, Grace.”
Karl got out of bed on the opposite side, found a handkerchief in his coat pocket, and handed it to Hetty.
She swiped at her eyes then blew her nose. When she was done, she turned her gaze to her son and said, “Griffin, are you all right?”
He grimaced. “I ain’t gettin’ any sleep.”
“I’m
not
getting any sleep,” Hetty corrected with a smile.
“Yeah. I kinda figured that when I heard you bawlin’,” he said, misunderstanding, obviously on purpose, the correction to his grammar.
Karl wondered why the boy had such poor grammar if Hetty always made a point of correcting him. Maybe he did it as a means of rebelling against his mother’s authority, although he was awfully young for that. Karl glanced at Grace, who crossed her arms tightly to cover what he now saw was a budding chest, undeniable without the shawl that had concealed it earlier in the day.
Karl frowned. He had to stop believing anything these three had told—or were telling—him. It was all a pack of lies.
Griffin was clearly older than seven. Grace was definitely older than nine. Chances were good they had different fathers, one of whom had not been named Clive. And Hetty, his supposedly perfect and perfectly beautiful wife, was most likely a harlot.
Hetty hadn’t slept much the rest of the night. She’d been afraid of dreaming again. Clive’s blue eyes had been so piercing in her dream, it was as though he was right there, dying in her arms. She could hear his voice as though he were in the room with her, hear his awful death rattle as he whispered, “I love you, Hetty.”
In the morning, as they began their journey to the Bitterroot Valley, Hetty had tried several times to engage Karl in conversation in order to banish Clive from her mind. Karl answered with one word or not at all. He seemed lost in thought. She wondered if he was usually so taciturn. She hoped not. The thought of living the rest of her life with this stern, silent man was disheartening.
It didn’t help that Griffin was acting so prickly. Karl had told the boy that it was his job to collect firewood and put it in the sling under the Conestoga wagon. Even though Griffin had done the same job during the journey from Cheyenne to Butte, he’d objected by retorting, “I’m not your slave.”
“No firewood, no supper,” Karl had replied.
“That seems a bit harsh,” Hetty had argued.
Karl had turned to her and said, “No firewood, no supper. And that’s final.”
Griffin had shot Karl a look of pure loathing and hadn’t picked up a single piece of firewood all day. Grace, of course, had made up for it by filling the canvas tarp slung under the wagon to overflowing. Hetty wondered if it would make a difference to Karl. She dreaded the confrontation she could see coming when they stopped for supper.
Unfortunately, Karl’s reticence and Griffin’s defiance weren’t her only problems. Karl and Dennis were riding horseback alongside the covered wagon, which was being driven by Mr. Lin. She and the two children were walking behind the wagon. Karl frequently rode ahead to scout the trail, leaving
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