Free Montana Bride by Joan Johnston Page A

tin plate of beef and beans to Hetty that Bao had prepared and said, “Eat up.”
    She stared at the plate without taking it. They’d stopped for the day at the stream, even though the sun hadn’t yet started down. “If Griffin can’t eat supper, I’m not eating, either.”
    Karl shot a look in Griffin’s direction. The boy was sitting on a dead log whittling hard and fast so the shavings landed in the fire, creating flares of yellow light.
    “Griffin’s being punished for not doing his chores,” Karl said. He held the plate out to her. “Here. Take it.”
    Hetty crossed her arms over her chest. “No.”
    “If Mom and Griffin aren’t eating, neither am I,” Grace chimed in, crossing to stand beside Hetty.
    “If nobody else is eating, guess I’d better put down my plate,” Dennis said, grinning at Karl from his seat on a flat stone as he set his plate down.
    Karl felt frustration welling up inside him. The wind hissed angrily through the evergreens and he felt like joining in. He was being treated like the bad guy here, when he was only trying to instill a sense of responsibility in a growing boy. He glanced toward Bao, who sat on the other end of the same log as Griffin, calmly smoking his long clay pipe. “I know you have an opinion, Bao. Let’s have it.”
    “Confucius say: ‘To go beyond is as wrong as to fall short.’ ”
    Karl’s balled fists landed on his hips. “What the hell does that mean?”
    “It means your punishment doesn’t fit the crime,” Hetty said. “It’s too harsh. I know what it feels like to go to bed hungry, and no child of mine is ever going to suffer like that.”
    Karl wondered again about the woman he’d married. Going to bed hungry? What kind of desperate life had Hetty been leading before she’d become his bride?
    “And I wish you wouldn’t swear in front of the children,” she added.
    “Hell and damnation,” Karl muttered under his breath.
    Hetty glared at him, her arms still crossed over her chest like a schoolmarm, and tapped her toe in disapproval.
    Karl looked to Dennis for support, but his friend had settled a booted ankle on the opposite knee and was focused on rolling a smoke. Karl glanced toward Griffin and saw the boy was smirking at him in triumph.
    He turned to Hetty. “Am I that boy’s father now, or not?”
    Hetty looked startled by the question. “What do you mean?”
    “I think the question was pretty simple,” Karl said. “Yes? Or no?”
    “Yes,” Hetty said. “But—”
    “But nothing,” Karl interrupted. He crossed to Griffin and said, “Put that knife away and come with me.”
    The boy didn’t look nearly so confident with Karl towering over him. Griffin glanced toward Hetty, who was too far away to be any help, then up at Karl and blustered, “I don’t have to do what you say.”
    Karl turned to Hetty again. “Yes? Or no?”
    It was easy to read the myriad emotions crossing Hetty’s face: fear, anxiety, hope, reluctance, anxiety, fear, and finally hope again. “Griffin, put away your knife and do as your father says.”
    Griffin’s chin took on an angry, stubborn tilt as several more shavings flared in the fire. “He’s not my pa.”
    Karl was watching Griffin as Grace said quietly, “This is what we dreamed about Griffin. A mother
and
a father. A real family.” Grace’s eyes brimmed with tears that glittered in the setting sunlight.
    Griffin took one look at her and snapped, “Fine!” He threw the piece of wood, which Karl realized had become a horse’s head with a flying mane, into the fire. Then the boy stood, stuck the sharp knife into a worn leather sheath tied to his belt, and said, “Let’s go.”
    “Karl!” Hetty called out to him.
    He stopped and glanced at her over his shoulder. “What?”
    Her heart was in her eyes.
Don’t hurt him. Be gentle. He needs love, not pain.
But she only said, “He’s just a little boy.”
    The sudden knot in his throat surprised Karl and kept him from saying anything