Free Dangerous Dreams: A Novel by Mike Rhynard

thought. None of his business. Between Hugh and me.
    Though he was well used to her sharp responses, they always took him by surprise, set him back a step or two. “I see. A little improper . . . he should have come to me first . . . but—”
    “Father, don’t be so stuffy. We’re not in London, and this isn’t exactly a civilized place. I don’t know why you think that way. ’Tis silly.”
    “Come now, Em, some things are core to our culture and shouldn’t be discarded just because we’re suddenly in the wild. There’s a thin line between civilization and savagery, and we need to be mindful of it, keep ourselves on the proper side of the line or risk falling backward . . . I suppose you’re already calling each other by your first names?”
    “Of course.” She knew he was right about civilization but resented his fixation on decorum, his intrusion into her personal life; so she replied in her favorite snippy way, the one that always annoyed him. She smiled inside as she recalled the times he’d pressed her too hard about young men who’d fancied her and to whom she’d been attracted. Rather than tolerate his probing and lecturing, she’d simply closed her lips, then sneaked out of the house late at night and met the lads elsewhere, though one time her risky brashness had nearly cost her virginity—most precious of her possessions, the prize she’d protect at all costs for the man she’d someday marry. Only her quick mind and quick feet had saved her. With a continuous stream of suitors—some young, some older; some true, some not so true—she’d developed a keen ability to read people’s sincerity like a manuscript, could usually discern a devious intention from only a few words and an unguarded look. Those people—the ones who thought you were too stupid to know what they were trying to do—were the ones she detested most in the world; and because she could see through them in seconds, she didn’t need her father’s well-intentioned, but annoying, injection of laborious English propriety into every situation. Nonetheless, she regretted her abrupt, but seemingly uncontrollable rudeness to him, wished she could hold her tongue, treat him more respectfully, but she could never seem to resist the temptation to jab him with a verbal barb when he crossed her imaginary line. No one else had that effect on her, and it saddened her that her father, whom she loved with all her heart, had to be the only person in the world who could so quickly and unwittingly provoke her. When she thought about it, she realized that the problem was her own intolerant brashness; that she was predisposed to misinterpreting, and overreacting to, whatever he said; that she alone was responsible for making the caring, respectful relationship they both desired so difficult to achieve. She wished her mother were here; she always knew how to calm things, suppress the fiery emotions, and get them to communicate like normal people.
    Colman continued, “Well, I
am
impressed with the man. And he seemed to work hard today. I believe he’ll prosper here if anyone does. So, since you wish it, I shall give my permission for him to visit you.” He looked away for a moment, then back at Emily. “ Em, I . . . I love you, my daughter . . . andI wish you and I could . . .” He shook his head, finished his sentence with a warm hug that communicated what he was trying to say.
    She replied with her own hug, leaned her head against his chest. “Father, I love you too. I hate it when I’m short with you.”
    After they’d savored the embrace for a moment, he asked, “How’s Elyoner? I heard she was down with the morning sickness. Did you see her?”
    “Aye. She’s miserable, indeed, and quite ready for the little rascal to show itself, tired of puking all day. The heat makes it worse.”
    “Poor girl. She’s quite huge, don’t you think? I don’t remember your mother ever being that big.”
    “I’m not the one to ask, but she