Free Strawberry Moon by Becky Citra Page A

stopped smiling and glanced down at my moccasins. They were made of soft deerskin and decorated with beautiful red and turquoise beaded flowers.
    â€œMy friend Sarah made them,” I muttered.
    â€œAn Indian, no doubt,” said Grandmother. She sniffed. “I cannot abide Indians.”
    She marched past me into our cabin.
    At supper, Papa asked questions about our visit with the McDougalls. They were ournearest neighbors, a mile away by trail through the forest or two miles by road. Max and I stayed with them while Papa went to The Landings to meet Grandmother’s stagecoach. Papa had sent word that he and Grandmother were arriving today, and we had raced home along the trail to get ready.
    While I ate, I watched Grandmother out of the corner of my eye. She poked at my stew, sighing heavily. “Did you say squirrel meat?” she said finally. “What an extraordinary thing to eat.”
    She studied her piece of bread. “I suppose it’s difficult to get an even heat in such a primitive oven.”
    When it was time for dessert, she peered suspiciously into her bowl of wild strawberries. She pushed it away. “I don’t eat things with bits of leaves and sticks in them,” she said.
    Cold fury rushed through me. I jumped up. “If you knew how long it takes to pick wild strawberries...”
    Max’s mouth dropped open.
    â€œMy word!” said Grandmother. “There’s no need to shout.” She looked at Papa.
    Papa stood up too. “Ellie, apologize to your grandmother.”
    I stared at the floor and said nothing.
    Papa sighed. “Go to bed right now, Ellie. And Max, stop looking like a fish and go outside and finish your chores.”
    Max dragged his feet to the door. I flounced toward the ladder that led up to the loft where Max and I slept.
    A wave of horror swept over me. Before Papa had left for The Landings, he had moved his night things up to the loft and explained that Grandmother and I would share his big bed. I looked at Papa desperately. For a second, his eyes glimmered with sympathy. Then he turned away and poured two mugs of coffee.
    I walked stiffly into Papa’s small bedroom and blinked back tears as I changed into my nightgown and crawled under the quilt. I lay frozen, as dusk turned into darkness. Our cow Nettie mooed, and I wondered who would milk her tonight. Nobody got asmuch milk from Nettie as I did. After a long time, I heard Max’s boots and his cheery goodnight to Papa.
    I crawled out of bed and crept to the door. Papa and Grandmother were talking in low voices.
    â€œI don’t know,” said Papa.
    â€œIt’s the right thing to do,” said Grandmother. “She’s growing up like an Indian!”
    I froze. What did Grandmother mean? What was the right thing to do?
    â€œA man can’t raise a young girl properly,” said Grandmother. “I’ve bought her passage. She’ll sail back to England with me in the fall.”
    I bit my lip to keep from crying out.
    â€œSo that is why you have made this long trip from England,” said Papa.
    â€œMy friend Dorothy was sailing to Canada,” said Grandmother coolly. “She needed a companion. It seemed like a good opportunity.”
    I heard a tapping sound as Papa filled his pipe.
    â€œAfter all, she is Charlotte’s daughter,” said Grandmother. “And my only granddaughter.”
    A long silence followed. Then Papa said quietly, “Don’t say anything to Ellie about this right now.”
    My arms and legs felt like ice. I stumbled back to bed and buried myself in the quilt. When Grandmother came, I pretended to be asleep. She rustled around for ages, getting ready for bed. Finally she knelt beside the bed and said her prayers in a voice that droned on forever.
    â€œI hope the little girls in this house have said their prayers too,” she said as she climbed into bed beside me.
    I wasn’t a little girl! I was twelve