Montana Bride

by Joan Johnston

  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 her alone with Dennis. An hour ago, Dennis had dismounted and tied his horse to the back of the wagon so he could walk beside her.

  Hetty would have preferred to avoid the attractive man entirely. Dennis was as talkative as Karl was quiet. She kept hoping to find something offensive or boastful in his behavior that would make him unlikable. But Dennis didn’t talk about himself. He told funny, engaging stories about Karl.

  Hetty couldn’t help noticing the way Dennis’s blue eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed. How his laugh created deep creases around his mouth. How white and straight his teeth were. How the hint of a beard darkened his cheeks and chin and made him look ruggedly handsome. How he stood head and shoulders above her, making her feel protected by his size and strength.

  The result was that she felt awful. Guilty and ashamed. She shouldn’t be admiring Dennis Campbell so much. She shouldn’t be wishing she was married to him instead. She shouldn’t be wondering what it would have been like if he had been the one to take her in his arms last night and kiss her. Why did he have to be so charming and funny and amiable? Why couldn’t he have told mean stories about Karl, so she could detest him for being disloyal to his friend?

  “We were at this fancy dress ball in New York, and Karl reached into his pocket and pulled out a pressed pink and white flower,” Dennis said. “Karl said it was a bitterroot blossom. Apparently, it’s what this valley we’re headed to is named for, because so many of them grow there.”

  “Why would he take something like that to a ball?” Hetty wondered aloud. What she really wanted to know was for whom Karl had brought a pressed flower to the ball.

  “Who knows?” Dennis said. “Karl proceeded to give us a lecture about the dried-up thing. He said Meriwether Lewis had collected a bunch of bitterroot specimens in 1806, which is why this famous botanist, Frederick Pursh, gave it the scientific name Lewisia rediviva. And you won’t believe this. Karl said that the Flathead and Kootenai and Nez Perce eat it!”

  “Are you sure he said the Indians eat it?” Hetty asked. “With a name like bitterroot it can’t taste very good.”

  From behind them, Hetty heard Karl say, “They remove the inner core—the heart, if you will—before they cook it, which is supposedly the bitter part. Or they let it sit for a year or two, which makes it less bad tasting.”

  Hetty turned and stared up at Karl, who’d ridden up behind them, but she kept walking backward to keep up with the wagon. “How did you end up behind us? I thought you rode out to check the trail ahead of us.”

  “I was looking for a stream that’s supposed to be north of here, so we’ll have water when we stop for supper.”

  “Did you find it?” Dennis asked.

  “It’s a mile or so ahead,” Karl replied. “Would you like to take a ride and see it?” he asked Hetty.

  “What would I do for a horse?”

  “You can ride behind me,” Karl suggested.

  “Take mine,” Dennis offered, untying his horse’s reins from the back of the wagon and handing them to Hetty. Instead of asking her if she could mount on her own, he simply put his hands on either side of her waist and lifted her so she could throw a leg over the buckskin.

  The instant she was in the saddle, Dennis removed his hands. There was nothing disrespectful about what he’d done. She might have been his sister or some stranger he was helping. Nevertheless, Hetty felt breathless. Her skin felt scorched where his hands had touched her. She glanced quickly at Karl and saw that his lips had become a thin, censuring line.

  I didn’t ask Dennis to help me, she felt like saying. What was I supposed to do? Complain? I’m on the horse, so let’s go.

  Hetty realized the reason she felt compelled to defend herself against that look of disapproval was because she was, in fact, guilty of finding Dennis attractive. Of feeling something when he touched her, even if it was only his hands at her waist to set her on a horse. It wasn’t her fault Dennis had walked with her and talked to her. He couldn’t help being charming and entertaining and handsome.

  She’d ignored her feelings of attraction as best she could because she knew the consequences of jealousy. Unless Karl could read her mind, there was no reason for him to feel suspicious, because his friend had done nothing wrong.

 
; “You said in your letters that you were a competent horsewoman,” Karl said. “Are you all right on that mount?”

  Hetty realized that Grace must have written in one of her letters to Karl that his mail-order bride knew how to ride, and he wanted to confirm that she actually could. Hetty didn’t blame him for checking. Karl might not be handsome, but he was a long way from stupid. Hetty wondered how long she and the two children were going to get away with all the lies they’d told.

  Luckily, before the Great Chicago Fire, Hetty had spent long hours riding with her twin in Lincoln Park, which was renamed after the assassinated president. “I can ride,” she said.

  “Then let’s go.”

  Karl kicked his horse into an easy lope, and Hetty did the same, keeping pace with him.

  “Did you have a nice talk with Dennis?” he asked.

  “He told a lot of funny stories. About you.”

  Karl eyed her askance. “That must have been entertaining.”

  Hetty lifted her chin and said, “It was.” She wasn’t going to apologize for enjoying Dennis’s banter. Karl could learn a thing or two from his friend. Hetty shivered and decided the cold was more noticeable because she was moving faster on horseback, or perhaps because the wagon was no longer cutting off the brisk wind.

  “You need a warmer coat,” Karl said.

  “It seems so,” she agreed. Hetty waited for Karl to continue the conversation, but he said nothing more. The silence was uncomfortable, so she said, “What kind of dangers were you expecting to find ahead on the trail?”

  “The Salish signed a treaty a couple of years ago, but there’s still the occasional renegade out there. And the terrain is tricky. There are gullies and cliffs we’ll need to avoid.”

  Hetty had a sudden memory of Mrs. Templeton falling backward, of that long scream that had suddenly stopped. She shuddered and made a sound of distress.

  “Are you all right?” Karl asked.

  Hetty bit the inside of her cheek to keep from confessing everything. It was horrible to have tricked Karl into marriage. Horrible to be lying to him so much and so often. But the consequences of telling the truth might be dire for Grace and Griffin, so instead of spilling her guts, she said, “I’m fine.”

  “You had a look on your face like you were in pain.”

  “I’m all right,” Hetty insisted.

  Karl frowned, and Hetty felt her heart sink. Lies upon lies. All this deception weighed heavily on her conscience. She wondered whether Karl would really abandon the children if she simply told him the truth. All of the truth.

  Hetty realized immediately that she couldn’t do that until the marriage was consummated, and they were truly husband and wife. She couldn’t take the chance that Karl would call the whole thing off. Grace and Griffin had nowhere else to go. She would never—could never—abandon them, but she was unable to support them on her own.

  But an accounting was coming. She’d learned in Sunday school that houses built on sand could never stand in a storm. Disaster lay ahead, unless she could figure out some way to square things with Karl.

  Out of the blue, Karl asked, “How many men have there been in your past?”

  Hetty yanked her horse to a stop so abrupt he reared. It took her a moment to get the buckskin under control. Once she did, she stared wide-eyed and white-faced at Karl. “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s clear the air,” Karl said in a harsh voice. “I know Grace and Griffin had different fathers. I want to know how many other men have enjoyed your favors.”

  Hetty stared at him, aghast. She’d known Grace and Griffin weren’t Mrs. Templeton’s children, but she’d never imagined they had different fathers. Then she realized what else he’d suggested. She’d never let any man into her bed, let alone an army of them! “How dare you accuse me—”

  “Who’s Clive?” he interrupted.

  Hetty’s heart suddenly began beating so hard she thought Karl must be able to hear it. “How do you know about Clive?”

  “You were yelling his name in your sleep.”

  “Oh.”

  “So you’re not denying he exists?”

  “He’s dead,” she said flatly. “He was killed.”

  “By another one of your lovers?”

  Hetty thought she might faint. She’d never had a lover, but she’d flirted with another man to make Clive jealous. She kicked her horse to escape back to the wagon, but Karl caught the reins and pulled her mount to a halt.

  “Were you in love with him?”

  “Yes, I loved him! So what? Clive’s dead, and I’m married to you.”

  That shut him up for a moment. But only a moment. He shot back, “How long ago did he die?”

  Hetty knew to the day when Clive had died, but she didn’t think she should share that with Karl. “A few months ago,” she hedged.

  Karl winced. “You were corresponding with me a few months ago.”

  “After Clive died I was looking for a new start.” Hetty was tempted to add more, to embellish the lie. But her stomach was churning, and she was afraid it would erupt if she kept telling whoppers.

  “So you’re still grieving.” Karl made it a statement rather than a question. Then he muttered, “Well, I suppose that answers one question.”

  “What’s that?”

  He met her gaze and said, “Why you resisted my kiss last night.”

  “Oh.” Hetty’s throat had swollen closed, preventing more speech. She hung her head, feeling anew the overwhelming remorse for what she’d done. And for what she was doing. She wished fervently she could go back and give Mr. Lin a different answer. But it was too late to make some other choice. She was trapped.

  “Look at me, Hetty.”

  She lifted her gaze and glared resentfully into Karl’s brown eyes, which glowered back at her. She felt a shudder of fear run through her. The man looking at her now was different from the one she’d married. There was nothing ordinary or mild mannered about this formidable man.

  “I don’t care what you did in the past,” he said. “That’s over and done. We start new from here. But I want the whole truth. What else haven’t you told me?”

  Hetty wanted so much to tell him about Grace and Griffin. But she didn’t dare. “Nothing.”

  “There’s nothing else? Everything’s out in the open?”

  Hetty wondered what else it was he expected her to confess. She decided to tell him how difficult life had been for all of them in the past, and began, “The children had—”

  “I know they had different fathers,” Karl interrupted. “I don’t care whether you got pregnant before you were married, or cheated on your former husband. That’s between you and him.”

  Hetty stared at Karl aghast. “Is that what you think?”

  “I’m a botanist, Hetty. I study the biology of plants. Which is how I know Grace and Griffin are at most half siblings and likely older than the ages you gave me.”

  Hetty didn’t know what to say. All those lies brought into the open should have cleared the air, but she felt suffocated by the truth. Or at least, as much of the story they’d concocted as Karl had been able to unravel. Luckily, he still seemed to believe she was Grace and Griffin’s mother.

  “What do you want from me?” she asked.

  “I want you to stop lying,” he said bluntly.

  Hetty’s face felt hot. She was having trouble meeting Karl’s gaze, but she made herself look him in the eye when she said, “All right. Is that all?”

  “Do your grieving, Hetty. Get over Clive. Because there’s only room for one man in this marriage.”

  Karl offered 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 shav
ings 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.