Gingham Mountain by Mary Connealy Read Free Book Online

girls. Thanks for having it hot and ready when I got in from chores.”
    Marilyn, his oldest daughter, her blond hair curly and fine as a cobweb, nodded. “You’re welcome, Pa.”
    Sadie grinned, her white teeth shining against her ebony black skin. “We all cooked together whilst you, Joshua, and Charlie worked with the cattle. We had the easy part of this storm.”
    “Knowing we’d have a hot meal kept us going.” Grant pulled Libby closer, his arm around her, holding the book.
    Six-year-old Benny, supposedly near Libby’s age but about twice her size, snuggled closer, his head resting on Grant’s shoulder. He glanced up through the shaggy hair that had flopped onto his forehead. “Want me to hold the book, Pa?”
    “Thanks, Benny. I just remembered I hadn’t said a proper thank you to the girls.” He let the book settle in his youngest son’s hands. Grant wasn’t the only one in this family who needed a haircut. “Let’s get started reading.”
    Grant looked around the tiny room. Yes, it was a tight squeeze for them all, three bedrooms—if those tiny spaces could be called bedrooms—for seven people. And yes, he’d be sleeping on the kitchen floor for a while. But he’d done that many times to make space. The kitchen was warm, and he didn’t mind being cramped.
    He loved this tiny house, these children. He loved his whole life. God had given him the family he’d dreamed of while he shivered in the New York City alleys. Here they sat with full bellies thanks to the girls’ dab hand with a skillet, a warm, crackling fire, and a roof over their heads no one could take away from them.
    He gave Libby a gentle hug, and she looked up and smiled her quiet smile. That smile meant more to Grant than if a million dollars had rained down on his head. He had everything in the world that mattered. He was a happy, contented man.
    His contentment was broken by the memory of that snippy womanat the train station. All she’d accused him of, all her insults. The smile faded from his face for just a second. Why would she come to mind now? It’s like she meant to ruin his night.
    Maybe it was because she looked cold and hungry.
    And why had she gotten off the train and let it leave her behind? What business had brought her to Sour Springs? She must have family here. Grant hoped she finished her visit lickety-split and got back on her way before he ever had to see her again. How dare the little meddler accuse him of mistreating his children?
    He could picture her right now, sulking, judging him and his orphaned children while she sat somewhere warm and fed and comfortable.

    Driven snow slit at her skin like a million tiny knives. The wind lashed her.
    Disoriented, Hannah thought of the times she’d been lashed by Parrish, his belt punishing her for something or nothing.
    God, no, don’t let Parrish get me. Protect me.
    How often had she prayed that prayer as a child? How many nights had she been jerked awake by nightmares and been punished for screaming out in her sleep? How often had Hannah clung to God, even when Parrish came and God let the worst happen?
    As the storm assaulted her, Hannah thought of how Parrish dragged her out of the bedroom she shared with her sisters. How Grace tried to turn Parrish’s anger away from Hannah. Sometimes it would work. More often Parrish would laugh at Grace and slap her aside, then whip Hannah until she collapsed.
    Now, in the wind, Hannah heard her father’s sadistic laughter ringing in her ears.
    And then Grace had done the unthinkable. She’d fought back. She’d had Parrish arrested. Drawing Parrish’s fury on herself, Grace hadrun like a mother bird faking a broken wing. . .with Parrish in pursuit. Hannah had taken the other children and hidden away in Chicago’s streets until Grace could send for her.
    Despite Grace forbidding it—Grace had a deep horror of adoption—Hannah had found homes for the four little sisters left in her care. And then, before Hannah had