Chapter 14
“Ihave an idea.” Belle quit the lassoing lesson. Cassie was getting just plain dependable with her rope. “Let’s go throw your knife for a while.”
Cassie grinned. “That’ll be fun.”
Belle almost groaned at the woman’s complete lack of killer instinct. “This isn’t about fun, Cassie Dawson. How many times do I have to tell you?—”
“Yes, ma’am.” Folding her hands meekly, she hunched her shoulders a bit. “This is about self-defense.”
“Cassie!”
Cassie froze, then scowled at Belle in such a phony way that Belle had to fight back a laugh. “Don’t you take that tone with me, Belle Harden. I’ve got all the…the…” Cassie’s scowl faded to a frown. “What’d you call it?”
Emma was pulling her own razor-sharp knife from the sheath on her hip as she walked past Cassie heading toward the target drawn on the barn. She whispered, “Killer instinct.”
Smiling her gratitude, Cassie said, “Thanks, honey. That’s right. Killer instinct. I’ve got a lot of that.”
Belle rolled her eyes, looking to heaven for mercy for this little marshmallow. How had Red kept her alive this long? Of course, Cassie had survived with her first husband, that worthless Lester Griffin, for three years. So she had to have some toughness in her.
Cassie lined up beside Emma and Belle. Emma sent her knife whizzing, and it landed square in the dead center of the big charcoal circle with the black dot in the center for a bull’s-eye.
“Ouch.” Cassie flinched.
“What?” Emma turned. “Did something hurt?”
“No, I just wish we could call it something besides a bull’s-eye. Just thinking of that knife stabbing a poor defenseless bull right in the eye… I mean, the bull didn’t do anything to deserve?—”
“I’m next.” Belle cut her off, unable to stand this complaint for the fortieth time. Belle’s knife hit with a dull thud, a fraction of an inch above Emma’s. “I aimed a little high so our knives wouldn’t scratch. That’s hard on the edge.”
Emma nodded.
Cassie squared off and drew her knife.
Emma stepped back four long, quick steps.
So did Belle. There came a point when it wasn’t cowardly to protect herself, and Cassie’s knife throwing was—no pun intended—that point. “Act like you’re mad at it, Cass.”
Cassie threw with all her might, and it hit the barn. True, the knife hit on its side rather than the tip, but it was progress.
“You’ve got the range down. Good. Try again.”
By the time the afternoon had faded to evening, Cassie had gotten the knife to stick right in the wood nearly ten times. Ten successes out of one thousand throws wasn’t great, but… “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” Cassie jerked her chin in a determined nod.
“What’s that?” Sounded true, though.
“An old saying of my mother’s.” Cassie pulled her knife out of the barn.
Emma and Belle had split the chores so one of them could stay near Cassie to stem any bleeding she brought on herself…and protect the children. Sarah was doing her best to keep the young’uns in the house and well out of harm’s way.
“What’s it mean?” Emma asked.
“It means that if I have to throw this knife wrong ten thousand times to learn how to throw it right, then it’s a good thing I’ve gotten past the first one thousand throws today. Because I am going to learn to defend myself better.”
“At that rate, considering you’re just making up that ten thousand number—but still, it’s a good guess—you’ll be throwing your knife like a pro in ten days.” That was wildly optimistic, but Belle didn’t tell Cassie so.
Cassie beamed. “Maybe I’ll throw it two thousand times tomorrow just to speed things along.”
“You’ve got to leave time to feed your baby.”
“True, suckling a baby does slow a woman down from learning to knife fight.”
Belle laughed just as Sarah called them for supper. She rested one arm on Emma’s waist and the other on Cassie’s. “Let’s go eat.”
Three happy knife wielders walked into supper together.
The evening she’d nearly been shot and trampled, Abby joined Wade and his family for supper in her best dress.
“I found out today Sid hadn’t started spring roundup.” Wade served himself some mashed potatoes. He spoke in a casual tone, but his shoulders tensed as if he braced himself for Mort’s reaction.
“What?” His father’s fist slammed on the white cloth. The heavy silverware jumped, and Gertie’s water glass tipped on its slender stem. She caught it so deftly, Abby wondered how often Mort punched the table.
“We started today.” Wade spoke calmly considering his father’s face was so bright red. Could one’s head explode?
“It’s a month late! We’ll be pushing to get the roundup done in time to cut the herd and get a drive to Helena.
” Mort shoved against the table, and his chair rolled backward.
Hopefully, he’d stay there, away from the breakables.
“If you’d have been here, this wouldn’t be happening.
” He headed for Wade, who sat on his left.
Lifting his fist, Mort seemed determined to throw a punch.
Wade stood, positioned his chair between himself and his father, and stopped Mort in his tracks. “You think I’m going to sit there and let you hit me? You really think I’ll put up with that from you ever again?” He laughed.
It sounded like an honest laugh to Abby. But “ever again” sounded like Wade had known his father’s fists before. There was nothing to laugh about here.
“You’d never have the guts to stand up to me if I wasn’t in this chair. You’re taking advantage of an injured man. You’re a weakling! A little, worthless fool.” Mort grabbed at Wade’s abandoned chair as if he would throw it aside.
Abby flinched and glanced at Gertie. Gertie stared down at her lap, the sorrow on her face telling Abby that this was something that had gone on many times before.
“I know what comes next.” Wade held the chair in place with little effort, his strength far exceeding his father’s. “You’re ashamed to call me your son.” He said the words in a singsong way as if they bored him. “I’ve heard it a thousand times before.”
“I am! How did I raise such a coward? If you’d been here?—”
“Pa, stop!” Wade’s voice was clear but calm. No anger in it. Only strength underlaid with kindness.
But this wasn’t a kind of strength Abby understood.
Strength was Wild Eagle’s skill with bow and lance.
It was riding a horse, racing across the rugged hills.
It was battling hand to hand and winning.
It was anger and physical domination. Mort’s strength seemed more familiar—except being bound to that chair stole any vitality.
“You know why I left this place and you know I only came back because you were hurt. We’ve had this out.”
“Don’t start with your preaching.”
“There’ll be no preaching. You’re not a stupid man.
I’ve spoken to you of my faith, and I won’t speak of it again unless you ask.
It’s yours to accept or reject. But know this—if it hadn’t been for your accident and what I believe is my God-given duty to honor my father, I would never have come back. ”
Mort glared.
“I know what you want to say. I can see it in your eyes.” Wade stayed on his feet with the chair a barrier Mort couldn’t cross.
“You want to throw me out. But you can’t, not in your condition.
Not now especially, now that you know your foreman is incompetent.
So you’re stuck putting up with me for the time being.
Just as I’m stuck putting up with you. I give you news that makes you furious, and as usual, you have no control over yourself. Not something I consider strength, Pa.”
The truth of that resonated with Abby. Yes, much of Wild Eagle’s strength had instead been simple anger, a tantrum suited more to a small child.
Wade held Mort’s eyes, refusing to look away or back down. “All your temper is doing is letting our dinner get cold.”
Mort’s hands tightened on the chair between the two men.
The moment stretched.
The gravy on Abby’s potatoes had quit steaming, and she resented missing out on the savory food while it was piping hot.
She could stand it no longer. “Roll yourself back to your place at the table, old man, or I’m throwing your meal out to the dogs.
That’s what we do in my village when the two-year-olds act up at mealtime. ”
Mort’s head snapped around.
Wade inhaled so sharply, he started to cough. It almost sounded like laughter, but that wasn’t possible.
Gertie looked up from her hands, her eyes wide with fear.
Abby took a quick look at the others, then glared at Mort.
“What? Am I supposed to pretend this noise is anything but weakness? Am I supposed to respect a man who would insult and threaten his son, when his son is the only one who can save his ranch? This is some white man’s game I don’t know how to play, and I refuse to learn. Eat. Both of you. Now.”
They obeyed her.
She expected them to, but Gertie seemed stunned.
Abby ate her food quietly, ignoring everyone else.
The clink of silverware on plates annoyed her as she considered with contempt the ritual involved in a meal.
“How many travois does it take to move on if the water goes foul or the herd dies off in a blizzard? You could never take the house. Explain to me why you built this huge structure.”
Wade looked up from his plate and smiled at her. A warm smile that reminded her of the moment that had passed between them this afternoon. And another such moment a year ago, when Wade had saved her from treacherous men. He’d done that twice now.
“It keeps the snow off our heads.”
Abby rolled her eyes. “The plates, the tables and chairs—such a burden. Eat out of a communal pot. Sit on the dirt floor. Why would you box in such a huge part of the outdoors, then be left to clean it and heat it and build useless pieces of furniture to fill it? Why not just leave the outdoors…outdoors and let God keep it hot or cold to suit Himself?”
“You told me you believe in God, Abby. That your people believed in Jesus.”
“Yes, we were visited by the Blackrobes.”
“Blackrobes?”
“Our word for men who came talking of the white man’s God.
The first such man came years ago, long before I lived with the Flathead.
A man named DeSmet spent a long while with our people.
We respected him greatly and embraced his teachings.
Other Blackrobes have come since, including one last winter.
There are many believers in the one God among my people. ”
“I’ve heard of DeSmet.” Mort spoke, sounding almost polite.
Abby braced herself for his cruelty. It was nearly all she’d heard from him since they’d met.
“He walked into a hostile Sioux gathering of five thousand warriors and demanded to speak to Sitting Bull. He convinced them to sign a peace treaty when they were talking war. I never knew he’d been around here. Imagine the strength of the man—facing down Sitting Bull.”
“He walked with God. That was his strength. My people told me so. My Flathead mother knew him well. She was a young girl when he lived among them. There was a greatness to him that led us to embrace his words when we would have driven off another white man. And we have passed that belief in his faith down over the years.”
Mort stared at her. “You’re saying you believe in this God stuff too? You, raised as a savage?”
“You were the one who lifted your fist to your son. Neither my Flathead father nor my white father ever did such to me or anyone except in self-defense. You are the only savage at this table.”
Mort glowered.
“Do you now wish to strike me? Is that what makes you feel like a man?”
He shook his head. “I’m done with this meal and this company.” His head shaggy with overgrown white hair, he turned to Wade. “Move aside, boy, so I can get to bed. Been a long day, my first to be moving so much. I’m tired.”
“Do you need help getting settled for the night, Pa?”
At first, Abby thought Mort would shout and threaten again. His fists clenched and his face reddened. For a long, taut minute, he seemed to fight a battle within himself. Mort said at last, “I might. I’ll call you in later if I can’t manage.”
Abby could barely conceal her astonishment.
In her village, she’d been taught that the elders of the tribe were to be revered.
Her dealings with Mort to this point had been anything but reverent.
Wade, however, had spoken of honoring his father.
Shame swept her as Mort, his eyes downcast, waited for his son to politely move the same chair they’d used as a wall between them earlier.
Mort rolled past that side of the table.
Laying one hand on his father’s shoulder, Wade said, “I’ll get things straightened out fast with the roundup, Pa.”
“Thanks.” Nodding, Mort headed for the office they’d converted to a bedroom.