Hope by Lori Copeland Page A

He must be every bit as chilled as she was.

    Soon heavenly smells filled the cabin. Rain pattered on the windowpane as Hope brushed her hair dry before the fire. Grunt was cutting up the squirrels and dipping them in flour. The meat sizzled when he laid the pieces in a skillet of hot grease. Boris mixed cornmeal and water—bannock, she heard him say—cakes of Indian meal fried in lard.
    She listened as the men talked among themselves. Big Joe questioned Grunt about the bear. She thought she detected a hint of skepticism in his voice, but Grunt was adept at holding to the story. He was protecting her, but why?
    As the mouthwatering smells permeated the room, Hope grew a little light-headed. She was so tired and so very hungry. And so grateful to Grunt for rescuing her. She might well have perished out there alone.
    She stood up and walked to the table.
    Grunt glanced up, continuing to dish up plates of hot food. The cabin looked spotless. The curtains had been washed, the floors scrubbed. “Sit down, Miss Ferry. Supper’s ready.”
    Big Joe, Boris, and Frog scraped their chairs to the table and lit into the fried squirrel and johnnycakes like a pack of wild animals. Stunned, Hope watched them strip meat off the bones with their teeth, wipe their mouths on their sleeves, and belch between bites.
    She had yet to pick up her fork.
    When they noticed that she was staring, Big Joe glanced up, utensil paused in midair. “What?”
    Her eyes silently condemned their atrocious table manners.
    Boris lowered the squirrel leg he was gnawing on. “What’s wrong now, Miss Snootypants?”
    “Must you eat like mules?”
    “Hum?” Frog asked, his mouth full.
    “Your manners—they’re disgraceful.”
    The men exchanged quizzical glances. “What’s she yakkin’ about now?” Boris complained, a piece of meat falling from his mouth as he talked.
    “Somethin’ ’bout manners. Cain’t please her.”
    Picking up her fork, Hope looked at each of them. “It seems to me you would be interested in improving yourselves.”
    They gawked at her, mouths slack. Grunt moved to the stove and poured a cup of coffee.
    Hope took a small bite of her meat. “Chew with your mouth closed, and if you take small bites, you’ll enjoy the food more. Besides, swallowing it all in one gob will give you indigestion.”
    Big Joe frowned. “Indi-what?”
    “A sour stomach,” Grunt said, sitting down at the table.
    Boris swore under his breath.
    “And please watch your language.” Hope picked up the plate of johnnycakes. “It isn’t necessary to curse in order to properly express yourself.” She selected two nice brown cakes and arranged them neatly on her plate. “Papa says only a fool opens his mouth and proves it.”
    Forks and knifes clanked as the men returned to their meals. Hope quietly laid her fork aside and folded her hands next to her plate. A minute later, Big Joe glanced up, frowning when he saw her staring. His bushy brows lifted.
    “Grace,” she said.
    “Who?”
    “Grace. We haven’t said grace.”
    Boris let out a blue curse, and Big Joe kicked him under the table, hard. Boris pinned Big Joe with a sour look; then, fork standing at sentinel, he bowed his head.
    Hope began, “Oh, Lord, we are so grateful for the food you’ve provided, though we are so unworthy.”
    Frog snickered.
    Hope’s voice rose an octave. “We know your mercy is endless, Father, and I ask that that unbiased mercy be extended to these poor heathen souls—Big Joe, Boris, and Frog—” she glanced up to meet Grunt’s eyes and hurriedly added—“and Grunt, who knows no better. Amen.”
    Opening her right eye, Hope studied Big Joe, who seemed to be trying to decide if he’d just been insulted.
    Raising his coffee, Grunt quietly ended the prayer. “Amen.”
    When the meal was over, Big Joe pushed back from the table and walked over to his saddlebags. Hope felt as if she’d eaten with a pack of buzzards. All except Grunt. His table manners were