Читать книгу The Road to Love - Linda Ford - Страница 11

Kate stood in the middle of her kitchen, a palm pressed to her throat, and tried to explain to herself why she’d insisted the man stay for supper.

Not that she regretted the invitation. She owed him for the gifts he’d given the children. It was pure joy to see them both laughing and playing so carefree. But more than that, he’d admitted he’d failed to catch a rabbit and she couldn’t push aside the knowledge he’d go hungry if she didn’t feed him. She’d learned at a young age how to snare the shy animal, had grown quite good at it for all it was a tricky business. But she recalled too well that rabbits were sometimes as scarce as hen’s teeth. Hunger was not a pleasant companion. True, most times they were able to rustle up something—edible roots to be boiled, lamb’s quarters—a welcome bit of greens in the spring but grainy and unpleasant as the season progressed. More times, her father got eggs or potatoes or even a generous hunk of meat in exchange for some work he’d done.

But although thankfully few and far between, Kate could not forget the days her stomach ached with hunger, when she’d gone to bed with nothing but weak tea to fill the emptiness.

No, she could not in good conscience turn a man back to an empty stew pot even if she had to scrape the bottom of the barrel to feed him. And although she’d used the last of her meat two days ago for the meal she prepared for Hatcher Jones she wasn’t at the bottom of the barrel yet, for which she thanked God. And her farm.

Mr. Zimmerman at the store said he’d heard talk of setting up a butcher ring. She hoped her neighbors would do so. Mr. Zimmerman said the Baileys had something ready. Perhaps they’d take the initiative and start the ring. In a few weeks the yearling steer could be her contribution. But in the meantime, all she had to offer Hatcher was fried eggs and potatoes and something from the few items left from last year’s preserving. As the eggs and potatoes fried, she raced down to the cellar for a jar of beet pickles to add to the meal for color. Everything ready, she went to the door and whistled for the children to come.

Mr. Jones jerked around and stared at her. No doubt he’d heard the same dire warnings as she about women who whistled. She smirked derisively. “I know, ‘a whistling woman and a crowing hen are neither fit for God nor man.’”

He touched the brim of his hat. “Seems a crowing hen would taste just fine.”

Her surprise at his answer gave her the sensation of missing a step, her foot dropping into nothingness, her stomach lurching in reaction. It took her a second to steady her breathing.

He touched the brim of his hat. “Ma’am,” he added.

She was about to be ma’amed to death. “Name’s Kate Bradshaw, if you don’t mind.”

“Good enough name far as I’m concerned.”

At his laconic humor, she felt a snort start in the back of her mouth and pressed her fist to her mouth hoping to quell it, knowing she couldn’t. She’d tried before. Tried hard. But she’d never learned to laugh like a lady. And with a willful mind of its own, her very unladylike snort burst around her fist. She expected to see embarrassment or surprise in Mr. Jones’s face. Instead little lines fanned from the outside corners of his eyes easing the resigned disinterest dominating his expression so far.

Her laugh deepened as it always did after the initial snort. Her gaze stayed with him, fastened on his dark eyes as they shared amusement and, it seemed to her, a whole lot more, things too deep inside each of them for words or even acknowledgement.

The children marched toward her, Shep at their heels singing his soulful song and Kate escaped her sudden flight into foolishness and gratefully returned to her normal, secure world.

Dougie stopped at the steps. “Did you know dogs could sing, Momma?”

Kate shook her head. “I didn’t know Shep could sing, though I’ve heard him howling at the coyotes.”

Dougie turned to the man. “Hatcher, you ever hear a dog sing before?”

Mr. Jones nodded. “A time or two.”

Dougie looked shattered, as if knowing another dog had the same talent made Shep less special.

Hatcher gave the dog serious consideration. “I never heard a dog sing as well as this one, though.”

Dougie’s chest expanded considerably. He looked at Mary, who retreated to the doorway. “See. I told you.”

At that moment, Kate knew an inexplicable fondness and admiration for the man who’d returned her son’s dignity through a few kindly, well-chosen words. She smiled at the children, including Hatcher in her silent benediction. “Get washed up for supper.”

“Hatcher staying?” Dougie demanded.

“Yes, he is.”

“Good.” He faced the man. “Thank you for the whistle.”

Kate turned Dougie toward the door. “Wash.” As the children cleaned up, she dished a plateful for Mr. Jones and carried it out to him along with a handful of molasses cookies. They were dark and chewy. Not at all fancy but she had nothing else for dessert. “Would you care for tea?”

He hesitated before he answered. “Much appreciated.” He waited until she headed indoors before he sat down and turned his attention to the food. At the door she paused. He seemed the sort of man who should share their table as well as their food. Yet, he was a stranger and a hobo at that.

She hurried inside, ate with the children then carried a cup of tea out to the man. He wrapped his hands around the white china cup, rubbing his thumbs slowly along the surface as if taking pleasure in its smoothness, causing her to wonder how long it’d been since he’d been offered a simple cup of tea.

He sipped the contents and sighed. “Good.”

“It’s just tea.” She remained on the step, knowing she should return to the kitchen and get at her evening chores, yet feeling comfort in adult company. Not that she suffered for want of such. She’d stopped at Doyle’s office while in town this afternoon and as always he seemed pleased to see her.

He’d smiled as she entered the office. “What a pleasant surprise.” He closed a folder and shoved it aside. “I could use some fresh tea as could you, I’m certain, before you head back to the farm. If you truly must return.” His pale blue eyes brimmed with adoration. “Have you considered how convenient it would be for both of us if you lived in town. In the best house, need I remind you?”

She nodded, a teasing smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “I’ve seen the house. I know how lovely it is.”

“I decorated it and bought every piece of furniture for you, my dear. All for you.”

“So you’ve told me many times.” His generosity filled her with guilt. “Need I remind you that I didn’t ask for it?”

He rose and came around the desk to stand close to her, lifted her chin so he could see her face as he smiled down at her. “I know you didn’t but everything is evidence of my devotion to you.”

Again the uncomfortable twinges of guilt. She openly admitted her fondness for Doyle. But one thing stood irresolutely in the way of her agreeing to marry him—the farm. But he must have seen her argument building and tucked her arm through his.

“Some day I’ll convince you but enough for now. Let’s have tea.” He covered her hand with his protective palm as he led her past his secretary, Gertie, a woman with blue-gray hair and steely eyes that always made Kate wonder what she’d done wrong. He left instructions as to where he could be found. They went to the Regal Hotel, the best in town. Only and always the best for Doyle.

Of course, it wasn’t hard to be the best when, one by one, the other establishments had hung Closed signs on their doors.

Kate wondered again why he’d chosen her and why he continued to wait for her when other women would have been happy to be cared for by him.

He led her into the stately dining room, glistening with pure white linen and light-arresting crystal. As he ordered, Kate tried not to compare her simple farm life with the way Doyle lived—luxury, plenty of everything—a stark contrast to her current struggles. Even his clothes spoke of his tastes, a starched white shirt that the housekeeper must have labored over for hours, a perfectly centered tie, an immaculate black suit. She knew without looking that his fine leather shoes shone with a mirrorlike gleam.

He waited until the waitress in her black dress and crisp white apron had served them tea and scones with strawberry jam at the side then leaned forward. “I can offer you so much, Kate—you and the children. My holdings are growing daily. You would never want for anything.”

She sipped her tea and watched him, fascinated with the way his eyes sparkled like the diamonds in the rings in Adam’s Jewelers down the street where Doyle had taken her a few months ago, practically insisting she allow him to purchase a ring for her. She’d had a difficult time convincing him she wasn’t ready to make such a decision.

She brought her attention back to what he was saying.

“This is a perfect time to invest in real estate. Land prices are sure to go up once this depression ends. Just this morning I bought up another mortgage which will soon make me the owner of the feed store.” He pointed across the street. “Give me a year and I’ll own the mercantile, the hotel—” He indicated the other businesses.

Kate was no financial genius but she understood what his good fortune meant. “Doyle,” she said softly. “Doesn’t it bother you that it means tremendous loss to the current owners? They’ll walk away broke and defeated.”

He shrugged. “I’m sorry for them, certainly. But I’m able to take advantage of the situation and if I don’t, someone else will.” His gaze grew intense. “It’s all for you and the children.” He leaned forward. She almost gave in when he stroked the back of her hand. “Doesn’t it seem a waste for me to be alone in my house? You should be living there rather than me paying a housekeeper.”

Kate studied their joined hands. She missed Jeremiah. Missed being a wife. Missed sharing all the challenges and rewards of her life with someone equally invested in the farm and the children.

He pressed his point and told her again of the lovely things in his house. “It’s all ready and waiting for you to move in. Surely you can see how your children would benefit from the move.”

That argument always made her wonder if she was doing the right thing. In town, Dougie and Mary would be close to school. They’d be able to play with their friends. They could enjoy a few conveniences. Even luxuries.

“What would I do with the farm?” she asked. They’d discussed this before and he always had the same answer.

“Sell it, of course. Maybe not right away. Not unless we can get a decent price for it.”

“Doyle, if only you could understand what the farm means to me.” She’d tried so often to explain it.

“You won’t need the farm to have a home. You’ll have my home. A far better home. You won’t have to struggle and work so hard anymore. I will take care of you. You can enjoy life.”

“I need more than a fine home.”

“You’ll have much more. You’ll have the best of everything.”

She put on a gentle expression as she hid her disappointment. She’d have to accept her loneliness a bit longer because she couldn’t let the farm go. Not yet. Maybe never. If he’d ever suggested she keep it…

But he was unwavering in his opinion of what should happen. He folded his napkin and placed it neatly beside his cup. “Besides, you can’t manage on your own.”

It was the final clincher. Little did he know this insistence convinced her to dig in her heels and hang on. She’d find a way to survive, manage on her own.

It was too bad because she liked Doyle. He was attentive and kind, accompanied her to church, and indeed, offered her a fine life. She was genuinely fond of him. Did she love him? She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t even sure she wanted that.

What did she want? Consider the lilies how they grow: they toil not, they spin not; yet I say unto you that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. If then God so clothe the grass, which is to day in the field, and to morrow is cast into the oven; how much more will he clothe you, O ye of little faith?

Yes, God would take care of her. She believed it with every breath she took. But she couldn’t be content like the lilies with only the fields for her home. She wanted four solid walls and a roof. She wanted to be warm and dry, have food in her cellar or—thinking of the chickens and the meat and eggs they provided—on two squawking legs.

Certainly Doyle would generously provide for her, but it didn’t feel the same as the security of her own piece of land and ownership of her own house.

She sighed from the bottom of her heart.

“Problems?” Hatcher asked.

His question brought her back from thoughts of her visit with Doyle. She realized what she longed for was someone with whom she could discuss her farming problems. To Doyle there was no problem. Or at least, a simple solution. Sell. She laughed a little to hide her embarrassment at being caught spending her time in wishing for things that might never be.

“You found a hired man today?” Hatcher asked.

“I didn’t.”

He glanced over his shoulder, a puzzled look on his face.

“When I came through town there were at least a dozen men hanging about looking for work.”

She shrugged, noting that today Hatcher wore a clean, unpressed shirt in washed-out gray. “I started to put up the ad.” Her skin had tingled, her face grown hot at the men watching her, waiting to read the notice. “I changed my mind.” She didn’t need help that badly—to invite a stranger into her life. “I decided I can manage on my own.”

He turned his attention back to his tea. “Hope all your tractor needs is an adjustment to the carburetor.”

A sigh came from her depths. “My tractor has seen its best days.”

“No horses?”

“I had to trade the last one in the fall for feed to see the cows through the winter.”

“Been tough all over.”

She murmured agreement. “I’m not complaining.”

“Me, either.” He downed the rest of his tea, got to his feet and handed her the cup. “You give me the milk buckets and I’ll take care of the cows.”

“No need.”

“I never accept a meal without doing a job.”

“It was my thanks.”

He made no move toward leaving. “I ’spect the young ones need you.” He nodded toward the interior of the house.

As she hesitated, torn between the truth of his statement and her reluctance to accept any more help from him, Dougie hurried out with the pails solving her need to make a choice.

“I’ll help you, Hatcher.”

The hobo patted Dougie on the head. “Good man.”

Kate choked back a snort at the way her son preened and said, “Very well.” But they didn’t wait for her permission. She watched the man and boy saunter to the barn, smiling as Dougie tried to imitate Hatcher’s easy rolling gait then she hurried inside. There seemed no end of work to be done. She needed to make farmer’s cheese. The ironing had yet to be done and couldn’t be put off any longer. Mary needed a dress for tomorrow and it had to be ironed. And most importantly, she had to have a look at the tractor and see what it needed to get it running. “More than a prayer,” she mumbled.

“Momma?”

“Nothing, Mary. Just talking to myself. Now help me with the dishes then run and shut in the chickens.”

“Momma. I hate the chickens.”

“I know you do but what would we eat if we didn’t have eggs and the occasional chicken?”

“I don’t like eating chicken.”

“I can never figure out why you object to eating an animal you’d just as soon see dead.”

“I keep seeing the way they gobble up grasshoppers.” Mary shuddered.

“But you hate grasshoppers.”

“I don’t want to eat anything that eats them.” Mary shuddered again.

Kate shook her head. This child left her puzzled.

Hatcher returned with the milk, his presence heralded by Dougie’s excited chatter.

“Your milk, ma’am.”

“Thank you. Seems I’m saying that a lot.”

“Won’t be any longer. I’ll be gone in the morning. My prayers for you and the family.”

And he strode away.

Kate stared after him a moment, wondering about the man. But not for long. She had milk to strain and separate. She had to try and persuade Mary to actually enter the chicken yard and shut the henhouse door and then she needed to supervise the children’s homework.

Next morning, as soon as the chores were done, Kate pulled on the overalls she wore for field work, dusted her hands together as if to say she was ready for whatever lay ahead, and pulled an old felt hat tightly over her head. It took her several minutes to adjust it satisfactorily. She recognized her fussing for what it was—delaying the inevitable. But the sooner she got at it, the sooner she’d conquer it. She gave her trousers a hitch, thought of the words from the Bible, She girdeth her loins with strength, and smiled.

“Here I go in the strength of the Lord. With His help I can conquer this,” she murmured, and hurried out to the lean-to on the side of the barn where the beast waited to challenge her. Abby Oliver had parked it there last fall with dire warnings about its reliability.

Kate confronted the rusty red machine, her feet fighting width apart, her hands on her hips and in her best mother-must-be-obeyed voice, the voice she reserved for Dougie’s naughtiest moments, said, “Could you not do the charitable thing and run? How else am I going to get the crop in the ground?” No need to think about getting it off in the fall. That was later. She shifted. Crossed her arms over her middle and took a more relaxed stance. “After all,” she cajoled. “I’m a woman alone. Trying to run this farm and take care of my children. And I simply can’t do it without your help.” She took a deep breath, rubbed the painful spot in her jaw. God, it’s Your help I need. Please, make this beast run one more season. She’d asked the same thing last spring. And again in the fall.

She waited. For what? Inspiration? Assurance? Determination? Yes. All of them.

My God shall supply all your need according to his riches in glory.

Well, she needed a tractor that ran. God knew that. He’d promised to provide it.

She marched around the tractor once. And then again. And giggled. She felt like one of the children of Israel marching around the walls of Jericho. If only she had a pitcher to break and a trumpet to sound…

She made a tooting noise and laughed at her foolishness.

She retrieved a rag from the supplies in the corner and faced the beast. “I will get you running somehow.” She checked the oil. Scrubbed the winter’s accumulation of dust off the motor, poured in some fuel and cranked it over. Or at least tried. After sitting several months, the motor was stiff, uncooperative.

She took a deep breath, braced herself and tried again. All she got was a sore shoulder. She groaned. Loudly.

“Maybe Doyle is right,” she told the stubborn beast.

“Maybe I should sell everything and move into town. Live a life of pampered luxury.”

“Ma’am.”

Her heart leaped to her throat. Her arms jerked like a scarecrow in the wind. She jolted back several inches.

“You scared me.” Embarrassed and annoyed, she scowled at Hatcher. “My name is Kate. Kate Bradshaw. Not ma’am.” She spoke slowly making sure he didn’t miss a syllable.

“Yes, ma’am. Perfectly good name.”

“So you said. What do you want?”

He circled the tractor, apparently deep in thought, came to halt at the radiator. “Want me to start her up for you?”

She restrained an urge to hug him. “I’d feed you for a month if you did, though I have to warn you, I’ve been babying it along for the better part of three years now.”

Hatcher already had his hands in the internal mysteries of the machine.

“Do you need some hay wire?” she asked.

He didn’t turn. “Going to take more than hay wire to fix this.”

“I thought you could fix anything with a hunk of wire or wad of bubblegum.”

“Hand me that wrench, would you?” He nodded toward the tool on the ground, and she got it for him, her gratefulness mixed with frustration that she couldn’t do this on her own. And yes, a certain amount of fear. If she failed, they would all starve. She wasn’t about to let that happen so some Godly intervention on her behalf would be welcome.

He tightened this, adjusted that, tinkered here and there. Went to the other side of the tractor and did more of the same. Finally, he wiped his hands on a rag Kate handed him, then cranked the motor. And blessing of blessings, it reluctantly fired up.

“I’ll take it out for you,” Hatcher hollered.

She nodded, so grateful to hear the rumbling sound she couldn’t stop grinning. She pointed toward the discer and he guided the tractor over and hitched it up. The engine coughed. Kate’s jaw clenched of its own accord. She rubbed at it and sighed relief when the tractor settled into a steady roar.

The discer ready to go, Hatcher stood back.

“Thank you so much. If you’re still around come dinnertime, I’ll make you a meal.”

He nodded, touched the brim of his hat. “Ma’am.”

Kate spared him one roll of her eyes at the way he continued to call her ma’am then climbed up behind the steering wheel, pushed in the clutch, pulled the beast into gear—

It stalled.

The silence rang.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I’ll crank it.” He did his slow dance at the front of the tractor. Again, it growled to life but as soon as she tried to move it, it stalled.

They did it twice more. Twice more the tractor stalled for her.

“Let me.” Hatcher indicated she get down which she gladly did, resisting an urge to kick the beast as she stepped back. He got up, put the tractor into gear and drove toward the field without so much as a cough.

He got down, she got up and the tractor promptly stalled.

Her gut twisted painfully like a rope tested by the wind. She curled her fingers into the rough fabric of her overalls. “It doesn’t like me,” she wailed.

“I’m sure it’s nothing personal,” he murmured, and again started the engine and showed her how to clutch. She followed his instructions perfectly but each time the beast stalled on her.

Her frustration gave way to burning humiliation. What kind of farmer could she hope to be if she couldn’t run the stupid tractor? How could she prove she could manage on her own when her fields were destined to lie fallow and weed infested unless she could do this one simple little job. Hatcher made it look easy. She favored him with a glance carrying the full brunt of her resentment, which, thankfully, as she sorely needed his help, he didn’t seem to notice.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Hatcher changed places with her. The tractor ran begrudgingly but it ran, as she knew it would. He didn’t seem to have a problem with it.

He started down the side of the field, took it out of gear, jumped down and she got back up. She did everything he had. She was cautious, gentle, silently begging the beast to run.

It stalled.

Tears stung the corners of her eyes. She blinked them away. She would not cry. Somehow she’d conquer this beast. “I have to make it run or I’ll never get my crop in, but this thing has become my thorn in the flesh.”

“A gift then.”

She snorted. “Not the sort of gift I’d ask for.”

“Two Corinthians twelve verse nine, ‘My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.’ And verse ten, ‘When I am weak, then I am strong.’ Guess it’s when you can’t manage on your own and need God’s help, you find it best.”

She stared, her jaw slack, not knowing which surprised her more, the challenge of his words or the fact of such a long speech from the man who seemed to measure his words with a thimble.

He met her startled gaze, his eyes bottomless, his expression bland.

She pulled away, looking at nothing in particular as the words of the Bible sifted through her anger, her frustration and fear, and settled solidly in her heart. She needed God’s help. And He had promised it. When she needed it most, she got it best. She liked that idea.

In the heavy silence, she heard the trill of a meadowlark. The sound always gave her hope, heralding the return of spring. She located the bird with its yellow breast on a nearby fence post and pointed it out to Hatcher. “Can you hear what the bird is saying? ‘I left my pretty sister at home.’” She chuckled. “Jeremiah told me that.” He’d also told her to keep the farm no matter what. That way she’d always have a home.

Hatcher nodded. “Never heard that before. Jeremiah your husband?”

She listened to the bird sing his song twice more before she answered. Jeremiah taught her everything she knew about farming. But somehow she hadn’t learned the mysteries of mechanical monstrosities. “He’s been dead three years.”

“Sorry.”

“Me, too.” She turned back to the tractor. “Would you mind cranking it again? I have to get this field worked.”

He did so. The engine started up easily but as soon as Kate tried to make the tractor move, it quit.

“Maybe it just needs babying along. I’ll run it awhile.”

Kate stubbornly clung to her seat behind the steering wheel. “You were in a hurry to leave until you heard my husband is dead.”

“I’m still leaving.”

She stared ahead. She wanted to refuse Hatcher’s offer. She didn’t need pity. She wouldn’t accept a man’s sudden interest in the fact she was alone. Widowed. An easy mark. Desperate.

“Crank it again. I have to do this myself.”

But nothing changed. The minute she tried to ease the tractor forward, actually make it do the work it was created for, the engine stalled.

This was getting her nowhere. The wide field seemed to expand before her eyes, and blur as if viewed through isinglass. She brushed the back of her hand across her eyes to clear her vision and jumped down. “Fine. See if it will run for you.”

He started the temperamental piece of metal, climbed behind the wheel, eased it into gear and moved away.

She wanted to run after him and demand to drive the tractor, demand the tractor cooperate with her. Instead she stared after him. One, two, three…only when she gasped ten, did she realize she’d been holding her breath waiting for the beast to respond to Hatcher as it did to her.

It didn’t. It bumped along the field as defiant as a naughty child.

At least Hatcher had the courtesy not to look back and wave.

He made fifty yards before he stopped, climbed down and plodded back to her. “I’ve got some spare time. I’ll work until noon. By then I’ll have all the kinks worked out of the engine.”

Kate wanted to protest even though she was relieved to have a few more hours unchallenged by her stubborn tractor. She swallowed her pride. “Thank you.”

He turned back and she hurried across the field to the house. He deserved some kind of compensation for doing this. She’d make cookies and biscuits to give him for his journey.

When noon came, she carried sandwiches and hot tea to the field and handed him the bundle she’d made of cookies and biscuits.

“What’s this?” he asked.

She explained.

At first she thought he’d refuse, then he took the bundle.

“Thanks. Appreciate it.”

She’d been dreading it all morning but it was time to take over the tractor. She had no choice if she were to get the field prepared for seeding. And then what? But all morning she’d thrown up a barrier at the question, refusing to deal with the obvious answer—as soon as the field was worked she’d have to seed it and then—no, she wouldn’t think that far ahead.

She climbed behind the wheel. The machine had run all morning. She’d glanced that direction often enough to assure herself of the fact. Hatcher had jumped down a few times and made some sort of adjustment then continued on.

But again, it stalled as soon as she tried to drive it. “Why can’t I make it work?” she yelled.

He shrugged. “I’ll finish out the day.”

“Great,” she muttered. She should be grateful and she was. But she was also on the edge of desperation. If he worked all day he wouldn’t finish even one field. Then he’d be on his way. And she’d be stuck with the beast. And two more fields that needed working. Suddenly marrying Doyle seemed like the most sensible thing in the world.

All afternoon, she considered her options. Marry Doyle and sell the farm. An easy way out, yet not one she was willing to take. Rent out the farm. But renting it out would mean they’d have to move. No man would want the farm without the house. No. There had to be a way she could make this work. If only the tractor would run for her as readily as it did for Hatcher Jones.

She had one option left. Somehow, she had to convince the man to stay. At least until she got the crop in.

She had hot water ready for him to wash in when he came in from the field. “Supper is waiting.” She used her purchased tin of meat—a spicy loaf—mixed it with rice and tomatoes and spices. She’d made bread pudding for dessert, adding a generous handful of raisins. Not the best of fare but she’d done what she could with her meager supplies.

She waited until the children ate then took tea out to Hatcher. It stuck in her throat to beg, but she’d made up her mind.

“Mr. Jones, is there any way I can persuade you to stay around to put the crop in for me? I wouldn’t be able to pay you much. But I could let you live in the settler’s shanty on the other quarter.”