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

At her request, profound shock reverberated down Hatcher’s spine and out through his toes. He felt the texture of the wooden step through the thin soles of his boots. His insides had a strange quivering feeling. For a matter of several heartbeats he could not pull together a single coherent thought. Then he heard the persistent buzzing of an anxious fly, sucked in air laden with the scent of the freshly worked soil and willed the crash of emotions away.

She had no idea what she asked; the risks involved in her asking. If she did, her request would be that he move along immediately.

Words of remembrance flooded his mind, words branded into his brain within weeks of starting his journey, put there by reading and memorizing passages of scripture pointed directly at him. And the Lord’s anger was kindled against Israel and he made them wander in the wilderness forty years, until all the generation that had done evil in the sight of the Lord was consumed. Numbers thirty-two, verse thirteen, and verse twenty-three, Behold ye have sinned against the Lord: and you can be sure your sin will find you out.

He had sinned. For that he’d repented, but the scars, the burden and guilt of what he’d done could not be erased.

He was a wanderer. There was no remedy for that. “Ma’am, I’m a hobo. I never stay in one place.”

She made an impatient sound. “I thought most of the men were looking for work. I’m offering you that along with meals and a roof over your head.”

Silently he admitted the majority of men he’d encountered were indeed searching for a job, a meal and hope. He was not. He wanted only his Bible, his knapsack and forgetfulness. “Sky’s my roof.”

“It’s been known to leak.”

How well he knew it. They both looked toward the west, where clouds had been banking up most of the afternoon.

“Rain’s a good thing,” he said. “It ‘watereth the earth and maketh it bring forth and bud, that it might give seed to the sower, and bread to the eater.’ Isaiah fifty-five, verse ten.”

She snorted. “Rain is good but not if you don’t have shelter.”

He thought to remind her of Psalm ninety-four, verse twenty-two, My God is the rock of my refuge, and point out God was his shelter but decided to save himself any possibility of an argument and said, “Got me a tarpaulin.”

“My father had itchy feet. I’ve spent more than my share of nights under a tarp telling myself it kept off the rain. Trying to convince myself I wasn’t cold and miserable and would gladly trade my father for a warm place to spend the night.”

Her answer tickled his fancy. “That how you got this farm? Traded your father for it.”

She made a derisive sound. “Didn’t have to. I married Jeremiah and got myself the first permanent home I ever had.”

He closed his mind to remembrances of his first and only permanent home.

She continued, not noticing his slight distraction. “I fully intend to keep it. I will never again sleep out in the cold and open. My children will never know the uncertainty I grew up with.” She sighed. “As you already said, ‘the rain watereth the earth and maketh it bring forth and bud,’ but first the seed has to be in the ground. I can’t put the crop in when I can’t make the tractor run. Something you seem to be able to do.”

Somehow he’d had the feeling she’d see the verse differently than he. He’d meant it as a comfort, she took it as a warning. “Never say never. Tomorrow will be different.”

“You think the beast will run for me tomorrow?”

“I tuned it up best I could.”

“I hope you’re right. Somehow I doubt it.” She turned to face him fully. “Is there any way I can persuade you to stay just long enough to get the crop in?”

Her persistence scraped at the inside of his head, making him wish things could be different and he could stay, if only for the season. But like Cain, he was a vagabond and a wanderer. “I’ve already overstayed my limit. Besides, you don’t need me. There are plenty of willing and able men out there.”

The look she gave him informed him she was only too aware of how willing some of the men were.

“I’ll pray for you to find the right man for the job.” It was all he could do.

She nodded, and smiled. “Thank you. I realize the prayer of a righteous man availeth much.”

He didn’t know her well enough to know if she appreciated his offer to pray or considered it a handy brush-off. He pushed to his feet, preparing to depart.

“Anyway, thanks for your help today,” she said.

“Thank you for another excellent meal. And the cookies and biscuits.” He stuck his hat on his head.

“Ma’am.” He strode down the road toward the slough. He’d broken camp three times now, had been on his way this morning when he heard Mrs. Bradshaw talking to herself again. One thing the woman had to learn, you couldn’t fix a machine by talking to it the way you could persuade a horse to cooperate. You had to think differently. Listen to the sounds the machine made and learn what they meant.

He tried not to think of the woman’s repeated failure to operate the tractor. And as promised, he prayed for someone knowledgeable and trustworthy to come along and help her.

He could do no more. The tractor was old. But if she treated it kindly…

A cold wind tugged at his shirt as he made his way to his usual spot. He scurried around finding deadwood and leaves for a fire. The grass picked bare, he searched the trees for dry branches. By the time he got enough wood to warm him, the wind carried icy spears. He pulled on the worn, gray sweater he’d had for ten years and a black coat he’d bartered for. The elbows were shredded, the hem frayed, but it had a heavy wool lining and had kept him relatively warm through many winters.

He pulled the canvas tarp out of his pack, wrapped it around his shoulders, adjusted it so the rip was hidden and hunkered down over the fire.

He opened his Bible and read in the flickering firelight. But his thoughts kept leaving the page.

Mrs. Bradshaw had a huge load to carry. The farm was too much for a woman to handle on her own. He wished he could stay and help but it wasn’t possible. He had to keep moving. He couldn’t stay in one place long enough…

He shuddered and pulled the tarp over his hat.

Best for everyone if he moved on.

Mrs. Bradshaw could find a hired man in town. Like she said, most men were looking for work. And the majority of them were decent men, down on their luck.

He tried not to remember the few he’d met who were scoundrels. He was good at not remembering. Had honed the skill over ten years. But he couldn’t stop the memory of one man in particular from coming to mind.

Only name he knew him by was Mos. A man with an ageless face and a vacant soul who had, in the few days Hatcher reluctantly spent time in his association, robbed an old lady of her precious groceries, stole from a man who offered him a meal, and if Hatcher were to believe the whispers behind other men’s hands, beat another man half to death when Mos was caught with the man’s daughter under suspicious circumstances.

When Mos moved on, Hatcher headed the opposite direction. He needed no reminders of violence.

The cold deepened. Rain slashed across his face. He shifted his back into the wind.

Mrs. Bradshaw was a strong, determined woman. She’d find a way of getting her crop in. He’d pray Mos wasn’t in the area. Or men like him.

She was right about one thing, though. No matter how long he spent on the road, he never learned a way of ignoring a cold rain. Worse than snow because you couldn’t shake it off. It seeped around your collar and cuffs, doused the fire, left you aching for the comforts of a home.

He thought of his home. Something he managed to avoid for the most part. He had Mrs. Bradshaw and her talk of protecting her place to thank for the fact such thoughts were more difficult to ignore tonight.

But he must. The place he’d once known as home was gone. Now his home was the world; his father, God above; his family, believers wherever he found them, although he never stayed long enough to be able to call them friends.

The wind caught at his huddled shelter and gave him a whiff of cows and hay. Before he could stop it, a memory raced in. He and Lowell had climbed to the hayloft to escape a rainstorm. Lowell, three years older, had been his best friend since Hatcher was old enough to recognize his brother’s face. Lowell had one unchanging dream.

“Hatch, when you and I grow up we’re going to turn this farm into something to be proud of.”

They were on their stomachs gazing out the open loft doors. Rain slashed across the landscape, blotting out much of the familiar scene, but both he and Lowell knew every blade of grass, every cow, every bush by heart.

“How we gonna do that, Low?” he asked his big brother.

“We’re going to work hard.”

Hatcher recalled how he’d rolled over, hooting with laughter. “All we do is work now. From sunup to sundown. And lots of times Daddy pulls us from bed before the sun puts so much as one ray over the horizon.”

Lowell turned and tickled Hatcher until they were both dusty and exhausted from laughing. “Someday, though, our work will pay off. You and me will get the farm from Daddy and then we’ll enjoy the benefit of our hard work.”

Hatcher sat up to study his brother and suddenly understood why Lowell didn’t complain or shirk the chores their father loaded on him. “That why you work so hard now?”

Lowell nodded. “If you and me keep it up we’ll have a lot less work to do when it’s ours.” Lowell flipped back to his stomach and edged as close to the opening as he could. “See that pasture over there? It could carry twice as many cattle if we broke it and seeded it down to tame hay. And that field Daddy always puts wheat in has so many wild oats he never gets top price for his wheat. Now, the way I see it, if we planted oats for a few years, cut them for feed before the wild ones go to seed, I think we could clean up the field.”

For hours they remained in the loft, planning how to improve the farm. Hatcher remembered that day so clearly, because it was the first time he and Lowell had officially decided they would own the farm some day. As months passed, and he began to observe and analyze, Hatcher, too, came up with dreams.

But it was not to be.

If he let himself think about it he’d gain nothing but anger and pain and probably a giant headache. He determinedly shoved aside the memory.

Too cold and damp to read his Bible, he began to recite verses. He began in Genesis. He got as far as the second chapter when the words in his mind stalled. It is not good for the man to be alone. He’d said the words hundreds of times but suddenly it hit him. He was alone. And God was right. It wasn’t good. Like a flash of lightning illuminating his brain, he pictured Mrs. Bradshaw stirring something on the stove, that persistent strand of hair drifting across her cheek, her look alternating between pensive and determined. He recalled the way her hands reached for her children, encouraging shy Mary, calming rambunctious Dougie. He’d also seen flashes of impatience on her face, guessed she was often torn between the children’s needs and the weight of the farm work. He could ease that burden if he could stay.

It wasn’t possible.

He shifted, pulled the tarp tighter around his head and started reciting from the Psalms.

“Mr. Jones?”

Hatcher jerked hard enough to shake open his protective covering. Icy water ran down his neck. The shock of it jolted every sense into acute awareness.

The voice came again. “Mr. Jones?”

He adjusted the tarp, resigned to being cold and wet until the rain let up and he found something dry to light fire to.

“Mr. Jones?”

He didn’t want to talk to her. Didn’t want to have her presence loosening any more memories so he didn’t move a muscle. Maybe she wouldn’t see him and go away.

“Mr. Jones?” She was closer. He heard her footsteps padding in the wet grass. “There you are.”

He lowered the tarp and stared at her, wrapped in a too-large black slicker. She held a flickering lantern up to him. The pale light touched the planes and angles of her face, giving her features the look of granite.

“It’s raining,” he said, meaning, What are you doing out in the wet?

“It’s cold,” she said. “Your fire’s gone out.”

He didn’t need any reminding about how cold and wet he was. “Rain put it out.”

“I remember how it is. You must be frozen.”

“I don’t think about it.” Dwelling on it didn’t make a man any warmer.

Water dripped off the edge of the tarp and slithered down his cheek. It wouldn’t stop until it puddled under his collar. He let it go, knowing anything he did to stop its journey would only make him wetter.

She remained in front of him. “I can’t rest knowing you’re out here cold and wet.”

He’d rest a lot better if she’d leave him alone, instead of stirring up best-forgotten and ignored memories. “Been cold and wet before and survived.”

“You can stay in the shanty.”

“I’m fine.”

She grunted. “Well, I’m not. I’ll never sleep knowing you’re out here, remembering how miserable the rain is when you’re in the open.” She began her laugh with a snort. “Though, believe me, I’m ever so grateful for the rain. It’s an answer to prayer. Now if you’d accept my offer and get in out of the cold, I could actually rejoice over the rain.”

He’d guess persistence was her middle name. “Shame not to be grateful.”

“Then you’ll come?”

The thought of someplace warm and dry or even one of the two, had him thinking. Still he hesitated. “You don’t know nothing about me.”

“I know what it feels like to be cold and wet. That’s enough.”

Still he remained in a protective huddle. “I could be wicked.”

“That’s between you and God. But right now, I’m getting a little damp. Could we hurry this along?”

“You’re not taking no for an answer?”

“No.”

She left him little choice. They could both be cold and wet to the core or he could give in to her obstinacy. The latter seemed the better part of wisdom and he pushed to his feet, disturbing his wraps as little as possible as he followed her through the thin protection of the trees, across the road and up a grassy path angling away from her house.

“Just tell me where,” he said when he realized she intended to lead him to the shanty.

“I’ll show you.”

She’d be soaked to the gills by the time she made her way back home but he already discerned she was a stubborn woman set on doing things her way.

She stopped, held the lantern high to reveal a tiny shack, then pushed open the door, found another lantern on a shelf and lit it.

From under her slicker, she pulled out a sack of coal. “This should keep you warm.” She held up her lantern high and looked around. “This hasn’t been used of late. You’ll probably have mice for company but there’s still a bed here. Not much else.”

“It’s fine.” Surprisingly, no water leaked through the ceiling. “I’ll be warm and dry.”

“Come up for breakfast.”

Before he could protest, she closed the door and was gone.

He stood dripping. How had he ended up in the same place for more days than he knew was wise? His limit was two nights and he’d exceeded that.

His mind must be sodden by the rain. How else did he explain being here in this house? He held the lantern high and looked around. A small shack of bare wood weathered to dull gray with one tiny window over a narrow table. Two wooden chairs were pushed to the table. From the drunken angle of one he guessed it missed a leg. A rough-framed, narrow bed and tiny stove completed the furniture and crowded the space. He couldn’t imagine a family living here though he knew many had lived in similar quarters as they proved up their homesteads. But it was solid enough. And fit him like a long-lost glove, feeding a craving he refused to admit. Snorting at his foolish thinking, blaming the stubborn woman who’d insisted he stay here for his temporary loss of reason, he reminded himself he couldn’t stay.

One night. No more.

He shrugged the tarp off, draped it over a coat hook on the wall and built a fire. As warmth filled the room, he pulled off his wet clothes, hung them to dry and donned his spare shirt and pants.

He tested the mattress. It felt strange not to feel the uneven ground beneath him. For all the comforts of the place, sleep eluded him. He rose and sat at the rough wooden table, opened his Bible and began to read. At Psalms chapter sixty-eight verse six, he pulled up as if he’d come suddenly and unexpectedly to the end of a lead rope. He read the verse again, then again, aloud this time.

“God setteth the solitary in families: he bringeth out those which are bound with chains.”

A great yearning sucked at his insides until he felt like his chest would collapse inward. He longed to put an end to his solitary state. He wanted nothing more than home and family.

But it could never be. He had his past to remember.

He clasped his hands together on the open Bible and bowed his head until his forehead rested on his thumbs. “Oh God, my strength and deliverer. I have trusted You all these long years. You have indeed been my shelter and my rock. Without You I would have perished. You are all I need. You are my heart’s desire.” He paused. In all honesty, he could not say that. Despite God’s faithfulness he ached with an endless emptiness for things he didn’t have, things he knew he could never have. “God, take away these useless, dangerous desires. Help me find my rest, my peace, my satisfaction in You alone.”

From the recesses of his mind came words committed to memory. Delight thyself also in the Lord; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart. Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass.

“Psalm thirty-seven, verses four and five,” he murmured out of habit. “But what does that mean for me?”

Long into the night he prayed and thought and planned then finally fell asleep on the soft mattress.

He’d considered ignoring her invitation to breakfast and eating a handful of the biscuits she’d provided but he didn’t even want to guess what she might do. Likely tramp over and confront him. He smiled at the way he knew she’d look—eyes steady and determined, hands on hips—pretty as a newly blossomed flower. For the sake of his peace of mind it was prudent to simply accept her “offer.”

He made his way across the still-damp fields to the Bradshaw house. The rain had been short-lived. Enough to give the grass a drink. Not enough to provide moisture for the soon-to-be-planted crops.

During the night, he’d come to a decision. One he felt God directed him to and as such, not something he intended to resist.

He kicked the dampness off his boots and knocked at the door then stepped back to wait for Mrs. Bradshaw. She opened the door almost immediately and handed him a plate piled high with bright yellow eggs, fried potatoes and thick slices of homemade bread slathered with butter and rhubarb jam.

A man could get used to regular meals. “I’ll stay long enough to put in the crop.” He could do the spring farmwork and obey the verse filling his thoughts last night—Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction. James chapter one, verse twenty-seven.