Lonely In Longtree (10 page)

And Marva would never forget his gentle strength and thoughtfulness the day she went looking for Lucky and got lost. That day, he had been a true hero.

Marva was uncertain what her parents thought of him, beyond his abilities with the lodge.

Tired of packing, she sat on the side of her bed and let her thoughts drift. How smug he had looked at the picnic, staring openly at her with that silly smile on his face! Why did he have to be so handsome? It would be much easier to dislike him if she could only find him physically disgusting.

She bent over and pulled her packet of newspaper clippings from the drawer of her bedside table. Leafing through the few papers, she read over Lucky's words—Monte's words?—and wondered again if Monte Van Huysen concealed a sensitive, serious heart behind his charming manner.

❧

“You're not coming to supper?” Mother repeated with concern in her voice. “But it's our last night here, Marva. Everyone will miss you.”

“I have a headache,” Marva answered truthfully. “Please make my excuses, Mother. I'm truly not up to socializing this evening.”

She felt her mother's cool hand on her forehead, then her cheeks. “Too much sun again, maybe. Is there anything you wish to tell me, dear one? I saw you talking with Mr. Van Huysen at the picnic, and then you disappeared. He seemed quieter than usual all afternoon.”

“Don't read too much into that,” Papa said. “A man can have many reasons for being thoughtful that have nothing to do with a woman, difficult though that may be for you to believe.” He gave his wife a wink and squeezed her shoulder.

Mother looked chagrined. “I do tend to imagine too much at times, and I know my speculations have caused you hurt in the past, Marva dear.”

Marva knew her mother referred not only to the long-ago misunderstanding with Myles, but also to imaginary interest from dozens of other eligible men over the years. She reached up to take her mother's hand. “It's not your fault. I do the same thing—read too much into people's emotional states and assume they all relate somehow to me.” Hearing a betraying quiver in her voice, she smiled and fell silent.

Her mother's eyes held sympathetic understanding. “Tomorrow will be a long day. You just rest. I'll see if we can't bring you a little something to eat.”

Twelve

Now the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, that ye may abound in hope, through the power of the Holy Ghost.

Romans 15:13

Marva busied herself with arranging her bags in the overhead compartments, trying not to eavesdrop on the farewells between Monte and his relatives, yet at the same time straining to catch each word he spoke. Would he take time to bid her an individual farewell? There would be no privacy in this crowded train car, and she had no reason to return to the platform. . . not that privacy could be found there either.

Her hatbox kept popping out of position and threatening to drop on the head of the passenger seated beneath it, who happened to be Caroline Schoengard, the minister's wife. “Excuse me—I'm so sorry—” Marva reached over the other woman's head one more time to shove the box back in place. Caroline claimed not to mind, but Marva sensed her irritation. Everyone was tired and edgy, dreading the long train ride home.

“Here, let me.” Monte reached around Marva to rearrange the boxes. Grateful and shaking in every limb, she stood back to watch. “There. That should stay put.” He lowered his arms.

“Thank you.”

“Yes, thank you,” Mrs. Schoengard added. “Now I don't have to worry about something dropping on my head at any moment.”

Monte smiled briefly at her, then focused on Marva. “Was that your last box?”

She nodded.

“Where are you sitting?”

She pointed to the row. “With my parents, for now.”

“Until Beulah needs you,” he added.

The train blasted a long whistle. People raised their voices above the clamor. The cacophony bombarded Marva's ears, and fear blocked her throat. Desperately she wanted to ask the question—this might be her last opportunity ever!—but how could she ask it amid all this confusion?

Someone bumped into her from behind. Monte quickly placed his hand on the small of her back in a protective gesture. A party of strangers had entered at the front of the car and appeared determined to make their way to the rear, shuffling everyone in the aisle aside or ahead. A carpetbag struck Marva between the shoulder blades; angry voices protested on all sides.

Monte guided her to the back of the train carriage. A lady climbed the steps and pushed past them. This time Monte bracketed Marva with his arms, protecting her from wayward luggage. He looked down into her face, shook his head, and smiled briefly. “I don't believe we're going to find a more private place than this to say our good-byes. I hope you'll forgive me for staring at you yesterday. It was rude, I know.”

“Certainly,” she said, brushing that awkward request aside, “and thank you for a lovely vacation, Mr. Van Huysen. You did so much for my parents and for all our friends. I imagine you'll be visiting your brother and his family sometime.” Formality was difficult to maintain while he stood so close.

He suddenly gripped her hand and looked down at it, then up into her eyes, and then down at her hand again. His fingers pressed hers, his thumb rumpled her glove, and then he took a step back without meeting her gaze and breathed as if he'd sprinted to catch the train.

Marva waited, expecting him to make some declaration or comment. He seemed to be deadly earnest. In fact, he behaved almost like a man in love. . .but then, how would she know how a man in love behaves? Actually, he looked more like a man in pain.

“Mr. Van Huysen, are you well?”

The conductor bellowed his last boarding call. Monte jerked as if he'd been struck. “I—I'll be visiting sometime. Like you said.” He squeezed his eyes shut and heaved a sigh. “Thank you. Meeting you was—I hope we meet again. Sometime. I—” The train gave a lurch, and his eyes popped wide.

“Marva.”

“Yes?”

“Good-bye.” He released her hand, bolted down the steps, and disappeared.

Marva caught herself as the train gave another jolt and straining metal screamed in protest. Using the seat backs for leverage, she staggered up the aisle and slipped into the vacant seat beside her mother.

“Mr. Van Huysen is waving to us from the platform, Marva. You should wave at him.” Her mother sounded pleased. “I do hope he comes to visit Myles and Beulah. I hope you don't mind my saying this, but I think he admired you, dear.”

Marva caught a glimpse of Monte and Hardy Stowell standing side by side, waving. Monte held his hat over his heart with a funereal air. Pulling a handkerchief from her pocketbook, she waved it at him. As the train gained momentum, the buildings along Front Street slipped out of view; as the train cars moved onto the trestle, the clacking changed in tone.

Would she ever see this little town again? Sparkling sunlight on the lake's brilliant blue surface brought tears to her eyes. Was that a loon's white breast in the distance? An open window brought a whiff of water and pine. The breeze felt cool against her damp cheeks. Why was she crying?

She lowered her handkerchief and wiped her eyes and nose. Depression weighted her chest like a stone. How she longed for privacy, the chance to release her emotions in a storm of tears!

“Marva?”

She looked up. Myles wore an apologetic expression. “Beulah is hoping you'll help us with the children. Trixie is nearly frantic, and the baby needs to be fed.”

She nodded and rose. It was good to be needed.

❧

Monte watched the train cars slip past. Once he took a step forward, determined to catch hold and climb aboard one of the passing coaches. It wasn't too late! He could still grab on. . . .

The last car rattled past, and the train slid over the trestle, its noise gradually fading in the distance. He found himself breathing in deep gasps. Why? Why hadn't he told her? The words were simple enough: “I am Lucky in Lakeland. I love you. Please marry me.”

But no, it wasn't that simple. Marriage involved much, much more.

He would see her again. Myles had demanded a visit from him before the end of the year. This wasn't his last chance. He could work up a plan, a perfect way to propose marriage and sweep her off her feet. Heavenly visions of a future with Marva drifted through his imagination.

But between him and that idyllic future loomed his past.

It would be so much easier to pretend he had never met Marva Obermeier and simply resume his undemanding bachelor lifestyle. With luck, he could avoid mentioning his unsavory past to anyone ever again. It was nobody's business anyway. He'd made no promises; Marva would expect nothing from him. If Lucky in Lakeland never placed another ad in the paper, she might be disappointed, but she would soon forget and move on with her life. A woman that wonderful wouldn't remain single forever. It was nothing short of a miracle that she had remained unmarried this long.

“Monte, are you gonna stand here all day?”

He turned to stare at Hardy's sweaty pink face. “No.”

His voice sounded so weak that Hardy's brows lifted in evident surprise.

Monte pulled himself together and said more firmly, “No. Just admiring the view.”

“Really? Whatever you say.”

He followed Hardy's glance toward the train yard, weedy, grimy, and strewed with refuse. “No, the lake.” He waved his arm. “Out there. It's a gorgeous day. Blue sky, blue lake.”

His partner's lopsided smile told Monte he was getting nowhere. “You head back, Hardy. I've got to stop for mail and supplies.”

“Right.” Hardy gave him an ironical salute and walked away, shaking his head.

Monte could ignore the heaviness in his spirit as long as he kept working, but the long, solitary drive home allowed far too much thinking time. Propping his elbows on his knees, he bowed his head over the reins clutched in his hands. Shoulders hunched, he let the regret flood over him.

“Coward,” he muttered. Then louder, “Coward!”

Buzz and Petunia flicked their ears back as if to listen and tossed their heads in seeming uncertainty. “Do you hear?” he said in a calmer tone. “Your master is an idiot and a coward.”

He tipped his head back and sighed deeply. “I did it again, God. When will I learn?” Tension stabbed at his temples and tightened his shoulders. “I'm still afraid. What if she rejects me when she knows?” The perfect weather seemed to mock his misery. How could skies be blue while storms raged in his heart?

For over twenty years, he had carried around the wreckage caused by sin. Sure, God had forgiven him—his eternity in heaven was guaranteed through Christ's cleansing blood. But here on earth, he still dragged a burden of guilt behind him wherever he went.

“Why, God? I want to be free!”

Trust Me.

The words came into his head, not as a voice but as a clear message.

Blinking, he looked up as if expecting to see God in the sky.

❧

That evening Monte still wrestled with his questions and argued with God's clear request. After tossing on his bed for hours, he finally lit a lamp and opened his Bible. Turning to the place marked by a ribbon, the passage in Matthew where he had left off reading that morning, he glared at the page. “If You have something to tell me, I'm looking. I've got to have peace, God. If You don't give it to me, I don't know where to turn.”

This disrespectful prayer was the best he could manage at the moment. Hopefully God would bear with him. At least he was turning to the Bible instead of a bottle.

He let his tired eyes drift down the page. Chapter 7. Jesus was talking about beams and hypocrites. Pearls and swine. He sniffed and, with one finger, rubbed his mustache.

Then verse 7 caught his attention. “ ‘Ask, and it shall be given you. . . .' ” He read through the section. “ ‘Or what man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone? . . . If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him?' ”

Monte sat up, swung his legs over the side of his bed, and rested his forehead on his clenched fists. “But God, if I ask for Marva, what if You say, ‘No'? Surely You don't mean that I'm supposed to ask for something specific, just for my own pleasure. Do You?”

No matter how he might beat around the bush when he prayed, requesting peace, asking for love, begging for a wife, one obvious fact remained: Both he and God knew that Marva and none other was on his mind. He might as well be honest.

“Dear God.” He paused and then amended, “Dear Lord God, You know my heart's desire. You know I want Marva Obermeier as my wife. Please, Lord, I want her to love me! I know You don't force people to love each other, but I don't know how else to ask this. I'm a miserable beast and entirely unworthy of a woman like her. I feel like an idiot for even asking this. . .but You tell me over and over again to trust You, so I'm trying my best.”

Thirteen

Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee.

Isaiah 26:3

Marva put one hand to the small of her back and rubbed, leaning on the top rail of the pigpen. The pigs snorted and squabbled over their slop, ears flopping, snouts wriggling. The shoats had grown and fattened nicely over the summer and would provide some good eating over winter. Papa intended to sell several of them, but others would soon hang in pieces in the smokehouse.

J. D. Parker, the hired man, sauntered past her and tipped his hat. Marva merely nodded. Although she usually appreciated good manners, his behavior—or maybe it was his expression—seemed too familiar for their degree of acquaintance.

The hog stench finally got to be too much. She entered the barn and climbed the ladder to the hayloft—her first time up there in many years. The rich hay aroma, the golden motes of dust revealed by sunlight slipping through cracks in the barn walls, and the mounds of hay stored for winter feed all created a sense of nostalgia, of slipping back through time. Seating herself near the loft door, her back against a prickly wall of hay, she gazed out across the Wisconsin countryside and felt like a child again. A lonely, listless child in a middle-aged woman's body.

Late summer sunshine flowed over the fields of corn and wheat. A breeze made ripples across the expanse like waves on a huge, golden lake. Her mind instantly pictured a sun-flecked blue surface with reflections of silver-birch trunks against the dark, upside-down images of pines. She heard again the slap of water against the shore and the quacking of ducks. The wind against her face brought back the sigh of pines and the rustle of oak and maple leaves instead of cornstalks.

This ache in her soul—how could she bear it?

“Marva?” her father called from below.

She was tempted to remain quiet and preserve her peace. “In the loft, Papa.” She heard his boots on the ladder rungs.

“What are you doing up here?” His head rose through the trapdoor, bits of hay dangling from hair and beard.

“Nothing much.”

“Your mother's been looking for you.” He rested his forearms on the loft floor, still standing on the ladder. “I've been meaning to tell you that I'm gonna hire J. D. Parker on full time. He kept the place up well while we were away last month, and I like the way he tends to things as if this place were his own. I disapprove of the way he frequents local taverns, but since the drink doesn't interfere with his work, I can't complain.”

Marva nodded. “I'm sorry I can't help you more.”

He snorted. “A farm needs a man to work it. You've done more'n your share around this place since you were a little thing. It's time to face facts. I'm too old to keep it up.”

Gazing at her father's weathered face and stooping shoulders, Marva knew he was right. “Are you planning to sell the farm?”

He climbed all the way up, brushed off his trousers, and then sat beside her and chewed on a straw. “I'd always thought to hand it on to you, once you married, but I don't see that plan coming about unless you suddenly take a shine to Parker.” He gave her a teasing wink. “I know you love the place, but your heart isn't fastened to it. To be honest, I ain't so dead set on living out my days here as I used to be.”

Marva pondered this in silence, doubting his words. Papa's roots were deeply planted in the soil of his farm. “Where would we go?”

“I'm consulting the Lord on that matter, as is your mother. You might try asking Him for suggestions yourself, daughter.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Anything on your mind these days?”

She studied her clasped hands, noting a torn fingernail. “Nothing I can talk about right now.”

He sighed softly. “Well, when you're ready to talk, I'm ready to listen.” He reached out to pat her cheek with his callused hand. “The Lord has a plan.”

Instead of watching him leave, Marva gazed across the fields once more.

❧

That evening, after cleaning up the kitchen and after her parents had gone to bed, she sat down at the table and opened the newspaper. There had been no letters from Lucky since well before her trip up north. Her mind told her to stop looking, since finding nothing brought only hurt and frustration, yet her fingers turned the pages anyway.

The ad caught her eye almost instantly:

Dear Lonely in Longtree, This is a difficult letter to write, which is why I've been silent so long. I told you once before that God changed me, but you need to know how and why. As a young man, I fell into wild ways. Needing money to pay gambling debts, I stole cattle. By God's grace, I was not hanged for my crimes. I have paid my debts, but the stigma of prison will always be with me. If, after reading this, you still wish to correspond, I shall be forever grateful. If not, may the Lord's peace and blessings rest upon you. Ever yours, Lucky in Lakeland.

Marva read the note three times. Cattle rustling. A prison sentence. A vivid picture of a cold-eyed villain with a pock-marked face, an evil sneer, and prison pallor flashed through her thoughts. Lucky could look exactly like that Blanchard man at the cabin near Brandy Lake. He could smell even worse. He had never described his physical appearance, and she had never given hers.

A woman simply did not rush into marriage with a former convict. Even though the Lord had forgiven him, even though he was now a respected businessman—or so he said—he still might not make a good husband. Not for any woman. Particularly not for her.

What would her parents say? Papa was generally a kindhearted man, but he had a tendency to be suspicious of former sinners. To his way of thinking, such men could never completely change. This viewpoint put man-made limits on God's powers of redemption and sanctification, which was entirely wrong, yet could anyone convince Papa of this? Not as yet. Not to Marva's knowledge.

Mother was more likely to think the best of people, yet she would follow her husband's lead. Much though she wanted her daughter to be happily married, she would no doubt blanch at the thought of a former convict for a son-in-law.

This knowledge gave Marva a measure of comfort. Parents were provided by God as sources of wisdom and protection from foolish choices. The very overprotectiveness she had disparaged for years might now prove useful.

Folding up the paper, she sat for a moment longer, her thoughts scattered.
Lucky. Prison. Monte?
No matter how often she tried to dispel the notion of Monte being Lucky as impossible, it kept returning.

With her thumb and forefinger, she tugged at her lower lip, struggling to remember. Hadn't Myles said something, years ago, about his older brother? Or had it been Virginia Van Huysen, Myles and Monte's grandmother? The dear old lady had loved to reminisce about her elder grandson to anyone who would listen, and Marva had often sat beside her in a rocking chair on Beulah's porch of a summer evening. But no, Virginia wouldn't have mentioned Monte's flaws; she had tended to dwell on the fact that he'd committed his life to the Lord before he died. That was understandable.

Pressing two fingers against her lips, Marva leaned back in her chair and stared out the kitchen window. Myles had run away from his grandmother's home to join the circus. Mrs. Van Huysen had sent Monte to find and bring back his little brother; he hadn't been involved in Myles's circus-performing days. From the circus, Myles had run out West. That ugly gray horse he used to ride, the one named after a cactus, had it come from Texas? She couldn't recall. Wherever it was, Monte had followed Myles someplace out West, and supposedly he had died in a cattle stampede.

Marva shook her head and dropped her fisted hands to her lap. This was no good. If Myles had ever mentioned Monte in connection with cattle rustling, she couldn't recall. She could ride over and visit Beulah tomorrow. . .but no. At the lodge, Beulah had refused to discuss Monte's past.

Leaving the newspaper behind, Marva slowly rose and climbed the steep stairs to her tiny bedroom above the kitchen. Through her open windows flowed the familiar chorus of crickets, but tonight's show featured a solo performer—a lone cricket chirped from somewhere inside the room. It fell silent when she searched for it, naturally.

Two cats curled atop her coverlet. “What good are you?” she asked, smoothing the calico's soft fur. “Sleeping while a cricket roams the house.” The cat rolled over and stretched without opening her eyes. Marva stroked the other cat's striped back and gently squeezed one white paw, but it never acknowledged her.

Her candle's light flickered over the sampler hanging above the head of her bed. Amid a field of faded flowers, crooked words stitched thirty years ago by her own hands proclaimed truth from Isaiah: “Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee.”

Marva set her candleholder on the side table. “Peace,” she whispered. Her eyes slowly closed. Sinking to her knees beside the bed, she flung her arms above her head and buried her face in her quilted coverlet. “I have no peace, Lord! I have no peace because I haven't trusted Thee. What shall I do? Oh, whatever shall I do!”

After the storm of emotion cleared, her knees began to ache. She sat back on her heels, then turned to sit with her back against the bed frame, rubbing her raised knees with both hands.

The cricket began to chirp again. The sound seemed to come from behind her dressing table.

“Lord God, I have no idea what to do next. I should answer Lucky's letter. . .but how? I cannot tell him that I'll marry him no matter what, because I don't even know if I want to marry him.”

The truth rose in her thoughts, but she tried to squelch it. “I know I should never have advertised for a husband. I don't know what I was think—Well, yes, actually I guess I do know. Rebellious thoughts, that's what I was thinking. I wanted to force Your hand. And now look what a mess I've made of things!”

She scrubbed her hands over her face. “The only man I want to marry is Monte Van Huysen. If he won't have me, I'll simply live out my days as a spinster. Maybe I'll find a widow or another spinster to set up housekeeping with me, and we'll be eccentric together and keep dozens of cats.”

Her back began to ache. She climbed up on her bed, blew out her candle, pulled the striped cat into her lap, and stared out into darkness. As her eyes adjusted, the moonlit farmyard transformed into a magical world of shadows and light. An owl glided silently past the house and disappeared into a clump of trees.

“If Monte really is Lucky in Lakeland, then I do want to marry him, no matter if he does have a prison record in his past. I'll admit that much. I don't know if my parents will approve the match, but I know my own heart on that score, at least.” She rubbed the cat around its ears and chin until a rumbling purr rewarded her efforts.

Did she truly know her own heart? A few weeks' acquaintance at a vacation lodge had provided sufficient time for her to develop a powerful attraction to the man, but did she know him well enough to pledge her love and fidelity for life? At times she thought she had glimpsed a depth of character behind his charming smile, but at other times he had seemed shallow. Physical attraction gave a relationship zest, for certain, yet a lifetime relationship required much more.

Remembering the solid strength of his arms, the warmth of his gaze, his gentle touch on her cheek. . .she lifted her hand to touch her face where he had once touched it. Disregarding the sleeping calico kitty, she flopped back against her feather bolster and tried to remember how it felt to rest against Monte's shoulder.

Love always involved risk. To love was to open one's heart to pain—the pain of loss, of rejection, of death. Was Monte Van Huysen worth such risk?

And what if all this speculation were baseless? What if Monte had never so much as seen her advertisement for a husband?

How can I know? How can I find out? I can scarcely ask Lucky in a public newspaper ad if he is Monte Van Huysen.

But to write a letter to Monte at the lodge. . . She dared not take so great a risk as that.

The calico cat, irritated by Marva's unrest, hopped off the bed.

“Lord God, please help me resolve this situation in a way that
causes the least pain or embarrassment to everyone involved.”

The cricket chirped.

Thump!

Marva's eyes opened wide.

Silence, then
crunch, crunch, crunch.

Marva grimaced. “I did ask for that, didn't I? Thank you for doing your job, Patches.” Still wrinkling her nose, she slid off the bed to change into her nightdress.