Lonely In Longtree (12 page)

“This is stupid,” he told Petunia. “I'm putting myself through torture.” He stopped the mare right there on the road, dismounted, and unpacked the newspaper from his saddlebag. He was obliged to remove one of his gloves in order to turn the pages.

Petunia turned to
whiffle
softly at the fluttering pages, then closed her eyes as if awaiting her master's pleasure.

Fighting the wind, squinting to read the newsprint by fading twilight, Monte scanned the page of ads. Then his entire body jerked. There it was, her reply. He looked away for a moment, almost unconsciously praying for strength.

Dear Lucky in Lakeland, Thank you for your honesty. Now that you have bared your soul, it seems only fair that I confess weaknesses of my own. I am overly sensitive to the sun's heat and to the ridicule of other people. I have a dread of unscheduled detours, yet I appreciate shadows of substance. If you can endure these peculiarities, perhaps we should plan to meet. Do you care for petunias? Lonely in Longtree.

Monte crammed the unfolded paper into his saddlebag, wrapped his arms around Petunia's neck, and buried his face in her mane. A few minutes later, he spun around and whooped.

Calming and catching his startled horse consumed a few extra minutes of his time, but he was too happily distracted to care.

Fifteen

If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God,

that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.

James 1:5

Marva stepped out of the chicken pen and latched its gate. The basket on her arm held few eggs. This cold weather discouraged the hens from laying, even though they were snug inside the barn.

One of the cows lowed plaintively. The farm always seemed quiet and peaceful as autumn advanced toward winter. Last week had been hectic, what with slaughtering the pigs and all the work involved in that unpleasant chore. No matter how much she enjoyed eating sausages, Marva intensely disliked making them.

“Miss Marva?”

She tried not to reveal her surprise. J. D. Parker had a way of appearing out of nowhere. The hired man approached her from the stanchions where the milk cows licked up the last of their evening feed.

“Yes, Mr. Parker?” She smiled. J. D. was stocky in build, nearly bald, yet rather nice looking.

He twisted his cap between his large hands, and his face turned an unbecoming red. “I know this is bold of me, but I've discussed it with your father, and he's agreeable if you are. I'd like to marry you, ma'am. It would be a good thing for everyone involved. Your parents could stay on with us in the house as long as they live. You and I would make a good partnership.”

Marva felt as if she were watching the little scene from somewhere far away. She stared at Parker's earnest face until he looked away in confusion. “Meaning no insult, ma'am. I thought—I hoped—you might approve the idea.”

With an effort, she gathered her senses. “I am not insulted, Mr. Parker. I simply. . .I had never considered such a thing. You say my parents have approved?”

He nodded, his gray eyes lighting up. “I'll not press you for an answer, Miss Marva. We've time to consider.” He bobbed an awkward little bow and made his escape.

Marva returned to the house as if in a trance. Marry J. D. Parker? Her parents wanted her to marry him?

While she prepared the evening meal, Marva pondered this unexpected turn of events. Her parents chatted comfortably to each other, apparently unaware of their daughter's inner turmoil. During supper she picked at her food, feeling J. D.'s frequent glances from across the table. As soon as he finished eating, he excused himself and stepped outside. He never stayed for Papa's nightly Bible reading.

Thinking of J. D.'s proposal, of all that marriage to him would certainly entail, gave her an inward shudder. Nice man though he was, she had no interest whatsoever in giving herself to him as a wife. At one time she might have snapped up his offer, considering it the best chance she was likely to receive. At one time she had been foolish.

But then again, had she ever actually been that foolish? Over the years she had discouraged the attentions of many would-be swains. Always her heart had continued to hope that somewhere out there in the great world existed at least one man whom she could respect and love without reserve.

Was she being unfair to J. D.? Although he attended church regularly, she had no idea what he believed about God and salvation. He was also rough with the animals at times, demonstrating a lack of patience and kindness.

Papa closed his Bible, and Marva realized she had not listened to one word. While he led in prayer, she closed her eyes and had her own private conversation with the Lord.

Please guide me, Lord. I am terribly confused! I have pleaded with Thee for wisdom and guidance, but I've heard no answer. I don't know what to do!

Papa shoved back his chair and patted his stomach. “Another excellent meal, daughter. Nothing like fresh pork chops.” Something crackled in the bib of his overall. He paused and reached into the pocket, pulling out a folded, crumpled letter. “Ah, forgot about this.”

She reached to take the letter he held out to her.

“It came the other day, and I plumb forgot about it. I ask your pardon for an old man's faulty memory.”

Marva glanced up from her perusal of the unfamiliar handwriting on the envelope long enough to smile at her father. “Of course, Papa. I'm just as forgetful as you are.”

“Who is it from, Marva?” Mother asked.

“I'm not sure. I'll read it after I clean up the kitchen.” She had no desire to read her unexpected letter under her parents' curious eyes.

Although she didn't like to suspect them of inordinate curiosity, Papa and Mother did seem to stay up past their usual bedtime hour. Once, while she swept the kitchen floor, she caught her mother watching her with an expectant look. “What's the matter?” Marva paused to ask.

Mother waffled for a moment, then said in carefully casual tones, “I was simply wondering when you planned to read your letter.”

“Probably after I go upstairs.” Hearing a
meow
, she opened the outer door to let in two waiting cats. They rubbed about her ankles while she hung up the dishtowels to dry over the stove. After giving each one a small plate of minced pork chop, she squatted down to pet her kitties while they ate.

Before she headed upstairs, she kissed her parents good night. Her mother wore a fixed expression as if trying to appear
unconcerned. “Good night, dear.” Even her voice sounded
restrained.

Marva caught her father giving her mother a warning look, but he instantly switched it to a fond smile as she bent over him. “Good night, Papa.”

“Good night, my Marva.”

The cats followed her upstairs and laid claim to the bed. Her bedchamber was cold. She probably should have brought up a hot brick for her feet, but she hadn't thought ahead to warm one. Shivering, she set her candle and the letter on her bedside table and deliberately prepared for bed. She took down her hair, brushed it, braided it, and tucked it beneath her nightcap. Wearing woolen socks with her flannel nightgown, she slipped beneath her coverlet and two quilts. The cats immediately curled up at her sides like two purring hot-water bottles.

At last she reached for her letter and tore open the envelope. Rising to lean on one elbow, she tilted the page so that the candlelight fell upon it.

Dear Marva,

I hope I do not offend by addressing you so, but in truth, you are inestimably dear to me. Your recent letter in the Enquirer with its clever allusions to our adventures together fills me with hope that my suit is not entirely abhorrent to you. Can you truly forgive and forget my wicked past and accept me as a new man in Jesus Christ? I would have spoken many times while you graced my lodge with your lovely presence, and I would have revealed my identity as your newsprint admirer—had not fear held me in its grip—fear of your rejection if you knew me for what I am. I do not know how long ago you guessed my identity as your devoted Lucky in Lakeland. I guessed—I hoped—you might prove to be my Lonely in Longtree that first evening when I met you at my brother's cabin.

Already I was fond of you in print. Never had I imagined that my hoped-for bride would be as beautiful as a man's daydreams! How often have I invented for my fictional heroes lovely heroines whose descriptions closely match yours. I laugh to think of it. How well God knows my heart!

Does your letter indicate that you forgive my cowardice, my foolish attempt at deception? Is it possible that you return my regard? Is it possible, dare I dream that your parents might accept one such as I as their son-in-law? I can hardly eat or sleep for mixed dread and urgency to learn your reply.

I could write paeans to your beauty and grace—in fact, I have written them, and they lay crumpled around my feet. Lest I annoy you with rapturous expressions of devotion, I herein attempt to be sparing of words and simply ask the questions that weight my soul.

Soon I shall travel to your town to visit my brother and his family. Although I eagerly anticipate my visit with them, my true heart's desire is to be with you again, to deepen our acquaintance into friendship and more—much more. I demand nothing of you, beloved; I have no right. I simply lay my heart at your feet and humbly implore you to take me as your husband.

Yours always,

Montague Van Huysen

PS I am extraordinarily fond of one particular Petunia.

Marva read the letter through several times. It was true! Her fondest dream was actually true! How could this be? Dare she believe that all these years her heart had waited for this one man to enter her life? That God had caused her to wait in solitude while He prepared Monte Van Huysen to become her husband?

But this was not the time for deep introspection; this was the time to revel in his admiration and love. And his beautiful writing! How many men of her acquaintance could express their feelings with such poetic grace?

None other. Not even one.

Monte wants to marry me! He thinks I'm beautiful!

Smiling, laughing, and crying, she hugged her cats and gave whispered thanks to the Lord. Long into the night she lay awake, thinking and dreaming and wondering. What would he do? When would he come? Would he insist upon a proper courtship, or would he ask for a quick wedding? Which would be better?

But when morning dawned, doubts and indecision crept back into her heart. The main question was the one Monte had asked: Would her parents accept him? They had seemed to like him well enough at the lodge, but Monte as expert fishing guide and genial host was a vastly different proposition from Monte the ex-convict as a prospective son-in-law.

She did her morning chores distractedly, sometimes drifting off in thought until a protesting
moo
or a lashing tail brought her back to reality. While watching her chapped hands draw milk from a cow's pendulous udder, she recognized the irony of her current dilemma.

J. D. Parker offered exactly the kind of marriage she had decided to settle for back when she wrote that original ad—a loveless business partnership designed to keep the farm in Marva's family. But she no longer desired that kind of marriage. How had she ever imagined that such an arrangement would satisfy her needs? Blind stubbornness and disrespect for God had brought her to make such foolish choices.

Although Parker had worked around the farm since early summer, she scarcely knew the man and felt no attachment to him whatsoever. As far as she could tell, he had no feelings for her either. His interest lay entirely in the farm; proposing marriage to Marva was simply a necessary step in obtaining possession of her family's property.

Hearing a
mew
, she turned to see Patches and Tigress watching her hopefully. With a smile, she squirted a little milk in their direction and watched the cats lick it from each other's fur. Funny creatures.

Rising, she patted Annabelle's bony hip and lifted the full pail. The elderly shorthorn still produced a fine calf every year, and her milk production rivaled that of younger cows. “Good ol' girl.”

Marva lugged the pail toward the milk room, where sloshing noises indicated that J. D. Parker was hard at work. The cats followed at her heels, cleaning up any involuntary spills.

The top of Mr. Parker's head reflected lamplight as he bent over a milk can. He looked up at Marva's approach and set down an empty bucket.

“Here, let me take that.”

Marva handed over her full pail and watched J. D. empty it into the can. Patches hurried to lick up a puddle near the can, but J. D. shoved the cat away with his boot. “Git.”

Marva scooped up her insulted kitty for a cuddle. What would it harm to let the cats clean up spills? They earned their keep on the farm by keeping rodent populations down.

Most of the birds and beasts raised on a farm would someday be killed for food, yet Papa treated his animals with kindness as long as they lived. Whenever he was obliged to slaughter a beast, he always dispatched it as quickly and painlessly as possible. Although Parker was never cruel to the animals, he showed little regard for their comfort or feelings.

A sudden memory of Monte's mare resting her head on his shoulder while he rubbed her ears and murmured nonsensical sweet talk brought a smile to her face. Monte would appreciate her cats, she felt certain, and they would like him.

Was she making excuses for her possibly selfish decision to choose Monte over Mr. Parker? Emotions could easily blind a woman's heart to wisdom. She needed wise and objective counsel, but where could she find such a thing?

❧

Holding his carpetbag in one hand, Monte stepped onto the crowded station platform. The little town of Longtree was busier than he had expected. No one greeted him at the station, since he had sent Myles no definite date of arrival. Rather than crowd into his brother's house, he had decided to lodge in town.

Stopping a gentleman on the street, he inquired, “Can you recommend a hotel or boardinghouse?”

“Certainly, sir. Amelia Martin runs the best place in town.”

Monte followed the stranger's directions and soon found himself at a neat establishment located on a side street. The proprietress, an angular, gray-haired woman wearing a stiffly starched apron over a baggy gown, showed him to a small but immaculate bedchamber. “Dinner is served at six in the dining room.” Her voice was incongruously deep. “Don't be late if you want to eat.”

After the door closed behind her with a sharp click, Monte unpacked his bag and hung his clothes on wall hooks. Kicking off his shoes, he stretched out on the bed, folded his hands behind his head, and regarded the ceiling. Although no coherent requests passed through his mind, let alone his lips, a constant prayer rose from the depths of his spirit.