The Road to Love (6 page)

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.

So long as he stayed away from town and her neighbors, he'd be fine. And then he'd move on before anyone figured out who he was.

The woman grabbed his free hand, pressing it between hers, squeezing like a woman hanging on to her last dime. She swallowed loudly. “Thank you, Mr. Jones. Thank you so much.”

He pretended the husky note in her voice meant her throat was dry and squirmed his hand free to clutch his plate firmly in front of him. “Don't thank me. Thank God.”

Her smile filled both her face and his heart with wondrous amazement. “I most certainly do.” She glanced toward the kitchen, hesitated as if afraid to let him out of her sight, fearing likely, and realistically, he might vanish down the road.

He tipped his chin toward the plate. “Food's cooling.”

“I'll leave you to enjoy your breakfast.” She patted his arm and backed away. At the door, she whispered, “Thank you. Thank God.”

 

The ground would quickly dry under the hot prairie sun but until it did Hatcher tackled fence repairs. The woman insisted on helping.

“I can't tell you how much I appreciate this,” Mrs. Bradshaw said.

Her continual gratitude weighed in the bottom of his stomach like a loaf of raw dough. He didn't want thanks for doing something he'd done because he felt he had no choice. “Then stop trying.”

He grabbed a length of barbwire, twisted it together with the dangling end of the broken section and pulled it tight. He hammered in a staple to hold it on the post.

She let the hammer she held dangle at her side. “I can't help wondering what is it that makes men want to wander. I know many are hoping to find a job, maybe a better place to live but…”

The woman seemed to have the need to talk, perhaps wanting someone to hear the sound of her thoughts.

He himself didn't have such a need, no longer knew how to talk about things that didn't matter. And things that mattered to him would never be items of discussion. If they were he'd be on the move again.

She watched him work. “What is it that makes a man leave his home?”

Seems she wanted more than an audience—she wanted conversation. He wasn't used to listening to his thoughts on such matters but managed to find an answer to her question. “Every man has his own reasons.”

“Like what? My mother said my father had itchy feet.” She tapped at a staple, slowly driving it into place.

He could have done it in three blows. “Some have no place to go. No place to stay.”

She stopped torturing the staple and carefully considered him. “Which are you?”

He shrugged, moved along the fence and pounded in three staples.

She followed after him carrying the bucket containing the fencing supplies. “Where did you start from?”

“No place.”

“Are you expecting me to believe you were found under a pine bough? Or raised by wolves?”

The heaviness in his stomach eased at her comment and he smiled. “Why does it matter?”

“I'm just making polite conversation.” Her voice carried a hint of annoyance then she grinned. “And maybe I'm a bit curious.”

He grabbed the shovel and dug away the dirt burying the fence. “You have to keep the Russian thistle away from the fence line or you'll have the whole length buried.” The thistles blew across the endless prairie until they reached an obstacle. In this case, a wire fence. They formed a tangled wall that stopped the drifting soil and buried the thistle and fence. He'd seen the whole shape of the landscape changed after a three-day dust storm.

“Are you from back East?”

Stubborn woman wasn't going to let it go. “Can't remember.”

“Can't or don't want to?”

“Yup.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “What kind of answer is that?”

The only kind he was prepared to give. He put his back into digging the fence out of the bank of dirt. “I'll finish this section then go back to working the field.”

“Fine. Don't tell me.” She dropped the hammer and huffed away, got two yards before she stopped and laughed.

“I admit it's none of my business.” She returned, picked up the hammer and attacked another staple. “It's just that I'm so very grateful for my home and security and feel sorry for anyone who doesn't enjoy the same.”

She was indeed blessed but he kept his thoughts to himself.

 

The next day, Saturday, Mrs. Bradshaw had the children to care for and Hatcher returned to riding round and round the field. At least she wouldn't bother him today with her need to talk and endless questions, which he'd refused to answer when they got personal. What she didn't know wouldn't hurt her.

The sun was unmerciful. Far too hot for this early in the season, sucking every bit of moisture from the ground before the seed was even planted. He studied the western horizon hoping to see clouds build up. Not a one. Not even as small as a man's hand. Didn't look like the drought was going to end this year.

He turned the corner of the field, squinted against the cloud of dust circling with him. Down the side of the ploughed ground, Dougie waited, a jar of water in one hand.

And another small boy at his side.

Hatcher's chest muscles tightened and his hands clenched the steering wheel. No one could know he was here. He didn't want to be forced to leave until he'd done as he promised.

He cranked his head around to look at the house. A second automobile sat beside the Bradshaw's truck. Another beat-up truck of uncertain color and lineage.

Hatcher pulled his hat lower over his face. He was far enough from the house, hidden in dust. Even if someone looked at him with suspicious curiosity, they'd see only a hobo doing a job. His thoughts hurried up, racing ahead of the slow-moving tractor. If he worked hard and the tractor favored him he'd be gone in two weeks. Two weeks was long enough for neighbors to be curious. But the work could not be made to go faster.

Dougie held out a jar of water, inviting him to stop for a drink.

Hatcher thought to ignore the boy, keep his face hidden in dust but he couldn't bring himself to disappoint Dougie. He pulled the tractor out of gear and jumped down to wait for the boy and his friend to race across the freshly turned soil and hand him the jar.

“Momma said you'd be parched by now,” the boy said.