The Road to Love (9 page)

“Tell Mr. Grey thank you,” she told her children. She added her thanks to theirs and climbed into her truck.

Doyle leaned toward the window. “When are you coming to town again?”

“I'm awfully busy right now.”

He gave her a knowing look, which she ignored.

“Be sure and drop in at the office.”

“Of course.” She always did unless she had too many things to take care of. Which was often.

“Maybe I'll visit you. Make sure everything is what it should be.”

“You're welcome anytime, of course. You know that.” Though he had no right to judge how things were. Not that he could. He didn't know oats from wheat from pigweed. And a cow was a smelly bulk of animal flesh, not the source of milk, cream, butter and meat.

She fumed as far as the end of the street then her attention turned to the fields along the road, several already planted. Soon hers would be, as well. And she again prayed for rain.

 

Monday, Hatcher ate a hurried breakfast at the house then headed out to start the next field. After the children left for school, Kate gathered up seeds and went to the garden. With little cash to purchase groceries, they depended on what they could raise.

She seeded the peas and turnips and carrots, paused to wonder if there would be another frost then decided to put in the beans. It was time-consuming, tiring work moving the string to mark each row, digging a trench for the seed with the hoe, measuring it out judicially then carefully covering it with soil, praying all the while for rain at the right time.

She had started tomatoes in early March but she wouldn't put them out for a week or two yet.

She paused long enough to make sandwiches to take out to Hatcher.

For weeks, she'd saved the eyes from peeling the potatoes. As soon as the children were home to help, she'd plant them. Then carry water to the many rows that would soon be green potato plants.

She didn't finish until suppertime. For once she didn't argue when Hatcher offered to milk the cows. As soon as the dishes were done she asked the children to help her carry water to the garden.

The three of them carried pail after pail, soon soaked to their knees despite efforts to be careful.

When Hatcher grabbed two pails and started to help, she didn't complain. She could see the children were worn-out. “You two go get ready for bed. I'll be in as soon as we finish this.”

At first she kept up with Hatcher, but soon he hauled four pails to her two and then six.

“I'll finish,” he said. “The kids are waiting for you to tuck them in.”

She protested weakly. “This is my job.”

“Nothing wrong with needing help.”

“I have to learn to manage on my own.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Kate,” she said. “My name is Kate.”

“Yes, ma'am. Mine's Hatcher. Hatcher Jones.”

“I know.” About to say something more, the thought fled her brain as a slick gray automobile purred up the driveway. Doyle. What was he doing here? He never visited during the week. He was always too busy. But then, so was she.

She waved as he climbed from his car, half expected him to head to the garden but he waited for her in front of the house.

Wearily she headed his direction, acutely aware of her muddy state. Why did he pick a day to visit when she looked her worst? “What brings you out here?” she asked, as she drew near.

He let his gaze take in every detail of her state, managed to look pained, then smiled. “Maybe I miss you.”

“I've been here for a long time and you've never before missed me enough to drive out during the week.”

He didn't answer. His gaze went to Hatcher and stayed there. “That the hobo?”

“That's my hired man.”

“Maybe I should introduce myself.”

Before she could ask why, he headed toward the garden.

H
atcher watched the man step from his fine car and adjust his charcoal-colored suit. He immediately recognized the type. Even dust from a stiff west wind wouldn't dare stick to him. The man looked his way. Even across the distance, Hatcher could read the censure in the man's gaze. The prissy man headed toward Hatcher with his nose so high he pranced. Ignoring his approach, Hatcher strolled back to the trough, hung the pails on a hook and headed toward his shanty.

“Wait up,” the suited man called.

Hatcher pretended he didn't hear. He had nothing he wanted to say to or hear from any man. That man in particular. Fifty feet away he could smell the arrogance of him. Just the sort who would demand to know all about you as if it was his business.

“I say. Stop so I can talk to you.”

His gut said hurry on. His breeding demanded politeness. He hesitated, slowed.

“Please wait,” Kate begged.

The sound of her voice compelled him to stop. He had no desire to put her in the middle of a power struggle.

The suit fella breathed hard by the time he reached Hatcher's side even though he'd only hurried the width of the farmyard. Hatcher had seen Kate chase across it many times and never show a puff. Then he grimaced at the dust on his shoes and shook each foot.

“So you're the ho…”

Kate shot the man a look that caused him to pause.

“You're the man Kate's hired for the season.” He waited as if he expected Hatcher to suddenly sweep his hat off and pull his forelock.

Hatcher did no such thing.

The man harrumphed importantly. “My name is Doyle Grey. I'm the lawyer in town.” He said it like Hatcher should be impressed.

He wasn't.

The man leaned back, full of his own importance. “As Kate and I are going to marry, I thought it prudent I check things out for her.”

Kate pulled herself tall. “I've never said I'd marry you, Doyle.”

He shrugged, gave her a look that said he knew he'd get what he wanted. He always did. “It's only a matter of time, as we all know.” He turned away too quickly to see the woman he planned to marry tighten her jaw and glower.

Hatcher ducked his head to hide a smile. A man should know better than to try and force a woman like her to do his bidding. Her strong opinions needed consideration.

Aware of Doyle Grey's attentive study, Hatcher concentrated on wiping mud from the back of his hand. “Glad for both of you.” He resumed his homeward journey.

“Didn't get your name,” the lawyer said.

“Didn't give it.” He lengthened his stride, determined to leave the man fussing without his participation.

“Why not? Is there something you're hiding?”

Hatcher ignored the man's challenging tone. A lawyer. Just the sort he did not want to talk to. For sure, he didn't intend to linger in his royal highness's presence.

“Come on, Doyle,” Kate said. “I'll show you the garden. We were watering the potatoes.”

“Why are you bothering with all this work? Why doesn't he tell me his name?” Mr. Lawyer couldn't seem to make up his mind which way to go. “Marry me and I'll take you away from this.”

Hatcher eased out his breath when the man decided to follow Kate to the garden. He slowed his retreat so he could listen to her reply.

“I don't want to be taken away from this. I love the farm. I intend to keep it.”

Hatcher grinned to himself. The man might be a lawyer but he wasn't very sharp when it came to Kate, his intended.

“What's the man's name? You must know it.”

Hatcher stiffened. He couldn't hope to keep it a secret.

“Hat—” She broke off with a sigh. “How do I know if it's his real name or his hobo name?”

His feet grew lighter.

“I wonder if I've seen him somewhere,” Mr. Lawyer said.

Hatcher's relief died as quickly as it came.
Be sure your sin will find you out.
Numbers thirty-two, verse twenty-three. He hurried to his quarters, yanked his shirt off the hook where he'd hung it to dry and dropped it in his knapsack. He would vamoose before Doyle Grey asked any more questions.

He ground to a stop as he stuffed his Bible in on top. He'd given his word to the woman. He said he'd put in the crop for her. He'd promised God, as well, and the Word said,
If a man vow a vow unto the Lord he shall not break his word, he shall do according to all that proceedeth out of his mouth.
Numbers thirty, verse two. He put his Bible back on the table. He'd leave as soon as he'd fulfilled his promise. Perhaps he'd get away before her lawyer friend dug up anything on him.

One thing puzzled him. Why hadn't Kate given his name? Her excuse that it might be a hobo name didn't hold a drop of water. Was she afraid of what Doyle would discover? Was she so desperate to get her crop in she'd protected him? Or had it been innocently unknowing?

The question still plagued him the next morning when he headed over for breakfast. He thought to ask her but as he reached the open door he saw Mary in tears as her mother tugged a brush through her hair. Kate looked ready to fry eggs on her forehead.

Dougie sidled up to him. “Mary's crying again.”

“I hear.”

“Momma's getting mad.”

Kate shot her son a look with the power to drive nails and Mary choked back another smothered sob.

Hatcher ducked away to hide his smile and patted Dougie's head. “Might be a good time to pretend you don't notice.”

“I guess.”

“Breakfast is ready.” Kate nodded toward the waiting plate as she continued braiding Mary's hair.

Hatcher grabbed the plate.

Dougie sat on the step beside him. “I'm glad I don't have to have my hair brushed and braided.”

“Me, too,” Hatcher said around his mouthful of eggs and fried pork. “Course a man has to shave. That's not a lot of fun.”

“I never seen anybody shave.” Dougie sounded as if he'd lost Christmas and Easter all at once.

“It's not hard to learn. Only a nuisance.” He didn't add especially if you couldn't get hot water and the only mirror you had was the size of your thumb.

“It's done,” Kate announced and Mary shuddered a grateful sob. “What do you say, Mary?”

“Thank you, Momma.”

“You're welcome and you look very nice.”

Hatcher almost swallowed his food the wrong way. Mary didn't sound grateful and Kate didn't sound sincere. For some reason he found the situation amusing but seeing the tightness around Kate's eyes decided he best hide it. With thanks for the meal, Hatcher put his empty plate on the stand next to the door and headed for the tractor.

As he worked he chuckled often, remembering the scene. He guessed the two of them often struck sparks off each other. Kate, so strong willed, Mary, so uncertain of herself. No doubt they would eventually learn to understand each other.

He soon settled into the pleasure of the work. He enjoyed sitting on the tractor watching the field grow smaller and smaller as he went round and round. There was nothing quite like the smell of freshly worked soil. Or the beauty of birds swooping in after the discer, looking for bugs to eat. The fresh wind on his face blew the dust away on one side of the field, blew it in over him on the other. His eyes and nose and lungs filled with dust. The red neckerchief he pulled over his mouth and nose helped but it was always a relief to turn back into the wind. It became a game—struggle through the dusty length, enjoy the wind in his face until he turned the corner and again faced the dust.

 

Several days later he got off the tractor and stood proudly looking out at the last field. He'd worked the entire hundred acres. Now he could seed the crop.

Kate joined him. He didn't have to turn to know what her expression would be. He'd watched her day by day. Knew the sight of her in overalls so baggy she got lost in them. He'd chuckled at the way she wrinkled her nose as she mucked out the barn. He knew the look of her in her faded blue housedress, her arms browning from exposure to the sun, humming as she fed the chickens. And in her going-to-town outfit, a smart brown dress with a white collar. He'd learned her various expressions. The strained look around her eyes, her mouth set tight as she hurried to complete a task. Her maternal smile as she greeted the children returning from school. Fact is, he caught himself watching her more than he should, felt things budding in his heart he'd denied for years and must continue to close his heart to.

Yet for a moment, standing side by side, he allowed himself to share her enjoyment. He knew she'd be smiling with a touch of justifiable pride. She loved the land.

“It looks good,” she said.

He heard the smile in her voice. Felt an answering smile in his heart and tucked it away into secrecy. “It does.”

“Smells even better.”

“Yup.” But it wasn't the freshly turned sod he smelled, it was the warm faintly lilac scent of her. He wondered if she bathed in lilac-scented water or absorbed the sweet aroma from the bouquet of lilacs her friend, Sally, had given her and which now sat in the center of the white kitchen table.

“I can hardly wait to see the green shoots poking through the ground.”

“I'll start seeding tomorrow.” He headed back to the tractor.

“I think I'll make something special to celebrate.” She laughed and ran toward the house.

Only then did he allow himself to watch her. Graceful, full of life and love. That Doyle was one fortunate fellow. Only she said she hadn't promised to marry him. For some reason, the thought brought a wide smile to his mouth.

 

The next morning, he headed over for breakfast. The woman was a fine cook. He had started to put on a little weight. And the rhubarb pie she'd made last night had been mighty fine. He wondered if there might be more of it left for breakfast.

He hadn't gone more than thirty feet when he heard cows bellowing, then a thin scream. Mary. And then Kate yelling. He couldn't make out the words but her panic rang clearly across the distance. Hatcher broke into a dead run. Soon he could make out her words. “Dougie, don't go that way. It's too far.”

Hatcher didn't slow for the fence, cleared it without breaking stride and skidded around the corner of the barn. In a glance he saw it all—Dougie between a cow and her calf, the cow not liking it. Only the other cows milling around kept her from attacking him. The animals were restless, agitated. Something had spooked them.

Kate stood in the pen, trying to edge toward her son but the cows would have none of it.

Mary, crying, peered through the fence at her mother and brother.

Hatcher leaped over the fence and roared at the animals. He pushed his way through the melee, scooped up Dougie and spun away, letting the cow charge through to her calf. He jogged across the pen and dropped the boy to his feet across the fence then reached out, grabbed the woman by the arm and pulled her after him out of the pen. Mary clung to the rails, her eyes wide.

Kate hugged Dougie and scolded him at the same time. Her eyes glistened as she turned to Hatcher. “Thank you.”

He touched his hat. “Ma'am.”

She stood up tall, her son pressed to her side. “You've just rescued both me and my son. Don't you think it's time you called me something besides ma'am? Like my name.”

In his mind he'd been calling her Kate for days but to say the word out loud threatened his peace of mind in a way he didn't want to think about, so rather than answer her question, he shifted backward to lean against the fence, realizing he still breathed hard from his little adventure. As much from the scare it gave him to see Kate and her boy in the midst of the snorting animals as from the physical effort of racing across the grass. He didn't want to analyze why his heart kicked into a gallop at the idea of either of them being hurt. He would hate to see anyone hurt, he reasoned, but it felt more like a mortal blow than normal concern for another human being. “Heard you folks as I left the shack. Ran all the way over.”

“I'm very glad you did. But you're not changing the subject. I'm tired of being called ma'am.” Her hard stare said she wouldn't be letting the subject go.

“Nothing against your name, ma'am.”

She narrowed her eyes and edged forward until they were inches apart. The least movement would send some part of his anatomy into contact with her. Sweat beaded on his skin at the thought. He couldn't tear his gaze away from her demanding brown eyes.

“Not ma'am,” she insisted. “My name is Kate.”

“Know that already.” Saying it would put him on the wrong side of a mental line—one he'd drawn for himself. A way to avoid getting close to people. Letting them get close to him. But she was a stubborn lady. He understood she wasn't prepared to let it go this time.

“Kate,” she said.