“What is it that makes a man leave
his home?” Kate asked.

“Every man has his own reasons,” Hatcher replied, while hammering a fence staple.

“Like what?”

“Some have no place to go. Some no place to stay.”

She carefully considered him. “Which are you?”

He shrugged, moved along the fence and pounded in three more 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 raised by wolves?”

He smiled. “Why does it matter?”

“I’m just making polite conversation. 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.”

“Fine. Don’t tell me. It’s just that I’m so very grateful for my home and feel sorry for anyone who doesn’t enjoy the same blessings.”

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

LINDA FORD

shares her life with her rancher husband, a grown son, a live-in client she provides care for and a yappy parrot. She and her husband raised a family of fourteen children, ten adopted, providing her with plenty of opportunity to experience God’s love and faithfulness. They had their share of adventures, as well. Taking twelve kids in a motor home on a three-thousand-mile road trip would be high on the list. They live in Alberta, Canada, close enough to the Rockies to admire them every day. She enjoys writing stories that reveal God’s wondrous love through the lives of her characters.

Linda enjoys hearing from readers. Contact her at linda@lindaford.org or check out her Web site at www.lindaford.org where you can also catch her blog, which often carries glimpses of both her writing activities and family life.

The Road to Love
Linda Ford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This one thing I do, forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before.

—Philippians 3:13

I am privileged and honored to have a special critique partner who encourages and challenges me. Without her my struggles to map out my stories would be more painful and, at times, even fruitless.

Thanks, Deb. I couldn’t do it without you. This book is lovingly, gratefully dedicated to you.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Question For Discussion

Chapter One

South Dakota

Spring, 1933

The windmill stood tall and stately like a prairie lighthouse.

Kate Bradshaw shivered. She would sooner walk barefoot through a thistle patch than have to climb up there and grease the gears. But she had no choice. They must have water. She shuddered to think what would happen if the windmill quit and edged toward the ladder.

God willing, the drought would end soon, but the drifts of dust along the fence line reminded her how dry last year had been—and the two before that. She prayed the hint of spring green in the trees promised a better year ahead.

She’d put off the task as long as she could, hoping a friendly neighbor might happen by and offer to mount that high ladder and perform the dreaded task. None had.

The only sign she saw of another soul besides her children was a thin twist of smoke rising from inside the circle of trees across the road.

Another tramp, she suspected. One who preferred his own company to hanging about with the bunch near the tracks. Wandering men were a sign of the times. The crash and the drought had left hundreds of men unemployed. Homeless. Desperate.

“Momma, hurry up. I want to see you do it.” Dougie, her son, just barely seven, seemed to think everything was an adventure. He didn’t understand the meaning of the word caution.

Which gave Kate plenty of reason to worry about him. More than enough dangers lurked about the farm. Yet she smiled at her young son, loving every inch of him. He possessed her brown eyes and brown hair but looked like his father. He’d grow into a handsome man.

Mary, her blue eyes wide as dinner plates, tugged at Kate’s arm. “Momma, don’t. I’m scared.” A tear surfaced in the corner of each eye, hung there a moment then made parallel tracks down Mary’s cheeks.

Kate sighed. This child, her firstborn, a fragile nine-year-old, feared everything. The animals. The machinery. The sounds in the night. The wind. If it had been the roaring, moaning wind that shook the house, Kate could have understood. But Mary hated even the soothing, gentle wind, as much as she did the distant cry of coyotes, lonely and forlorn for sure, but never scary. Mary would never admit it to her mother, but Kate felt certain her daughter feared her own shadow. Even as she wiped the tears from Mary’s face, she shoved back the impatience this child’s weakness triggered in her. And wondered how such a child could be flesh of her flesh, how two such different children could have both sprung from the same union, the same loins.

She patted Mary’s blond head. “I have to, unless we want the whole thing to break down.”

Dougie bounced up and down, barely able to contain his excitement. “I can help you.” He headed for the ladder.

More out of protective instinct than necessity Kate lurched after him. Thankfully, she knew, he was too short to reach the bottom bar.

At her brother’s boldness, Mary wailed like a lost lamb.

“Dougie, stay back,” Kate said. “I’ll do it. It’s not such a big job. Your poppa did it all the time. Don’t you remember?”

“No.” Dougie’s smile faded. His eyes clouded momentarily.

Mary’s eyes dried as she proudly recalled having seen her father climb the windmill many times. “I was never scared when Poppa did it,” she added.

Kate ached for her daughter. No doubt some of Mary’s fears stemmed from losing the father she adored. Her daughter’s screaming night terrors pained Kate almost as much as the loss of her husband. Hiding her own fears seemed the best way to help the child see how to face difficult situations so Kate adjusted the pair of overalls she had donned and marched to the windmill, grabbed the first metal rung and pulled herself up. One bar at a time. Don’t look down. Don’t think how far it is to the top. Or the bottom.

Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful unto me: for my soul trusteth in thee: yea, in the shadow of thy wings will I make my refuge, until these calamities be overpast.

The metal bit into her palms.

She hated the feeling that headed for the pit of her stomach as she inched upward, and continued as though the bottom had fallen out of her insides. But she had to ignore her fear and do this task.

She paused at the platform, loathing the next part most of all. Once she stood on the narrow wooden ledge…

Now was not the time to remember how Mr. Martin fell off while greasing his windmill and killed himself. She would not imagine the sound his body made landing far below.

A crow cawed mockingly as it passed overhead.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside still waters.

There would be no water for the Bradshaw family or their animals if she didn’t take care of this task.

She no longer missed Jeremiah with a pain like childbirth, no longer felt an emptiness inside threatening to suck the life from her. The emptiness still existed, but it had stopped calling his name. What she missed right now was someone to do this job.

Shep barked and growled. The dog must sense the man across the road.

“Be quiet,” Dougie ordered. Shep settled down, except for a rumbling growl.

Kate mentally thanked the dog for his constant protection of the children.

The wind tugged at her trouser legs.

She clung to the top bar. This farm and its care were entirely her responsibility unless she wanted to give up and move into town, marry Doyle—who kept asking even though she told him over and over she would never give up her home or the farm. Which left her no option but to get herself up to the platform and grease the gears.

“Ma’am?”

The sound of the unfamiliar voice below sent a jolt of surprise through Kate’s arms, almost making her lose her grip on the metal structure. She squeezed her hands tighter, pressed into the bars and waited for the dizziness to pass before she ventured a glance toward the ground. She glimpsed a man, squat from her overhead view and with a flash of dark hair. But looking down was not a good idea. Nausea clawed at her throat. She closed her eyes, pressed her forehead to the cool bar between her hands and concentrated on slow, deep breaths.

“Ma’am. I could do that for you.”

The tramp from the trees no doubt, scavenging for a handout. Willing to do something in exchange for food as most of them were. But why, God, couldn’t you send nice Mr. Sandstrum from down the road? Or one of the Oliver boys?

“I can’t pay,” she said. Jeremiah had left a bit of money. But it had been used up to buy seed to plant new crops and provide clothes for the growing children.

“I’d be happy with a meal, ma’am.”

A glow of gratitude eased through her. She’d feed the man for a week if he did this one job. But she hesitated. How often could she count on someone to show up and handle every difficult situation for her? She needed to manage on her own if she were to survive. And she fully intended to survive. She would keep the farm and the security it provided for her and the children, no matter what.

No matter the hot, dry winds that dragged shovelfuls of dust into drifts around every unmovable object, and deposited it in an endless trail through her house.

No matter the grasshoppers that clicked in the growing wheat, delighting in devouring her garden and making Mary scream as she ran from their sticky, scratchy legs.

No task, not even greasing the windmill, would conquer her.

“I can manage,” she called, her voice not quite steady, something she hoped those below would put down to the wind.

“Certain you can, ma’am.” After a pause, the man below added softly, “It’s been a fair while since I had a good feed. Could I do something else for you? Fix fence…chop wood?”

Kate chuckled softly in spite of her awkward position. She wished she dared look down to see if he meant to be amusing. “Mister, if you chop all the wood in sight, there wouldn’t be enough to warm us one week come winter. We burn coal.”

The man laughed, a regretful sound full of both mirth and irony. “Don’t I know it.” he said.

The pleasure of shared amusement tickled the inside of the emptiness Kate had grown used to and then disappeared as quickly as it came.

He continued. “Makes it hard for a man to stay warm in the cold. Doubly hard to cook a thick stew even if a man had the makings.”

Kate knew the feeling of unrelenting cold, hunkering over a reluctant fire, aching for something warm and filling to eat. Seemed no matter how long she lived she’d never get over that lost, lonely feeling. It was this remembrance that made her ease her way down the ladder.

She sighed heavily when her feet hit solid ground.

Shep pressed to her side.

Grateful for the dog’s protection, she patted his head to calm him, and glanced about for her children.

Dougie bounced around the stranger, boldly curious while Mary had retreated to the shadow of the chicken house. Knowing how much Mary hated and feared the chickens, her choice of safety seemed ironic.

Kate faced the man.

He was taller than he looked from above, bigger, and lean to the point of thinness, his black hair shaggy and overly long, his skin leathered and brown from living outdoors, his eyes so dark she couldn’t see the pupils.

But she liked the patient expression of his face. He looked the sort of man who would be unruffled by adversity. She mentally smiled. A roving man no doubt had his share of such.

His clothes were threadbare but clean.

It said a lot for a man that he managed to look decent under his present circumstances. And what it said made her relax slightly.

The tramp rolled a soiled cowboy hat in his fingers, waiting for her to complete her study of him. Suddenly, he tossed the hat on the ground and reached for the bucket of grease.

At first she didn’t release the handle. She would have to do this job sooner or later. Then she let him take the bucket. Later suited her just fine.

He scurried up the windmill with the agility of a cat.

Kate watched his progress, squinting against the bright sun. Her chest tightened as he stepped to the platform and the wind tossed his hair. She shuddered when she realized he didn’t hang on. She pulled her gaze from the man and grabbed Dougie’s arm, putting an end to the way he bounced up and down at the ladder, trying to reach the first rung.

“Come on, the man is going to want to eat when he’s done.” If she didn’t provide a decent meal he would no doubt leave one of those hobo signs at the gate indicating this farm provided mean fare. Why should she care? But she did. She still had her pride.

“Mary, come on. I need your help.” Mary shrank back while Dougie tried to pull from her grasp. Seemed to be the way she always stood with them—holding Dougie back, urging Mary on.

She’d planned bread and fried eggs for them. Now she had to scrape together something for a regular meal. And she still needed to milk the cows, separate the milk, set bread to rise, a hundred other little tasks beyond measuring or remembering.

“Come, Mary.” Her words were sharp. She sounded unforgiving. But she didn’t have time to coddle the child.

Mary jerked away from the building and raced to her side.

As Kate shepherded both children to the house, she mentally scoured the cupboards for what to feed the man.

“Dougie, get me some potatoes.” As she tugged off the coveralls and hung them on a hook, he hurried away, eager for the adventure of the dark cellar.

Kate smoothed her faded blue cotton dress. “Mary, bring me a jar of canned beef and one of green beans.” Mary went without crying only because Dougie traipsed ahead of her.

Kate poured a cup of raisins into a pot and covered them with water to boil then scooped out a generous amount of her homemade butter and measured out half a cup of her precious sugar. She added the softened raisins, flour and spices then put the cake in the oven while the children did as she said.

Dougie brought back a basin full of potatoes, wizened and sprouted after a winter in storage.

Not much, but still she was grateful she had food for her children. She peeled the potatoes as thinly as possible so as not to waste a bit and set them to boil. She gathered the peelings in a basin to later take to the chickens.

Dougie watched out the window, giving a step-by-step description of what the man did. “He greased it. He’s climbing down. Sure isn’t scared like you are, Momma. He put the grease pail on the ground. He’s watering the cows.” The boy dashed out of the house.

“Dougie, wait.” The skin on the back of Kate’s neck tingled as she hurried to the door. She couldn’t trust her child with a stranger.

Dougie raced to the man, spoke with him a minute and ran back to her. “Momma, his name is Hatcher. He says he’ll milk the cows.”

Hatcher? Sounded too much like hatchet for her liking. Was it his nickname? Earned by the deeds he did? She didn’t like to judge a man prematurely but she’d sooner be overly cautious than have someone named Hatcher hanging around. “No. I’ll do it,” she said.

But Dougie grabbed the galvanized tin buckets and headed back outside before she could stop him. He rejoined the man who took the pails but stood watching Kate, waiting silently for her agreement.

Again she felt his quiet patience. Jeremiah had been like that. Slowly, she nodded, and her son and the man disappeared into the barn.

Suddenly a whole stream of worries assailed her. Was she foolish to let her son out of sight with a tramp? On top of that, she wondered if the man knew how to milk properly. Would she have to go out and strip the cows? She couldn’t let them go dry. The milk fed herself, the children, the pig and the chickens. Besides providing their butter, the cream gave them the only cash they would have until the crop was seeded, and harvested. And that depended on having rain when they needed it, no grasshoppers to eat the crop and a hundred other things. “It’s in God’s hands,” she whispered. “He’ll take care of us. He’s promised.” She forced herself to dwell on these comforting words yet threads of concern knitted around the promise.

She stood in the doorway, torn between hurrying out to the barn and the need to prepare the meal. The cake was almost ready to come out. If she left it now, they’d have burned sacrifices for supper.

“Mary, sit on the step and watch the barn.”

“What for, Momma?”

“Just watch it and let me know if anyone comes out.” She shoved her daughter outside, ignoring the stark fear in her eyes. “All you do is sit here. I have to finish supper.”

She tested the cake, put it back in the oven, pushed the boiling potatoes to a cooler spot on the stove and emptied the meat and beans into pots to heat.

Mary clattered inside. “Momma,” she whispered.

“Ma’am?”

The deep voice, unexpected as it was, startled Kate. She jerked her gaze to the man standing in her doorway, two foamy pails of milk in his hands.

Dougie raced in behind the man.

Kate let her tense chest muscles relax knowing the boy was safe and sound.

The man carefully avoided looking at her as he set the pails on the worn wooden table next to the door and retreated.

“Supper is ready,” she told him. “Make yourself comfortable while I dish you up a plate.” She nodded to the step indicating he should wait there. When Dougie prepared to join the man, Kate called him inside. He reluctantly slouched indoors.

Kate dished up generous portions of food and carried the plate to the man.

He nodded. “Thank you, ma’am. Name’s Hatcher Jones.”

Kate hesitated then gave her name. “I appreciate your help, Mr. Jones. I’ll bring you dessert in a few minutes.” She ducked back inside, closed the door behind her, served the children and herself, all the time aware of Hatcher Jones on the other side of the solid wooden door. It made her feel awkward to sit at the table while he sat on the step, yet nothing in the world would persuade her to invite him inside the house. Most hobos were ordinary men on the move looking for work wherever they could find it but even without Mary’s frightened look she became acutely conscious of the vulnerability of her two children.

Mary and Dougie finished and Kate deemed the cake cool enough to cut. She put a generous slice in a bowl, poured on thick, cool cream and took it outside.

Hatcher Jones handed her his spit-clean plate and took the bowl of dessert, his eyes appreciating the food as he murmured his thanks.

Kate hovered at the doorway, breathing in the pleasure of her farm. “Where are you from, Mr. Jones?”

“From nowhere. Going nowhere.” He seemed preoccupied with the bowl of food.

“You must have belonged somewhere at some time.” The idea of being homeless, having no roots still made her tense up inside. She couldn’t stand the thought of someone out there, hunkered over a lonely campfire. Cold, wet, miserable, vulnerable to prying eyes. It was a too-familiar sensation she couldn’t shake. Not even after all these years.

He shrugged. “Too long ago to matter.”

“Going anywhere in particular? I hear a lot of men are heading toward the coast.” She chuckled. “At least it rains there.”

“Been there. Seems all it did was rain.”

“So you didn’t like it?”

Again he shrugged, a languid one-shoulder-higher-than-the-other gesture that said better than any words that he was short on opinions about such things. “Can get too much of even a good thing.”

“You surely can’t like this drought better’n rain. Even too much rain.”

“Drought or rain. What’s the difference? Man just has to make the best of it.”

“A woman does, too.”

He glanced over his shoulder to her. “It’s not easy.”

“No. It’s not. But we do okay.”

He nodded and looked across the fields. “How much land you got here?”

“Two quarters.”

“How much in crop?”

“A hundred acres.”

He grunted. “Planning to put it all down to wheat?”

How long had it been since anyone had asked her about her farm? Doyle’s only question was when did she intend to get rid of it and marry him? Her answer was always the same. Never. This farm belonged to her. Lock, stock and piles of dust. She would never let it go or even take out a mortgage on it.

Even Sally, dear friend that she was, couldn’t understand Kate’s dedication to the land. All Sally could think was how fortunate Kate was to have a beau such as Doyle. Handsome, debonair, well-off, a lawyer with a big house. “You could quit working like a man,” Sally said often enough.

Kate drew in a long breath full of spring sweetness. The smell of new growth. Who’d believe green had its own scent? She’d once tried to explain it to Doyle and he’d laughed. Unfortunately the endless dust drowned out all but tantalizing hints of the freshness. So far this spring there hadn’t been any blinding dust storms but no significant amounts of rain, either. What was the official total? .06 inches. Hardly worth counting.

She gathered up her shapeless plans for the spring work and put words to them. “I want to put in some corn. Seems to me it’s pretty hardy once it’s tall enough the gophers don’t eat it off.”

“No problem with blackbirds attacking it?”

“Some. But there’s a bonus to that. They’re good eating. ‘Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.’”

He straightened his shoulders inside his worn blue shirt, hesitated as if to consider her words and then grunted in what she took for amusement. “God’s blessings often come disguised.”

She stared at his back, saw his backbone edging at the faded blue of his shirt. A hobo who talked about God? Even more, about God’s blessings. She couldn’t keep herself from asking, “What blessing is disguised in being homeless?” She could recall none.

He lifted his head and looked out across the field. She wondered what he saw. Did the open road pull at him the way it had her father?

“There are certain advantages.” He spoke softly, with what she could only guess was a degree of gratitude.

She rubbed at a spot below her left ear where her jaw had knotted painfully and tried not to remember how she’d hated the constant moving, the never knowing where home was or where they would sleep. Every time they settled, even knowing it was temporary, she hoped this would be the last time they moved. There was no last time for her father, still restlessly on the move. But a time came when Kate refused to move on. She felt no call to wander. No appeal of the long winding road.

Hatcher Jones considered her. “A hundred acres to seed this spring? Quite a job. You got a tractor by any chance?”

She gladly pulled her thoughts back to the farm—her home, her security. “I got me a tractor.” She’d managed to limp it through last year with the help of the oldest Oliver boy whose ability and patience coaxed it to run. But since Abby Oliver headed north, she had no one to help her. “It needs a few repairs.” She almost snorted. A few repairs. It was as pathetic as measuring .06 inches of precipitation and calling it rain.

Hatcher pushed to his feet. “I’ll be moving on. Again, thank you for the meal.”

“You’re welcome. Thank you for taking care of the windmill.” The rotary wheel hummed quietly on the tower. No more protesting squeal of dry gears. Another month before she’d have to brave the heights again.

Hatcher stood with his hat in his hand, looking as though he had something more he wanted to say. Then he jammed the blackened hat on his head and nodded. “Good food. Thank you.”

Kate laughed. “Does that mean you won’t post a secret sign at the end of the lane warning hobos away?”

She couldn’t see his eyes, hidden under the shadow of his hat, but his mouth flashed a quick smile.

“No, ma’am. But I won’t be letting others know how good a cook you are, either. Wouldn’t want a whole stream of hungry men descending on you.” He gave a quick nod.

“Now I’ll leave you in peace. God bless.”

She watched him stride away, his long gait eating up the road in deceptive laziness and suddenly, she felt lonely. She thought of calling him back. She wanted to talk more about the farm. Ask him what he’d seen in his travels. How severe was the drought in other places? Did he really see God’s blessing in the hardships he witnessed and experienced? She sighed deeply, pushing her useless longings out as she exhaled. Then she returned to the many chores still waiting.

She strained the milk and separated it.

“Mary, hurry out and shut in the chickens. Take out these peelings.” She handed her the basin and ignored Mary’s wide-eyed silent protest. “We can’t afford to lose any of them.” The child had to get over her unreasonable fear of chickens. “Dougie, go put the heifers into the corrals and make sure the gate’s tightly latched.” He was really too small to chase after the animals but she couldn’t be everywhere at once. “Hurry now before it gets dark.” She’d run out and help Dougie as soon as she finished the milk. And if the past was any indication, she’d end up dumping the basin of peelings. Mary never seemed to get any farther than the fence where she tried to poke the contents through the wire holes.

Kate prayed as she worked. God, protect the children. Help Mary realize she’s bigger than the chickens. Help me find a way to get my crop in. She stilled her thoughts. As usual, her prayers seemed an endless list of requests. But she had nowhere to turn but to God who promised to provide all her needs. Seemed to her a God who owned the cattle on a thousand hills and held the waters in His hand could send a little rain to her area of the world. Lord, help me be patient. I know You will provide for us. You’ve promised. A smile curved her lips. Thank You that I didn’t have to grease the windmill. A blessing in the form of a hobo. God must surely have a sense of humor.

She scoured the milk buckets and turned them upside down to dry, poured boiling water through the separator and cleaned it thoroughly.

Normally the work kept her mind adequately occupied but not tonight. One hundred acres to seed. A tractor that refused to run. And no help. She needed a hired man. One with experience. One with the ability to fix the tractor. One who didn’t expect anything more than his keep. She knew no such person. She’d run an ad in a few papers but the responses were disappointing at best and downright frightening in the case of one man who made very inappropriate suggestions. Of course, as Doyle always pointed out, she had the option of selling the farm and accepting his offer of marriage.

As she dashed to the barn to help Dougie, pausing at the chicken yard to take the basin from Mary and toss the peelings into the pen, she wondered if she was being stupid or stubborn to cling to this piece of property. Probably both, she willingly admitted, but she wasn’t ready to give up the only permanent home she’d ever known.

The sun sat low on the western horizon brushing the sky with purple and orange and a hundred shades of pink. At the doorstep, she turned, holding a child’s hand in each of hers. As she drank in the beauty of the sunset she silently renewed the promise she’d made to herself after Jeremiah’s death. Never would her children know the uncertainty of being homeless. Not if she had to pull the plough herself.

Chapter Two

Hatcher watched the blades on the Bradshaw’s windmill turn smoothly as he headed down the road toward a nearby farm where he heard a man could get a bit job. All he needed was enough work to fill his stomach and a chance to bathe and wash his clothes before he moved on. He prided himself on a fair amount of work in exchange for a handout. Seems the meal Mrs. Bradshaw provided was more generous than the work he’d done. He’d have to fix that somehow.

As he shoveled manure out of the barn for a Mr. Briggs, he tied a red neckerchief over his nose and kept his mind occupied with other things than the pungent, eye-watering smell of a long-neglected job. Most men would be ashamed to let even a hobo bear witness to such slovenliness. Not that it was the worst job he’d ever done. Good honest work never hurt anyone. Long ago, he’d learned he could enjoy his thoughts as he worked at even the most unappealing job; his favorite way was to see how many Bible verses he could recall without stumbling. In the ten years he’d been wandering the back roads of this huge country, he’d committed hundreds to memory. From the first day the words from Genesis chapter four, verse seven haunted his thoughts. If thou does well, shalt thou not be accepted? And if thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door.

He’d sought comfort and absolution in the scriptures. He’d memorized the first nine chapters of Genesis, saw over and over the failure of man to live as God intended. A fact that surprised him not at all.

Today, as he worked, he interspersed his recitation with plans on how to rectify his debt to Mrs. Bradshaw. It would require he return to the slough where he’d spent the previous night. Not often did he retrace his steps but he couldn’t move on until he adequately repaid her.

He finished working for Mr. Briggs, received a meager meal of one shriveled unpeeled potato and a slab of side bacon that was mostly fat. It measured poorly in comparison with the meal of the previous evening. Mr. Briggs granted him permission to use the water trough to wash his clothes and himself, which he did. In his clean set of clothes, his wet ones rolled and tied in a bundle, he returned to the slough where he hung the garments to dry.

And then he tackled his project.

Next morning Hatcher headed up the driveway to the Bradshaw home with the shelf he’d created from willow branches. Nothing special. Hobos all over the country made them. In fact, she probably had several already. A woman who cooked a fine generous meal like the one she’d provided him was bound to have received gifts before.

The big black-and-white furry dog raced out to bark at his heels.

“Quiet, Shep,” he ordered.

The animal stopped barking but growled deep in his throat as he followed so hard on Hatcher’s heels it made the back of his neck tingle.

Not a dog to let anyone do something stupid. Good dog for a woman who appeared to be alone with two kids.

The place seemed quiet at first but as he drew closer, he heard mumbled warnings. Seemed to be Mrs. Bradshaw speaking. Threatening someone.

He felt a familiar pinching in his stomach warning him to walk away from a potentially explosive situation but he thought of some of the homeless, desperate, unscrupulous men he’d encountered in his travels. If one of them had cornered Mrs. Bradshaw…

He edged forward, following the sound around the old Ford truck and drew to a halt at the sight of Mrs. Bradshaw standing on a box, her head buried under the hood of the vehicle, her voice no longer muffled by the bulk of metal and bolts.

“You good for nothing piece of scrap metal. Why do you do this to me? Just when I need you to cooperate, you get all persnickety.” She shifted, banged her head and grunted.

“If I had a stick of dynamite, I’d fix you permanently.”

Hatcher leaned back on his heels, grinning as the woman continued to scold the inanimate object. After a moment, he decided to make a suggestion that might save both the truck and the woman from disaster.

“’Scuse me for interrupting, but maybe you should bribe it instead of threatening it.”

She jerked up, crashed her head into the gaping hood and stumbled backward off the box, her palms pressed to the top of her head as she faced him, her eyes narrowed with her pain. “Oh, it’s you. You startled me.”

He regretted she had every right to be frightened of him. Fact of the matter, she should be far more wary than she was. He tipped his head slightly. “My apologies.” He slid his gaze to the dirt-encased engine behind her. “It’s being uncooperative?”

She turned to frown fiercely at the bowels of the truck. “I’ve done everything. Even prayed over it.”

He blinked in surprise and amusement at the way she glanced upward as if imploring God to do something.

“I might be able to help,” he said.

She stepped aside, made a sweeping swing of her arm toward the truck. “It’s all yours, mister.”

He hitched up his pants, pretended to spit into his palms, rubbed his hand together, and imitating her gesture, glanced imploringly skyward.

She laughed, a snorting sound she tried to hide behind her fist.

He darted her a quick glance, not wanting to stare at the way her warm brown eyes flashed amusement yet his gaze lingered a second as a strand of her shoulder-length cinnamon-colored hair blew across her cheek and she flicked it aside. Nice to see a woman who still knew how to laugh. He’d seen far too many all shriveled up inside and out, worn down from fighting the elements, trying to cope with disappointment after disappointment and a mountain of work that never went away. Well, maybe he could do something to ease this woman’s work and repay her for her kindness of two days ago. He bent over the hood of the truck and studied the motor. Sure could use a good cleaning. He checked the carburetor. The choke was closed. No wonder it wouldn’t run. “You got a piece of hay wire?”

“Hay wire? You’re going to fix my truck with hay wire?”

“Ma’am, ain’t nothing you can’t fix with hay wire and bubble gum.”

She made that snorting sound of laughter again. “Sorry, I have no bubble gum but I’ll get you some wire.”

She sauntered away to the barn, chuckling and murmuring about the miracle of wire and gum.

He was glad to brighten someone’s day. As he waited, he scraped dirt and bug guts off the radiator and tightened the spark plugs.

Her quiet chuckle heralded her return, the sound like the first rays of a summer day—warm, promising good things to fill the ensuing hours.

He quieted his soul with the words of scripture: He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city. He sought for the reference. Knew it was Proverbs but the sound of the woman at his elbow made him momentarily forget the exact location. He kept his attention on the motor until he brought his thoughts under submission. Proverbs sixteen, verse thirty-two. Only when he had it correct did he straighten.

“This do?” Her voice bubbled with amusement as she handed him a coil of wire.

“Just the thing.” He bent off a piece and wired the choke open. “That should do the trick.”

He cranked the motor over several times and it kicked to life.

Remembering her skyward pleas, grateful for divine assistance, he stood back, glanced up to heaven and nodded to thank God for His help.

Mrs. Bradshaw clapped. “Guess I just needed a prayer partner. And someone who understands motors. Can you show me what you did?”

“It’s nothing. Just the miracle of hay wire.” Side by side, they bent over the motor and he explained the workings of the carburetor and the function of the choke.

“Got it.” She straightened and turned to lean on the fender that hinted at once being gray. Now it was mostly patchy black and rusty. “Trouble is, now I know that, it will be something else that goes wrong.”

“Someone once told me, if you’re not learning and growing, you’re withering.”

She chortled. “No doubt about it then. I’m growing.” She grew quiet as she looked across the fields. “Though it seems my farm is withering.”

“Your husband off working somewhere?”

She didn’t answer.

Caution. That was good. Didn’t pay to trust too quickly. He dusted his hands. “Brought you a gift.” He retrieved it from beside the truck.

“A gift? Why?”

“To say thanks.”

She took the shelf and examined it, ran her fingers over the words he’d cut into the front of the shelf. The Lord is my helper. “It’s beautiful.”

He heard the shimmer in her voice and lowered his gaze, tried not to let the tightness in his throat make itself known.

She cleared her throat and continued. “I’ll hang it next to the door. But it’s me who owes you thanks for getting the truck running. I have to get to town today and didn’t know how I was going to make it there and do my errands before the children are out of school.”

He’d made shelves such as that on two previous occasions. Once when a kind family had provided shelter from a raging snowstorm.

Another time after he’d helped an elderly woman bury her husband. He’d carved a verse in the top branch. Hebrews thirteen, verse five, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee, hoping the object and verse would remind her she wasn’t alone.

But Mrs. Bradshaw’s gratitude for his poor offering gave him a queer mingling of regret and hope. He couldn’t afford to luxury in either emotion. Backing away, he touched the brim of his hat. “Ma’am.” He headed down the road. He got as far as the end of the truck when she called out.

“Wait. Mr….” She paused as if searching for his name,

“Jones. I was planning to go to town and post a little advertisement for someone to help me. I can’t run this farm by myself.”

“Lots of men looking for work.” He continued walking away.

She fell in step beside him. “I need someone who can fix my tractor and put the crop in. You seem like a handy kind of man.”

“I’m moving on.” Her steps slowed but his did not.

“Right away?”

“The road is long.”

“And it calls? My father was like that.”

He didn’t argue but for him the open road didn’t call. The back road pushed.

She stopped altogether. “I’m sure I’ll find someone.” Her voice rippled with determination. She turned and headed home. “Or I’ll do it myself.”

Hatcher faltered on his next step then marched onward. Before he reached the end of the lane, he heard her singing and chuckled at her choice of song.

“‘Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves. We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.’”

The woman needed a whole lot of things to happen before she could rejoice about the sheaves. Not the least of which was someone to help her put the seed in the ground, but no need for him to worry about her. Within an hour of posting her little ad, she’d have half a dozen or more men to choose from.

Back at the slough where the flattened straw-like grass showed evidence of how long he’d camped there, he bundled up his now-dry clothes and packed his kettle away. He cocked his head when he heard Mrs. Bradshaw drive down the road.

He hesitated, thinking of her words I’ll do it myself, and hearing her cheery voice in joyful song. She was the kind of woman who deserved a break. He would pray she got it and find a hired man who would be what she needed.

She’d never said if her husband was dead or gone looking for work elsewhere. Though it seemed the farm provided plenty of work. Maybe not enough income to survive on. Must be hard raising those two young ones alone and running the farm, as well. Hard for her and the kids. If only he could do something to ease their burden. Besides pray.

He thought of something he could do that might add a little pleasure to their lives. Another couple of hours before he got on his way wouldn’t hurt. Regretfully resigned to obeying his conscience he dropped his knapsack and pulled out his knife, chose a nice branch and started to whittle. He stopped later to boil water and toss in a few tea leaves. When the tea was ready, he poured it into a battered tin cup, picked up his Bible, leaned against a tree trunk and settled back to read as he waited for the Bradshaws to come home. He calmed his thoughts, pulling them into a tight circle and stroked the cover of the Bible, worn now to a soft doe color, its pages as fragile as old onionskin. He’d carried it with him since he left home, knowing, hoping to find within its pages what he needed. He’d found strength for each day, a tenuous peace, and a certainty of what he must do, what his life consisted of now. Like Cain, he was a vagabond.

He opened the Bible, smoothed the tattered edges of the page with his fingertip and began to read.

Sometime later, he heard the truck groan up the lane, waited, giving the family a chance to sort themselves out then he headed up the dusty tracks.

The dog saw him first and barked. The little boy yelled. “Mom, it’s Hatcher. He’s come back.”

“Dougie,” a voice called from inside the house. “Stay here.”

The eager child skidded to a halt and shuffled backward to the truck where he stopped and waited, bouncing from foot to foot as if still running down the road in his mind. The dog hovered protectively at his side.

Mrs. Bradshaw hurried out, saw her son was safe and shielded her eyes with her hand as she watched Hatcher approach. Her lips curved into a smile of recognition.

Something in his heart bounced as restless and eager as Dougie at the truck then he smoothed away the response with the knowledge of who he was and what his future held. He thought to warn the woman to spare her smiles for someone who’d be staying around to enjoy them. Pushed away that thought, as well. Settled back into his hard-won peace.

“Ma’am.” He nodded and touched the brim of his hat, painfully aware how dirty it was. “I made something for the little ones, if you don’t mind.”

She studied him a moment. He could feel her measuring him before she nodded as if he had somehow passed an inspection.

A flash of regret crossed Hatcher’s mind. For the first time his solitude seemed poverty-stricken. He needed to cling to the blessings of his life. One God had provided. One that suited his purpose.

He pulled a willow whistle from his pocket and held it out to Dougie. The child bounced forward and took it with loud thanks. He blew a thin sound.

Shep backed away, whining. The child looked at him and blew again. The dog settled on his haunches and howled.

Dougie blew. The dog howled in unison.

The boy stopped. The dog stopped. The boy blew his whistle. The dog howled. Both child and animal tipped their heads as if not quite sure what was going on.

Mrs. Bradshaw laughed. “Shep wants to sing with you.”

Dougie giggled and blew several sharp notes. The dog lifted his nose and howled.

Hatcher’s wide smile had an unfamiliar feel. As if he hadn’t used it in a long time.

The little girl slipped out the door and pressed to her mother’s side.

Hatcher pulled another whistle from his pocket. “One for you, too, missy.”

The child hesitated. He understood her guarded fearfulness, respected it and waited for her to feel he meant her no harm.

“Go ahead, Mary,” her mother said.

The child snatched the whistle from Hatcher’s hand. He caught a glimpse of blue eyes as she whispered her thanks. The dog’s plaintive howls drew the child away. She blew her whistle. The dog turned toward the added sound and wailed. The girl laughed.

Hatcher nodded, satisfied he’d given both children a bit of pleasure. “Ma’am.” He touched his hat again and retraced his steps toward the slough.

“Wait,” she called.

He stopped, hesitated, turned slowly.

“Thank you.”

He touched the brim of his hat. He’d done what he aimed to do—give a bit a pleasure he hoped would make the children forget for a few short hours the meanness of their lives.

“I’ll make you supper.”

He’d already been here longer than usual, longer than he should. “I have to be moving on.”

“It’s too late today to go anywhere.”

She had a point. But he didn’t want to hang around and…

Well, he just didn’t care to hang around.

“Or did you find some game?”

He shook his head. He’d planned to snare a rabbit but he’d whiled away his hours whittling and reading. “I’m not the world’s greatest hobo.”

“Need more practice?”

“Don’t think so.” Some things just never got easier.

“Then please, allow me to share what we have. As thanks for the children’s toys.”

The youngsters had moved off, marching to their tunes, the dog on their heels, still adding his voice. Every so often the children stopped, looked at Shep and laughed.

“See how much fun you’ve provided them.”

Hatcher’s smile started in the corners of his mouth, tugged his lips to the centers of his cheeks and didn’t stop until it nested in his heart. “That’s all I wanted, ma’am. No thanks needed.”

“Nevertheless, I insist.” She spun around and headed for the door, paused and turned back. “Please.”

The invitation, heartfelt and sincere, begged at his heart. He knew to accept it was to break his code of conduct. He didn’t stay. He didn’t go beyond kind and courteous. He couldn’t. But her pleasant smile caused him to waver. One more meal and then he was on his way. “Very well.”

She indicated he should wait. He leaned against the truck and looked around. A big unpainted barn, one door sagging. Breaks in the fences where tumbleweeds driven by the wind had piled up and then caught the drifting soil until the fence disappeared. A solid chicken house, the chickens clucking at the barren ground behind their fence.

A farm like many others. Once prosperous; now struggling to make it through each season.

He watched the children play. So happy and innocent. Maybe such happiness was reserved for the very young.

Chapter Three

Kate stood in the middle of her kitchen, a palm pressed to her throat, and tried to explain to herself why she’d insisted the man stay for supper.

Not that she regretted the invitation. She owed him for the gifts he’d given the children. It was pure joy to see them both laughing and playing so carefree. But more than that, he’d admitted he’d failed to catch a rabbit and she couldn’t push aside the knowledge he’d go hungry if she didn’t feed him. She’d learned at a young age how to snare the shy animal, had grown quite good at it for all it was a tricky business. But she recalled too well that rabbits were sometimes as scarce as hen’s teeth. Hunger was not a pleasant companion. True, most times they were able to rustle up something—edible roots to be boiled, lamb’s quarters—a welcome bit of greens in the spring but grainy and unpleasant as the season progressed. More times, her father got eggs or potatoes or even a generous hunk of meat in exchange for some work he’d done.

But although thankfully few and far between, Kate could not forget the days her stomach ached with hunger, when she’d gone to bed with nothing but weak tea to fill the emptiness.

No, she could not in good conscience turn a man back to an empty stew pot even if she had to scrape the bottom of the barrel to feed him. And although she’d used the last of her meat two days ago for the meal she prepared for Hatcher Jones she wasn’t at the bottom of the barrel yet, for which she thanked God. And her farm.

Mr. Zimmerman at the store said he’d heard talk of setting up a butcher ring. She hoped her neighbors would do so. Mr. Zimmerman said the Baileys had something ready. Perhaps they’d take the initiative and start the ring. In a few weeks the yearling steer could be her contribution. But in the meantime, all she had to offer Hatcher was fried eggs and potatoes and something from the few items left from last year’s preserving. As the eggs and potatoes fried, she raced down to the cellar for a jar of beet pickles to add to the meal for color. Everything ready, she went to the door and whistled for the children to come.

Mr. Jones jerked around and stared at her. No doubt he’d heard the same dire warnings as she about women who whistled. She smirked derisively. “I know, ‘a whistling woman and a crowing hen are neither fit for God nor man.’”

He touched the brim of his hat. “Seems a crowing hen would taste just fine.”

Her surprise at his answer gave her the sensation of missing a step, her foot dropping into nothingness, her stomach lurching in reaction. It took her a second to steady her breathing.

He touched the brim of his hat. “Ma’am,” he added.

She was about to be ma’amed to death. “Name’s Kate Bradshaw, if you don’t mind.”

“Good enough name far as I’m concerned.”

At his laconic humor, she felt a snort start in the back of her mouth and pressed her fist to her mouth hoping to quell it, knowing she couldn’t. She’d tried before. Tried hard. But she’d never learned to laugh like a lady. And with a willful mind of its own, her very unladylike snort burst around her fist. She expected to see embarrassment or surprise in Mr. Jones’s face. Instead little lines fanned from the outside corners of his eyes easing the resigned disinterest dominating his expression so far.

Her laugh deepened as it always did after the initial snort. Her gaze stayed with him, fastened on his dark eyes as they shared amusement and, it seemed to her, a whole lot more, things too deep inside each of them for words or even acknowledgement.

The children marched toward her, Shep at their heels singing his soulful song and Kate escaped her sudden flight into foolishness and gratefully returned to her normal, secure world.

Dougie stopped at the steps. “Did you know dogs could sing, Momma?”

Kate shook her head. “I didn’t know Shep could sing, though I’ve heard him howling at the coyotes.”

Dougie turned to the man. “Hatcher, you ever hear a dog sing before?”

Mr. Jones nodded. “A time or two.”

Dougie looked shattered, as if knowing another dog had the same talent made Shep less special.

Hatcher gave the dog serious consideration. “I never heard a dog sing as well as this one, though.”

Dougie’s chest expanded considerably. He looked at Mary, who retreated to the doorway. “See. I told you.”

At that moment, Kate knew an inexplicable fondness and admiration for the man who’d returned her son’s dignity through a few kindly, well-chosen words. She smiled at the children, including Hatcher in her silent benediction. “Get washed up for supper.”

“Hatcher staying?” Dougie demanded.

“Yes, he is.”

“Good.” He faced the man. “Thank you for the whistle.”

Kate turned Dougie toward the door. “Wash.” As the children cleaned up, she dished a plateful for Mr. Jones and carried it out to him along with a handful of molasses cookies. They were dark and chewy. Not at all fancy but she had nothing else for dessert. “Would you care for tea?”

He hesitated before he answered. “Much appreciated.” He waited until she headed indoors before he sat down and turned his attention to the food. At the door she paused. He seemed the sort of man who should share their table as well as their food. Yet, he was a stranger and a hobo at that.

She hurried inside, ate with the children then carried a cup of tea out to the man. He wrapped his hands around the white china cup, rubbing his thumbs slowly along the surface as if taking pleasure in its smoothness, causing her to wonder how long it’d been since he’d been offered a simple cup of tea.

He sipped the contents and sighed. “Good.”

“It’s just tea.” She remained on the step, knowing she should return to the kitchen and get at her evening chores, yet feeling comfort in adult company. Not that she suffered for want of such. She’d stopped at Doyle’s office while in town this afternoon and as always he seemed pleased to see her.

He’d smiled as she entered the office. “What a pleasant surprise.” He closed a folder and shoved it aside. “I could use some fresh tea as could you, I’m certain, before you head back to the farm. If you truly must return.” His pale blue eyes brimmed with adoration. “Have you considered how convenient it would be for both of us if you lived in town. In the best house, need I remind you?”

She nodded, a teasing smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “I’ve seen the house. I know how lovely it is.”

“I decorated it and bought every piece of furniture for you, my dear. All for you.”

“So you’ve told me many times.” His generosity filled her with guilt. “Need I remind you that I didn’t ask for it?”

He rose and came around the desk to stand close to her, lifted her chin so he could see her face as he smiled down at her. “I know you didn’t but everything is evidence of my devotion to you.”

Again the uncomfortable twinges of guilt. She openly admitted her fondness for Doyle. But one thing stood irresolutely in the way of her agreeing to marry him—the farm. But he must have seen her argument building and tucked her arm through his.

“Some day I’ll convince you but enough for now. Let’s have tea.” He covered her hand with his protective palm as he led her past his secretary, Gertie, a woman with blue-gray hair and steely eyes that always made Kate wonder what she’d done wrong. He left instructions as to where he could be found. They went to the Regal Hotel, the best in town. Only and always the best for Doyle.

Of course, it wasn’t hard to be the best when, one by one, the other establishments had hung Closed signs on their doors.

Kate wondered again why he’d chosen her and why he continued to wait for her when other women would have been happy to be cared for by him.

He led her into the stately dining room, glistening with pure white linen and light-arresting crystal. As he ordered, Kate tried not to compare her simple farm life with the way Doyle lived—luxury, plenty of everything—a stark contrast to her current struggles. Even his clothes spoke of his tastes, a starched white shirt that the housekeeper must have labored over for hours, a perfectly centered tie, an immaculate black suit. She knew without looking that his fine leather shoes shone with a mirrorlike gleam.

He waited until the waitress in her black dress and crisp white apron had served them tea and scones with strawberry jam at the side then leaned forward. “I can offer you so much, Kate—you and the children. My holdings are growing daily. You would never want for anything.”

She sipped her tea and watched him, fascinated with the way his eyes sparkled like the diamonds in the rings in Adam’s Jewelers down the street where Doyle had taken her a few months ago, practically insisting she allow him to purchase a ring for her. She’d had a difficult time convincing him she wasn’t ready to make such a decision.

She brought her attention back to what he was saying.

“This is a perfect time to invest in real estate. Land prices are sure to go up once this depression ends. Just this morning I bought up another mortgage which will soon make me the owner of the feed store.” He pointed across the street. “Give me a year and I’ll own the mercantile, the hotel—” He indicated the other businesses.

Kate was no financial genius but she understood what his good fortune meant. “Doyle,” she said softly. “Doesn’t it bother you that it means tremendous loss to the current owners? They’ll walk away broke and defeated.”

He shrugged. “I’m sorry for them, certainly. But I’m able to take advantage of the situation and if I don’t, someone else will.” His gaze grew intense. “It’s all for you and the children.” He leaned forward. She almost gave in when he stroked the back of her hand. “Doesn’t it seem a waste for me to be alone in my house? You should be living there rather than me paying a housekeeper.”

Kate studied their joined hands. She missed Jeremiah. Missed being a wife. Missed sharing all the challenges and rewards of her life with someone equally invested in the farm and the children.

He pressed his point and told her again of the lovely things in his house. “It’s all ready and waiting for you to move in. Surely you can see how your children would benefit from the move.”

That argument always made her wonder if she was doing the right thing. In town, Dougie and Mary would be close to school. They’d be able to play with their friends. They could enjoy a few conveniences. Even luxuries.

“What would I do with the farm?” she asked. They’d discussed this before and he always had the same answer.

“Sell it, of course. Maybe not right away. Not unless we can get a decent price for it.”

“Doyle, if only you could understand what the farm means to me.” She’d tried so often to explain it.

“You won’t need the farm to have a home. You’ll have my home. A far better home. You won’t have to struggle and work so hard anymore. I will take care of you. You can enjoy life.”

“I need more than a fine home.”

“You’ll have much more. You’ll have the best of everything.”

She put on a gentle expression as she hid her disappointment. She’d have to accept her loneliness a bit longer because she couldn’t let the farm go. Not yet. Maybe never. If he’d ever suggested she keep it…

But he was unwavering in his opinion of what should happen. He folded his napkin and placed it neatly beside his cup. “Besides, you can’t manage on your own.”

It was the final clincher. Little did he know this insistence convinced her to dig in her heels and hang on. She’d find a way to survive, manage on her own.

It was too bad because she liked Doyle. He was attentive and kind, accompanied her to church, and indeed, offered her a fine life. She was genuinely fond of him. Did she love him? She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t even sure she wanted that.

What did she want? Consider the lilies how they grow: they toil not, they spin not; yet I say unto you that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. If then God so clothe the grass, which is to day in the field, and to morrow is cast into the oven; how much more will he clothe you, O ye of little faith?

Yes, God would take care of her. She believed it with every breath she took. But she couldn’t be content like the lilies with only the fields for her home. She wanted four solid walls and a roof. She wanted to be warm and dry, have food in her cellar or—thinking of the chickens and the meat and eggs they provided—on two squawking legs.

Certainly Doyle would generously provide for her, but it didn’t feel the same as the security of her own piece of land and ownership of her own house.

She sighed from the bottom of her heart.

“Problems?” Hatcher asked.

His question brought her back from thoughts of her visit with Doyle. She realized what she longed for was someone with whom she could discuss her farming problems. To Doyle there was no problem. Or at least, a simple solution. Sell. She laughed a little to hide her embarrassment at being caught spending her time in wishing for things that might never be.

“You found a hired man today?” Hatcher asked.

“I didn’t.”

He glanced over his shoulder, a puzzled look on his face.

“When I came through town there were at least a dozen men hanging about looking for work.”

She shrugged, noting that today Hatcher wore a clean, unpressed shirt in washed-out gray. “I started to put up the ad.” Her skin had tingled, her face grown hot at the men watching her, waiting to read the notice. “I changed my mind.” She didn’t need help that badly—to invite a stranger into her life. “I decided I can manage on my own.”

He turned his attention back to his tea. “Hope all your tractor needs is an adjustment to the carburetor.”

A sigh came from her depths. “My tractor has seen its best days.”

“No horses?”

“I had to trade the last one in the fall for feed to see the cows through the winter.”

“Been tough all over.”

She murmured agreement. “I’m not complaining.”

“Me, either.” He downed the rest of his tea, got to his feet and handed her the cup. “You give me the milk buckets and I’ll take care of the cows.”

“No need.”

“I never accept a meal without doing a job.”

“It was my thanks.”

He made no move toward leaving. “I ’spect the young ones need you.” He nodded toward the interior of the house.

As she hesitated, torn between the truth of his statement and her reluctance to accept any more help from him, Dougie hurried out with the pails solving her need to make a choice.

“I’ll help you, Hatcher.”

The hobo patted Dougie on the head. “Good man.”

Kate choked back a snort at the way her son preened and said, “Very well.” But they didn’t wait for her permission. She watched the man and boy saunter to the barn, smiling as Dougie tried to imitate Hatcher’s easy rolling gait then she hurried inside. There seemed no end of work to be done. She needed to make farmer’s cheese. The ironing had yet to be done and couldn’t be put off any longer. Mary needed a dress for tomorrow and it had to be ironed. And most importantly, she had to have a look at the tractor and see what it needed to get it running. “More than a prayer,” she mumbled.

“Momma?”

“Nothing, Mary. Just talking to myself. Now help me with the dishes then run and shut in the chickens.”

“Momma. I hate the chickens.”

“I know you do but what would we eat if we didn’t have eggs and the occasional chicken?”

“I don’t like eating chicken.”

“I can never figure out why you object to eating an animal you’d just as soon see dead.”

“I keep seeing the way they gobble up grasshoppers.” Mary shuddered.

“But you hate grasshoppers.”

“I don’t want to eat anything that eats them.” Mary shuddered again.

Kate shook her head. This child left her puzzled.

Hatcher returned with the milk, his presence heralded by Dougie’s excited chatter.

“Your milk, ma’am.”

“Thank you. Seems I’m saying that a lot.”

“Won’t be any longer. I’ll be gone in the morning. My prayers for you and the family.”

And he strode away.

Kate stared after him a moment, wondering about the man. But not for long. She had milk to strain and separate. She had to try and persuade Mary to actually enter the chicken yard and shut the henhouse door and then she needed to supervise the children’s homework.

Next morning, as soon as the chores were done, Kate pulled on the overalls she wore for field work, dusted her hands together as if to say she was ready for whatever lay ahead, and pulled an old felt hat tightly over her head. It took her several minutes to adjust it satisfactorily. She recognized her fussing for what it was—delaying the inevitable. But the sooner she got at it, the sooner she’d conquer it. She gave her trousers a hitch, thought of the words from the Bible, She girdeth her loins with strength, and smiled.

“Here I go in the strength of the Lord. With His help I can conquer this,” she murmured, and hurried out to the lean-to on the side of the barn where the beast waited to challenge her. Abby Oliver had parked it there last fall with dire warnings about its reliability.

Kate confronted the rusty red machine, her feet fighting width apart, her hands on her hips and in her best mother-must-be-obeyed voice, the voice she reserved for Dougie’s naughtiest moments, said, “Could you not do the charitable thing and run? How else am I going to get the crop in the ground?” No need to think about getting it off in the fall. That was later. She shifted. Crossed her arms over her middle and took a more relaxed stance. “After all,” she cajoled. “I’m a woman alone. Trying to run this farm and take care of my children. And I simply can’t do it without your help.” She took a deep breath, rubbed the painful spot in her jaw. God, it’s Your help I need. Please, make this beast run one more season. She’d asked the same thing last spring. And again in the fall.

She waited. For what? Inspiration? Assurance? Determination? Yes. All of them.

My God shall supply all your need according to his riches in glory.

Well, she needed a tractor that ran. God knew that. He’d promised to provide it.

She marched around the tractor once. And then again. And giggled. She felt like one of the children of Israel marching around the walls of Jericho. If only she had a pitcher to break and a trumpet to sound…

She made a tooting noise and laughed at her foolishness.

She retrieved a rag from the supplies in the corner and faced the beast. “I will get you running somehow.” She checked the oil. Scrubbed the winter’s accumulation of dust off the motor, poured in some fuel and cranked it over. Or at least tried. After sitting several months, the motor was stiff, uncooperative.

She took a deep breath, braced herself and tried again. All she got was a sore shoulder. She groaned. Loudly.

“Maybe Doyle is right,” she told the stubborn beast.

“Maybe I should sell everything and move into town. Live a life of pampered luxury.”

“Ma’am.”

Her heart leaped to her throat. Her arms jerked like a scarecrow in the wind. She jolted back several inches.

“You scared me.” Embarrassed and annoyed, she scowled at Hatcher. “My name is Kate. Kate Bradshaw. Not ma’am.” She spoke slowly making sure he didn’t miss a syllable.

“Yes, ma’am. Perfectly good name.”

“So you said. What do you want?”

He circled the tractor, apparently deep in thought, came to halt at the radiator. “Want me to start her up for you?”

She restrained an urge to hug him. “I’d feed you for a month if you did, though I have to warn you, I’ve been babying it along for the better part of three years now.”

Hatcher already had his hands in the internal mysteries of the machine.

“Do you need some hay wire?” she asked.

He didn’t turn. “Going to take more than hay wire to fix this.”

“I thought you could fix anything with a hunk of wire or wad of bubblegum.”

“Hand me that wrench, would you?” He nodded toward the tool on the ground, and she got it for him, her gratefulness mixed with frustration that she couldn’t do this on her own. And yes, a certain amount of fear. If she failed, they would all starve. She wasn’t about to let that happen so some Godly intervention on her behalf would be welcome.

He tightened this, adjusted that, tinkered here and there. Went to the other side of the tractor and did more of the same. Finally, he wiped his hands on a rag Kate handed him, then cranked the motor. And blessing of blessings, it reluctantly fired up.

“I’ll take it out for you,” Hatcher hollered.

She nodded, so grateful to hear the rumbling sound she couldn’t stop grinning. She pointed toward the discer and he guided the tractor over and hitched it up. The engine coughed. Kate’s jaw clenched of its own accord. She rubbed at it and sighed relief when the tractor settled into a steady roar.

The discer ready to go, Hatcher stood back.

“Thank you so much. If you’re still around come dinnertime, I’ll make you a meal.”

He nodded, touched the brim of his hat. “Ma’am.”

Kate spared him one roll of her eyes at the way he continued to call her ma’am then climbed up behind the steering wheel, pushed in the clutch, pulled the beast into gear—

It stalled.

The silence rang.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I’ll crank it.” He did his slow dance at the front of the tractor. Again, it growled to life but as soon as she tried to move it, it stalled.

They did it twice more. Twice more the tractor stalled for her.

“Let me.” Hatcher indicated she get down which she gladly did, resisting an urge to kick the beast as she stepped back. He got up, put the tractor into gear and drove toward the field without so much as a cough.

He got down, she got up and the tractor promptly stalled.

Her gut twisted painfully like a rope tested by the wind. She curled her fingers into the rough fabric of her overalls. “It doesn’t like me,” she wailed.

“I’m sure it’s nothing personal,” he murmured, and again started the engine and showed her how to clutch. She followed his instructions perfectly but each time the beast stalled on her.

Her frustration gave way to burning humiliation. What kind of farmer could she hope to be if she couldn’t run the stupid tractor? How could she prove she could manage on her own when her fields were destined to lie fallow and weed infested unless she could do this one simple little job. Hatcher made it look easy. She favored him with a glance carrying the full brunt of her resentment, which, thankfully, as she sorely needed his help, he didn’t seem to notice.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Hatcher changed places with her. The tractor ran begrudgingly but it ran, as she knew it would. He didn’t seem to have a problem with it.

He started down the side of the field, took it out of gear, jumped down and she got back up. She did everything he had. She was cautious, gentle, silently begging the beast to run.

It stalled.

Tears stung the corners of her eyes. She blinked them away. She would not cry. Somehow she’d conquer this beast. “I have to make it run or I’ll never get my crop in, but this thing has become my thorn in the flesh.”

“A gift then.”

She snorted. “Not the sort of gift I’d ask for.”

“Two Corinthians twelve verse nine, ‘My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.’ And verse ten, ‘When I am weak, then I am strong.’ Guess it’s when you can’t manage on your own and need God’s help, you find it best.”

She stared, her jaw slack, not knowing which surprised her more, the challenge of his words or the fact of such a long speech from the man who seemed to measure his words with a thimble.

He met her startled gaze, his eyes bottomless, his expression bland.

She pulled away, looking at nothing in particular as the words of the Bible sifted through her anger, her frustration and fear, and settled solidly in her heart. She needed God’s help. And He had promised it. When she needed it most, she got it best. She liked that idea.

In the heavy silence, she heard the trill of a meadowlark. The sound always gave her hope, heralding the return of spring. She located the bird with its yellow breast on a nearby fence post and pointed it out to Hatcher. “Can you hear what the bird is saying? ‘I left my pretty sister at home.’” She chuckled. “Jeremiah told me that.” He’d also told her to keep the farm no matter what. That way she’d always have a home.

Hatcher nodded. “Never heard that before. Jeremiah your husband?”

She listened to the bird sing his song twice more before she answered. Jeremiah taught her everything she knew about farming. But somehow she hadn’t learned the mysteries of mechanical monstrosities. “He’s been dead three years.”

“Sorry.”

“Me, too.” She turned back to the tractor. “Would you mind cranking it again? I have to get this field worked.”

He did so. The engine started up easily but as soon as Kate tried to make the tractor move, it quit.

“Maybe it just needs babying along. I’ll run it awhile.”

Kate stubbornly clung to her seat behind the steering wheel. “You were in a hurry to leave until you heard my husband is dead.”

“I’m still leaving.”

She stared ahead. She wanted to refuse Hatcher’s offer. She didn’t need pity. She wouldn’t accept a man’s sudden interest in the fact she was alone. Widowed. An easy mark. Desperate.

“Crank it again. I have to do this myself.”

But nothing changed. The minute she tried to ease the tractor forward, actually make it do the work it was created for, the engine stalled.

This was getting her nowhere. The wide field seemed to expand before her eyes, and blur as if viewed through isinglass. She brushed the back of her hand across her eyes to clear her vision and jumped down. “Fine. See if it will run for you.”

He started the temperamental piece of metal, climbed behind the wheel, eased it into gear and moved away.

She wanted to run after him and demand to drive the tractor, demand the tractor cooperate with her. Instead she stared after him. One, two, three…only when she gasped ten, did she realize she’d been holding her breath waiting for the beast to respond to Hatcher as it did to her.

It didn’t. It bumped along the field as defiant as a naughty child.

At least Hatcher had the courtesy not to look back and wave.

He made fifty yards before he stopped, climbed down and plodded back to her. “I’ve got some spare time. I’ll work until noon. By then I’ll have all the kinks worked out of the engine.”

Kate wanted to protest even though she was relieved to have a few more hours unchallenged by her stubborn tractor. She swallowed her pride. “Thank you.”

He turned back and she hurried across the field to the house. He deserved some kind of compensation for doing this. She’d make cookies and biscuits to give him for his journey.

When noon came, she carried sandwiches and hot tea to the field and handed him the bundle she’d made of cookies and biscuits.

“What’s this?” he asked.

She explained.

At first she thought he’d refuse, then he took the bundle.

“Thanks. Appreciate it.”

She’d been dreading it all morning but it was time to take over the tractor. She had no choice if she were to get the field prepared for seeding. And then what? But all morning she’d thrown up a barrier at the question, refusing to deal with the obvious answer—as soon as the field was worked she’d have to seed it and then—no, she wouldn’t think that far ahead.

She climbed behind the wheel. The machine had run all morning. She’d glanced that direction often enough to assure herself of the fact. Hatcher had jumped down a few times and made some sort of adjustment then continued on.

But again, it stalled as soon as she tried to drive it. “Why can’t I make it work?” she yelled.

He shrugged. “I’ll finish out the day.”

“Great,” she muttered. She should be grateful and she was. But she was also on the edge of desperation. If he worked all day he wouldn’t finish even one field. Then he’d be on his way. And she’d be stuck with the beast. And two more fields that needed working. Suddenly marrying Doyle seemed like the most sensible thing in the world.

All afternoon, she considered her options. Marry Doyle and sell the farm. An easy way out, yet not one she was willing to take. Rent out the farm. But renting it out would mean they’d have to move. No man would want the farm without the house. No. There had to be a way she could make this work. If only the tractor would run for her as readily as it did for Hatcher Jones.

She had one option left. Somehow, she had to convince the man to stay. At least until she got the crop in.

She had hot water ready for him to wash in when he came in from the field. “Supper is waiting.” She used her purchased tin of meat—a spicy loaf—mixed it with rice and tomatoes and spices. She’d made bread pudding for dessert, adding a generous handful of raisins. Not the best of fare but she’d done what she could with her meager supplies.

She waited until the children ate then took tea out to Hatcher. It stuck in her throat to beg, but she’d made up her mind.

“Mr. Jones, is there any way I can persuade you to stay around to put the crop in for me? I wouldn’t be able to pay you much. But I could let you live in the settler’s shanty on the other quarter.”

Chapter Four

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.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.