Love Comes Softly Read online

  Love Comes Softly

  Love Comes Softly

  Copyright © 1979, 2003

  Janette Oke

  Newly edited and revised

  Cover design by Jennifer Parker

  Cover image of woman: © Brad Wrobleski, MasterFile

  Cover image of wagon: © Index Stock Imagery, Tim O’Hara

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-0-7642-2832-2

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Oke, Janette

  Love comes softly / by Janette Oke. —Rev. 2003 ed.

  p. cm. —(Love comes softly series ; bk. 1)

  ISBN 0-7642-2832-3 (softcover)

  1. Davis family (Fictitious characters : Oke)—Fiction. 2. Women pioneers—Fiction.

  I. Title. II. Series: Oke, Janette, 1935–, Love comes softly series ; bk. 1

  PS3565.K35L688 2003

  813′.54—dc21 2003001482

  * * *

  To my dear friend and former teacher,

  Mrs. Irene Lindberg

  Books by Janette Oke

  www.janetteoke.com

  Seasons of the Heart (4 in 1)

  ACTS OF FAITH*

  The Centurion’s Wife

  CANADIAN WEST

  When Calls the Heart When Breaks the Dawn

  When Comes the Spring When Hope Springs New

  Beyond the Gathering Storm

  When Tomorrow Comes

  LOVE COMES SOFTLY

  Love Comes Softly Love’s Unending Legacy

  Love’s Enduring Promise Love’s Unfolding Dream

  Love’s Long Journey Love Takes Wing

  Love’s Abiding Joy Love Finds a Home

  A PRAIRIE LEGACY

  The Tender Years A Quiet Strength

  A Searching Heart Like Gold Refined

  SONG OF ACADIA*

  The Meeting Place The Birthright

  The Sacred Shore The Distant Beacon

  The Beloved Land

  WOMEN OF THE WEST

  The Calling of Emily Evans A Bride for Donnigan

  Julia’s Last Hope Heart of the Wilderness

  Roses for Mama Too Long a Stranger

  A Woman Named Damaris The Bluebird and the Sparrow

  They Called Her Mrs. Doc A Gown of Spanish Lace

  The Measure of a Heart Drums of Change

  JANETTE OKE was born in Champion, Alberta, to a Canadian prairie farmer and his wife, and she grew up in a large family full of laughter and love. She is a graduate of Mountain View Bible College in Alberta, where she met her husband, Edward, and they were married in May of 1957. After pastor-ing churches in Indiana and Canada, the Okes spent some years in Calgary, where Edward served in several positions on college faculties while Janette continued her writing. She has written over four dozen novels for adults and children, and her book sales total over twenty-two million copies.

  The Okes have three sons and one daughter, all married, and are enjoying their dozen grandchildren. Edward and Janette are active in their local church and make their home near Dids-bury, Alberta.

  Visit Janette Oke’s Web site at: www.janetteoke.com.

  Dear Friends,

  I feel that you, my readers, have indeed become friends over the years since 1979, when Clark and Marty first came to life on the pages of Love Comes Softly. Actually, these two characters had lived in my heart and imagination some time before that and had already become dear to me.

  The journey for me since then, with both my readers and characters, has been long and exciting—a journey in which I have felt God’s leading, for it certainly has been beyond my planning or even dreams.

  When Love Comes Softly was published, I had no intention of writing a sequel. As far as I knew, the story was complete with Clark and Marty allowing the Lord to kindle a genuine care and love for each other in their hearts. But readers had other ideas, and many letters asked, “What happens next?” With the encouragement of Carol Johnson, editor at Bethany House, I laid aside plans for my next novel and wrote instead the continuation of the Davis family saga. I was apprehensive, I must confess, as I sat down to write, not at all sure it would work. But readers must have felt satisfied, and they asked for more. Eventually there were eight novels in the LOVE COMES SOFTLY series, and Clark and Marty have become old friends to many readers over the years.

  I went on to other characters and stories, but requests kept coming. One reader even acknowledged praying for the Davis family! Others had suggestions for how I should continue the saga, and a few implored me to at least tell them what else happened if I wasn’t going to actually write more books in the series! At last I acquiesced, and four more novels were added in A PRAIRIE LEGACY series. But we had to stop there. Enough years were covered over the twelve novels to bring Clark and Marty to the final years of their life together. Like many of you, neither did I wish to mourn their deaths.

  These two characters, though fictional, represent many in my own life—and no doubt in yours, also—who have taught lessons, both practical and spiritual. Each struggle Clark and Marty worked through, I struggled through with them. Each triumph they experienced was my own. Each truth about the faithfulness of the God they served was a wonderful reminder to me. I have shared their days of sunshine and their times of dark shadow. I have felt myself grow—quietly but continuously—in my inner self. God has used the development of these characters to help me stretch beyond where I have been.

  So even though we have said good-bye to the Davis family, it is with deep tenderness and a personal thankfulness for what these fictional people have added to my life. My prayer is that their lives and impact might travel on beyond my own—for my days, like all, will be numbered. Through the printed pages of this book and others, God willing, their lives will continue in the hearts and minds of readers like you.

  Sincerely,

  Janette

  Contents

  1.The Grim Reaper

  2.A Mama for Missie

  3.Marriage of Convenience

  4.Morning Encounter

  5.Iffen I Can Jest Stick It Out

  6.Housecleaning.

  7.A Welcome Visitor

  8.It’s a Cruel World

  9.The Lord’s Day

  10.Neighborly Hog Killin’

  11.Togetherness

  12.Finishin’ My Sewin’

  13.Ellen

  14.Missie

  15.Disclosed Secret

  16.Thoughtful and Caring

  17.Mysterious Absence

  18.Christmas Preparations

  19.Snowbound

  20.A Visit From Ma Graham

  21.A New Baby

  22.Ma Bares Her Heart

  23.Visitors

  24.New Discoveries

  25.Catastrophe!

  26.Barn Raisin’

  27.Laura

  28.The Big Day

  29.Planting

  30.Sorrow

  31.New Strength

  32.Love Comes Softly

  ONE

  The Grim Reaper

  The morning sun shone brightly on the canvas of the covered wagon, promising an unseasonably warm day for mid-October. Marty fought for wakefuln
ess, coming slowly out of a troubled and fitful sleep. Why did she feel so heavy and ill at ease—she who usually woke with enthusiasm and readiness for each new day’s adventure? Then it all came flooding back, and she fell in a heap on the quilt from which she had just emerged. Sobs shook her body, and she pressed the covering to her face to muffle the sound.

  Clem is gone. The truth of it was nearly unthinkable. Less than two short years ago, strong, adventurous, boyish Clem had quickly and easily made her love him. Self-assured and confident, he had captured her heart and her hand. Fourteen months later, she was a married woman out west, beginning a new and challenging adventure with the man she loved—until yesterday.

  Oh, Clem, she wept. Her whole world had fallen around her when the men came to tell her that Clem was dead. Killed outright. His horse had fallen. They’d had to destroy the horse. Did she want to come with them?

  No, she’d stay.

  Would she like the missus to come over?

  No, she’d manage.

  She wondered how she had even gotten the words past her lips.

  They’d care for the body, one of them had told her. His missus was right good at that. The neighbors would arrange for the burying. Lucky the parson was paying his visit through the area. Was to have moved on today, but they were certain that he’d stay over. Sure she didn’t want to come with them?

  No, she’d be all right.

  Hated to leave her alone.

  She needed to be alone.

  They’d see her on the morrow. Not to worry. They’d care for everything.

  Thank ya—

  And they had gone, taking her Clem with them, wrapped in one of her few blankets and fastened on the back of a horse. The kindly neighbor should have been riding it, but he was now leading the animal slowly, careful of its burden.

  And now it was the morrow and the sun was shining. Why was the sun shining? Didn’t nature know that today should be as lifeless as she felt, with a cold wind blowing like the chill that gripped her heart?

  The fact that she was way out west in the fall of the year with no way back home, no one around that she knew—and she was expecting Clem’s baby besides—should have filled her with panic. But for the moment the only thing her mind could settle on and her heart grasp was the overwhelming pain of her great loss.

  “Oh, Clem! Clem!” she cried aloud. “What am I gonna do without you?” She buried her face again in the quilt.

  Clem had come out west with such wild excitement.

  “We’ll find everything we want there in thet new country. The land’s there fer the takin’,” he had exulted.

  “What ’bout the wild animals—an’ the Injuns?” she had stammered.

  He had laughed at her silliness, picked her up in his strong arms, and whirled her around in the air.

  “What ’bout a house? It’ll be ’most winter when we git there,” she worried.

  “The neighbors will help us build one. I’ve heered all ’bout it. They’ll help one another do whatever needs to be done out there.”

  And it was true. Those hardy frontiersmen scattered across the wilderness would leave their highly valued crops standing in the fields, if need be, while they gave of their time to put a roof over a needy if somewhat cocky and reckless newcomer, because they would know far better than he the fierceness of the winter winds.

  “We’ll make out jest fine. Don’t ya worry yourself none, Marty,” Clem had assured her. With some reluctance, Marty had begun preparations for the long trek by wagon train to follow her beloved husband’s dream.

  After many weeks of travel, they had come upon a farmhouse in an area of rolling hills and pastureland, and Clem had made inquiries. Over a friendly cup of coffee, the farmer had informed them that he owned the land down to the creek, but the land beyond that, reaching up into the hills, had not yet been claimed. With an effort, Clem had restrained himself from whooping on the spot. Marty could tell that the very thought of being so near his dream filled Clem with wild anticipation. Thanking their soon-to-be neighbor, they hurried on, traveling a bit too fast for the much-mended wagon. They were within sight of their destination when another wheel gave way, and this time it was beyond repair.

  They had camped for the night, still on the neighbor’s land, and Clem had piled rocks and timbers under the broken wagon in an effort to make it somewhat level. In the morning they had discovered more bad luck. One of the horses had deserted them during the night, and his broken rope still dangled from the tree. Clem had ridden out on the remaining horse to look for it. And then the accident, and now he wouldn’t be coming back. There would be no land claimed in his name, nor a house built that would stand proud and strong to shelter his wife and baby.

  Marty sobbed again, but then she heard a noise outside the wagon and peeped timidly through the canvas. Neighbors were there—four men with grim faces, silently and soberly digging beneath the largest spruce tree. As she realized what their digging meant, a fresh torment tore at her soul. Clem’s grave. It was really true. This horrible nightmare was actually happening. Clem was gone. She was without him. He would be buried on borrowed land.

  “Oh, Clem. What’ll I do?”

  She wept until she had no more tears. The digging continued. She could hear the scraping of the shovels, and each thrust seemed to stab deeper into her heart.

  More sounds reached her, and she realized that other neighbors were arriving. She must take herself in hand. Clem would not want her hiding away inside the wagon.

  She climbed from the quilt and tried to tidy her unruly hair. Quickly dressing in her dark blue cotton frock, which seemed to be the most suitable for the occasion, she snatched a towel and her comb and slipped out of the wagon and down to the spring to wash away her tears and straighten her tangled hair. This done, she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and went back to meet the somber little group gathered under the spruce.

  * * *

  There was a kindness, a caring, in all of them. She could feel it. It was not pity, but an understanding. This was the West. Things were hard out here. Most likely every person there had faced a similar time, but one didn’t go under. There was no time or energy for pity here—not for self, not for one another. It took your whole being to accept the reality that death was part of life, that the sorrow was inevitable, but that you picked up and carried on.

  The visiting pastor spoke the words of interment, committing Clem’s body to the dust of the earth, his soul into the hands of God. He also spoke to the sorrowing, who in this case was one lone, small person, the widow of the deceased; for one could hardly count the baby that she was carrying as one of the mourners, even if it was Clem’s.

  Pastor Magnuson spoke words that were fitting for the occasion—words of comfort and words of encouragement. The neighbors listened in silent sympathy to the familiar Scriptures they had heard on similar occasions. When the brief ceremony was over, Marty, her head bowed, turned from the grave toward the wagon, and the four men with the shovels went back to the task of covering the stout wooden box they had brought with them. As Marty walked away, a woman stepped forward and placed her hand on the slim shoulder.

  “I’m Wanda Marshall,” she said, her voice low. “I’m sorry we don’t have any more than the one room, but you’d be welcome to share it for a few days until you sort things out.”

  “Much obliged.” Marty spoke in almost a whisper. “But I wouldn’t wanta impose upon ya. ’Sides, I think I’ll jest stay on here fer a while. I need me time to think.”

  “I understand,” the woman answered with a small pat, and she moved away.

  Marty continued toward the wagon and was stopped again, this time by an older woman’s gentle hand.

  “This ain’t an easy time fer ya, I know. I buried my first husband many years ago, and I know how you’re feelin’.” She paused a minute and then went on. “I don’t s’pose you’ve had ya time to plan.” At the slight shake of Marty’s head, she continued, “I can’t offer ya a place to stay; we
’re full up at our place. But I can offer ya somethin’ to eat, and iffen you’d like to move yer wagon to our yard, we’d be happy to help ya pack yer things, and my Ben, Ben Graham, will be more’n glad to help ya git to town whenever yer ready to go.”

  “Thank ya,” Marty murmured, “but I think I’ll stay on here fer a while.”

  How could she explain that she had no money to stay, not even for one night, and no hope of getting any? What kind of work could a young, untrained woman in her condition hope to get? What kind of a future was there for her, anyway?

  Her feet somehow moved her on to the wagon and she lifted a heavy hand to the canvas flap. She just wanted to crawl away, out of sight, and let the world cave in upon her.

  It was hot in there at midday, and the rush of torrid air sent her already dizzy head to spinning. She crawled back out and down on the grass on the shady side of the wagon, propping herself up against the broken wheel. Her senses seemed to be playing tricks on her. Round and round in her head swept the whirlwind of grief, making her wonder what truly was real and what imagined. She was mentally groping to make some sense of it all when a male voice suddenly made her jump with its closeness.

  “Ma’am.”

  She lifted her head and looked up. A man stood before her, cap in hand, fingering it determinedly as he cleared his throat. She vaguely recognized him as one of the shovel bearers. His height and build evidenced strength, and there was an oldness about his eyes that belied his youthful features. Her eyes looked into his face, but her lips refused to respond.

  He seemed to draw courage from somewhere deep inside himself and spoke again.

  “Ma’am, I know thet this be untimely—ya jest havin’ buried yer husband an’ all. But I’m afraid the matter can’t wait none fer a proper-like time an’ place.”

  He cleared his throat again and glanced up from the hat in his hands.