The Tender Years Read online

  The

  TENDER

  YEARS

  Books by Janette Oke

  ACTS OF FAITH*

  The Centurion’s Wife • The Hidden Flame

  CANADIAN WEST

  When Calls the Heart • When Comes the Spring

  When Breaks the Dawn • When Hope Springs New

  Beyond the Gathering Storm

  When Tomorrow Comes

  LOVE COMES SOFTLY

  Love Comes Softly • Love’s Enduring Promise

  Love’s Long Journey • Love’s Abiding Joy

  Love’s Unending Legacy • Love’s Unfolding Dream

  Love Takes Wing • Love Finds a Home

  A PRAIRIE LEGACY

  The Tender Years • A Searching Heart

  A Quiet Strength • Like Gold Refined

  SEASONS OF THE HEART

  Once Upon a Summer • The Winds of Autumn

  Winter Is Not Forever • Spring’s Gentle Promise

  Seasons of the Heart (4 in 1)

  SONG OF ACADIA*

  The Meeting Place • The Sacred Shore • The Birthright

  The Distant Beacon • The Beloved Land

  WOMEN OF THE WEST

  The Calling of Emily Evans • Julia’s Last Hope

  Roses for Mama • A Woman Named Damaris

  They Called Her Mrs. Doc • The Measure of a Heart

  A Bride for Donnigan • Heart of the Wilderness

  Too Long a Stranger • The Bluebird and the Sparrow

  A Gown of Spanish Lace • Drums of Change

  www.janetteoke.com

  * with T. Davis Bunn

  JANETTE

  OKE

  The

  TENDER

  YEARS

  {PRAIRIE LEGACY • 1}

  The Tender Years

  Copyright © 1997

  Janette Oke

  Cover by Jennifer Parker

  Photographer: Mike Habermann

  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

  Minneapolis, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a divison of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-0-7642-0527-9

  * * *

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the original edition as follows:

  Oke, Janette, 1935-

  The tender years / by Janette Oke.

  p. cm.—(A prairie legacy; 1)

  ISBN 1-55661-952-9 (cloth)

  ISBN 1-55661-951-0 (paperback)

  ISBN 1-55661-953-7 (large print)

  ISBN 0-7642-2008-X (audio book)

  I. Title. II. Series: Oke Janette, 1935- Prairie legacy; 1.

  PR9199.3.O38T45 1997

  813’.54—dc21

  97–21037

  CIP

  * * *

  JANETTE OKE is a graduate of Mountain View Bible College in Alberta, Canada. She has authored over four dozen novels, and her book sales total nearly twenty-seven million copies.

  Her literary awards include the ECPA President’s Award and the CBA Life Impact Award for her significant contribution to the growth of Christian fiction. She also has won Gold Medallion and Christy Awards.

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

  DEDICATION

  For

  Thomas

  of Nappanee.

  I have no way of knowing if you will ever read this dedication or have the assurance that it was meant for you.

  The years have passed quickly and you now have reached manhood. Be assured that I often think of you and remember you in prayer.

  CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  PROLOGUE

  Mama? Mama, why don’t you sit down and rest some? You’ve been on your feet all day.”

  “Well, with the crowd we got us here, it’s gonna take every pair of hands to be feedin’ them.” The soft chuckle that followed the statement answered more than the words did. Mother and daughter turned to survey the kitchen of bustling women. Marty glanced out the lace-covered window toward the yard spilling over with youngsters rushing about in near-frantic explosions of energy. From the back porch where Clark and his “boys” had gathered to reminisce came loud bursts of laughter. Someone must have shared another humorous family memory.

  Marty smiled and squeezed Missie’s arm. It was so good to have them all gathered. All home.

  No, not all. Not everyone had been able to come. Why, had they all been there, Marty did not know where they would have put them. The Davis family had grown until it was “’most an army,” Clark liked to say, and Marty always nodded in silent and thankful agreement. God had been good to them.

  Her reverie was cut short as Missie gently urged, “Mama—you just sit down over here and supervise from this corner chair. You’ll be worn out come sundown.”

  Marty allowed herself to be led to the appointed chair and lowered herself carefully onto the padded seat. She was tired. Flushed from the warmth of the kitchen, she withdrew a cotton hankie from her apron pocket and wiped her brow. It was an unseasonably warm fall day. She was glad that there was no rain—or snow. But the heat did make it more difficult for those laboring to prepare the family dinner.

  Again her eyes passed over the laughing, chattering group who filled her kitchen with their sweeping skirts and busy hands.

  They were no longer children—her girls. All home. All, that is, except Nandry, one of their adopted. They had lost Nandry four years back. Marty still grieved to think about it. Daughters Mary and Jane had married, but the oldest, Tina, still lived at home and cared for the father. He had become somewhat strange since losing his wife of many years. None of the children would be able to join the rest of the family for the gathering.

  But Clae, Nandry’s sister, was with them. Clae and her retired preacher husband, though Joe’s health was not good. He looked pale and thin in Marty’s thinking. She longed to keep him there and see if she could put some flesh on his bones, though Clae no doubt had already tried. She supposed that ministering to people, with their many needs and the complex times, was a hard job for any man. And Clae and Joe had not been without their own woes. One child lost to whooping cough at an early age, one grandson wayward and belligerent, causing his parents and grandparents a great deal of pain. But the others, and there were now fourteen family members in Clae’s family, seemed to be doing fine. One son even had received high honors in his field of medical research.

  Missie, who had moved to the large black stove to stir the pot of simmering brown beans, had already marked her sixtieth birthday. Now a grandmother a number of times over and expecting her first great-grandchild, Missie did not look her years. The West had been good to Missie and her Willie. Clark joked that they ha
d populated one county all on their own, and it was true that many of the ranches in their area were now run by sons and grandsons. One of “the boys” had taken over the homespread. Willie maintained, with a glint in his eyes and pride in his voice, that all he was allowed to do now was boring paper work.

  But most of Missie’s family members, thirty-seven in number, had not been able to make the long trip east. Only Willie and Missie and their Melissa—who had traveled all the way from the West Coast where she lived with her husband involved in coastal shipping—had come.

  Marty could hear her son Clare’s voice from the back porch, insisting that he was enjoying the chance to “put his feet up” since retirement. He had moved with his wife, Kate, from their farm into the little town nearby, letting Dack take over. Marty smiled as she thought about it. Why, she often wondered aloud to Clark, if he liked retirement so much, did he drive back and forth from town to the farm all the time just to “check things out”? Marty guessed that Clare’s real reason for leaving the farm was Kate. She was badly crippled with arthritis, and had they remained on the farm she would have continued to plant her big garden and insist on carrying her “share of the load.” Marty knew that Clare worried about Kate.

  Clark and Marty were used to having Clare and Kate with their sons, Dan, Davey, Dack, and Stan and their families around for family gatherings. The sons and their seventeen offspring had not scattered far from home. But their daughter, Amy Jo, was another matter. She had moved to a large city on the West Coast so she could pursue her work in art. “The most beautiful city in the world,” according to Amy Jo. Her rancher husband had retired, sold his spread, and dabbled in real estate while Amy Jo dabbled in oils. They had two children, neither of whom had shown any bent toward their mother’s artistic gifts.

  Son Arnie and his wife, Anne, had also always lived nearby. Arnie kidded Clare about quitting work “to loaf.” He insisted that Clare would be healthier and happier if he was out pitching hay or cleaning the barn. But Marty knew that Arnie understood the difficult choice Clare had made. She wished that Arnie himself didn’t have to work so hard. He was getting a definite stoop to his shoulders. Arnie’s family now totaled twenty-two. Silas, John, and Abe all worked area farms. Trudy and Anne Louise had also married farmers.

  Clark and Marty’s daughter Ellie and husband, Lane, had shared the trip home by train with Missie and Willie. None of their offspring, and there were now twenty-nine counting in-laws and little ones, were able to make the trip with them.

  Ellie was still slim and lithe, though her once-golden locks had now turned a silvery white. Premature gray, she called it. But Missie smiled and teased that Ellie was old enough to have earned her gray hair, already being a grandmother. Ellie’s family included nine grandchildren.

  Luke, the Davises’ youngest son, was their town’s very busy physician. He had just built Abbie a new house. His office was now apart from his home, a fact that Abbie declared was only about twenty years late in happening. Poor Abbie had been subject to knocks on the door at all hours of the day and night. Their son Aaron had married a local girl and settled down to run the community’s funeral parlor, a fact that caused a good many smiles of amusement and made Doc Luke and his mortician son the butt of many friendly jokes. Thomas had chosen to follow his father in medicine, so he was off getting his training. Daughter Ruth Ann married the town pharmacist, making another prime target for the local wits. “If ya go see Doctor Luke, he sends ya off to his son-in-law fer medicines, an’ if thet don’t work, ya end up his son’s client,” people ribbed, always seeming to think that the little joke was original with them. Georgia was a bookkeeper at the mayor’s office, still single but much pursued. Clark maintained that she so enjoyed keeping the local young men in a tizzy that she would never settle on one of them. Luke and Abbie and their family had, over the years, been frequent visitors for Sunday dinner at the Davis family farmhouse. On this special occasion, only Thomas and his new bride were missing.

  Belinda, Clark and Marty’s last, had married Drew Simpson and also lived in the nearby town with her lawyer husband and five children. Having made her appearance in the family when Marty was past forty, Belinda was still considered a young woman, not yet having reached her own fortieth birthday. Her children, younger than the other cousins, had not been raised with the rest of the bustling pack but were young enough to be given special pampering by all the older cousins.

  Belinda’s Clara already had herself a beau. Marty silently hoped that the courtship would not move too quickly. There was no reason for Clara, only eighteen, to rush into the duties of homemaker. Rodney, following closely in age, was an industrious and capable student. His father, Drew, took great pleasure in the accomplishments of his eldest son. Virginia, named after the lady that Belinda long ago had nursed and come to love as dearly as a grandmother, was thirteen, followed by Daniel, age twelve. Belinda often quipped that she had her offspring in pairs, as close together as they could be without being twins. The final pair brought heartache as well as joy. They lost baby Pearl when she was two months old. No reason for the death was ever known, even after Luke had advised them to get the baby to a large city hospital where she could be given the best of care. Little Pearl never came home to them again. The next year Francine arrived, chubby and healthy and totally endearing. Belinda dried her tears and gave herself totally to caring for her baby. Francine, now seven, was still the darling of the family. Dimple-faced and tender-hearted, she often reminded Grandmother Marty of the little Belinda whom they had welcomed as a tag-along to the Davis family so many years ago.

  “Mama, where’s the ginger?”

  The question brought Marty’s attention back to the activity of the large farm kitchen. She had to stop and focus on the present. The ginger? Where did she keep the ginger?

  “In the pantry. On the … the second shelf. To the right,” she eventually was able to answer.

  Ellie moved with graceful steps toward the pantry.

  The kitchen door opened a crack, and Clark poked his head in. His once-dark hair was streaked with gray, and wrinkle lines marked out the place where smiles and frowns had furrowed his brow over the years, but his eyes still sparkled with good humor. “How long ya be temptin’ poor hungry stomachs with all them fancy smells and nothin’ to fill our plates?” he joked good-naturedly. “I don’t know who’s findin’ the wait the hardest. Me or all those younguns.”

  Marty smiled at him and teasingly waved him back outside. “Look out or you’ll be havin’ yourself a job to do,” she said as he quickly withdrew. She rose from her chair and crossed again to the window. All the “younguns” she observed looked totally occupied with what they were doing. Four young men played horseshoes out by the chicken coop. Younger versions raced about in a wild tag of their own making. Three little girls were being read to by an older cousin as the lawn swing rocked gently back and forth. Another little cluster, skirts spread, sat under branches of the maple, laps filled with kittens from a barn litter. Two lads were coming from the direction of the spring, pant legs rolled up, shoes strung over shoulders by their laces. One carried a pail. Marty wondered if it held frogs or turtles, or maybe even a garter snake. Another two dashed from the direction of the haystack, an egg held in each hand. Obviously they had discovered a hidden nest.

  But off to the side, alone and withdrawn from all of the activity, was a solitary figure. She leaned rather listlessly against the trunk of an old apple tree, seemingly with no interest in the fruit that was maturing above her head. Marty’s grandmother-heart went out to the girl. Virginia. Virginia, her newest teenager. Virginia with her perplexity of becoming. The transition from childhood to adulthood seemed to be particularly puzzling and difficult for the young Virginia. Marty’s brow creased in a slight frown as she breathed a silent prayer. “God be with her. Help her to make it through.” She felt a lump rise in her throat as a tear came to her eye. She reached for her hankie again. She had prayed for all her children and grandchildren over th
e years. Now it was for Virginia.

  “Mama—we’re ready. Abbie has gone to ring the dinner bell.”

  Marty turned and swallowed away any remnants of tears. She would not weep. Not on her eightieth birthday. Oh, not actually the birthday—the family had needed to choose a day that would work for everyone’s convenience—but her eightieth year was complete. Imagine that. Eighty. Eighty and so blessed. Reasonable health. A wonderful family. And Clark. She still had Clark. So many women her age were widows now. She was so thankful to still have her Clark.

  “We have your spot all reserved,” Anne was saying. “We’ve set the tables up in the shade of the trees. We want you right in the middle—with Pa there beside you.”

  Marty nodded and took Anne’s arm. “Virginia,” she said suddenly. “I’d rather like Virginia to sit on my other side.”

  … This is Virginia’s story.

  CHAPTER 1

  It was silly to hasten her footsteps now. She was already so late getting home from school that quickening her pace on the final half-block toward the big white house on the corner would avail nothing. Still, she could not hold back the agitation that now sent her rushing headlong toward home.

  “Late again, missie?” came a raspy voice from beyond the picket fence to her right.

  Her steps faltered. Her head began to nod in agreement even before her eyes picked out old Mr. Adamson in the shadows of his gnarled apple tree. Often her gaze found him rocking gently in the chair on his front porch.

  She couldn’t just hurry on by. That would be rude. She turned toward his fence and watched as the old gentleman brushed at his soiled pants with a dirt-stained hand and creaked to an upright position. His faded eyes peered at her from beneath his sweat-rimmed hat.

  She placed two hands on the pickets and drew closer to the yard.

  “Should you be out in your yard yet, Mr. Adamson?” A frown drew her feather-light brows together. “The ground is still near frozen. You’ll ruin your gimpy knees for sure kneeling in the cold. Look there. Still snow where it’s drifted in.”