Love's Long Journey Read online

  “He’s got it right bad, hasn’t he?” Willie remarked with an arched brow after Henry had walked away. “Well, Mrs. LaHaye, may I escort ya into town? I take it ya didn’t git all prettied up jest to sit out in the sun.”

  “I think, sir, that I might consent to that,” Missie replied playfully.

  Missie found the town much as she had expected. There seemed to be very little that was green. A few small gardens looked parched under the sun-drenched sky. The vegetables fighting for an existence were dwarfed and scraggly. Here and there some brave grass put in an appearance—under a dripping pump or close to a watering trough. As far as Missie could see, there had been no attempt to plant trees or shrubbery. Puffs of dust scattered whenever the wind stirred.

  The buildings, too, were bleak. No bright paint or fancy signs. Square, bold letters spelled SALOON over a gray, windworn building. Another sign announced HOTEL. Missie winced to think of Melinda Emory working in a hot, stuffy kitchen making meals for the guests. Several other weathered buildings lined the dusty streets. There were sidewalks, fairly new, but they, too, were layered with dust except where women’s skirts had whisked them clean.

  More than one saloon lined the main street. In fact, Missie counted five. What does such a town need with five saloons? she wondered. It certainly was not nearly as blessed with churches, but Missie did spy a small spire reaching up from among the buildings huddled over to her left.

  There were blacksmith shops—at least three—but maybe, as Mr. Weiss had said, a town this size could use another.

  A bank, a sheriff’s office, a printshop, a telegraph office, liveries, a stagecoach landing, and an assortment of stores and other buildings that Missie had not yet identified filled out the downtown area. Missie smiled as she read the notice, Overland Stagecoaches, and wondered where on earth they took passengers way out in the middle of nowhere.

  The fact was, the town didn’t interest her much at this point. She still dreaded the fact that she had to stay in it for three months without Willie. She didn’t want this town. She wanted Willie’s land, the place where she intended to make a home. It would be so different there. The cool valley, the green grass, and Willie’s beloved hills, rolling away to the mountains. Missie could hardly wait for a glimpse of those mountains.

  “The Taylorsons live jest down here,” Willie announced, interrupting her thoughts. He made a right-hand turn, and soon they were walking down a street lined with houses. There were no sidewalks, but the street was smooth, though as dusty as the rest of the area.

  “Thet there is where the doc lives. He has a couple a’ rooms for his office in the sheriff’s, but he also has one room there at the front of his house fer off-hour treatin’.”

  Missie let her glance slide over the doctor’s residence. The house was unpretentious.

  “An’ here we are,” Willie said cheerfully and opened a gate. Missie stared at the house. It was of unpainted lumber, big and sturdy looking, but as barren as the rest of the town. The two passed by a bit of a garden that seemed to be struggling valiantly for existence. Missie remembered Marty’s full, healthy vegetable garden at home.

  “My, things are awfully dry!” she ventured.

  “They git a little short on water here ’bouts.”

  Willie rapped on the door and a plump, pleasant-faced woman opened it.

  “Oh,” she said with a smile, “ya brought yer little wife.” Her gaze traveled over Missie. “She is in the family way, all right.”

  Missie felt the color rush to her face.

  “This is Mrs. Taylorson, Missie,” Willie said carefully, obviously attempting to ease over the situation. “An’ this is my wife—Mrs. LaHaye.”

  Missie was glad Willie had introduced her as Mrs. LaHaye. Somehow it made her feel more grown-up and less like an awkward schoolgirl.

  “Come on in,” Mrs. Taylorson said, “an’ I’ll show ya yer room.”

  She turned and tramped up the stairs to the left of the hall, puffing as she climbed. At the top of the stairs she again took a left turn and pushed open a door. The room was stifling hot, the only window shut tight. It was a plain room, but it was clean. The bed looked old but rather comfortable. Mrs. Taylorson seemed like a no-nonsense person.

  “Yer husband said ya had yer own things,” said Mrs. Taylorson, “so I jest took out the beddin’ an’ such.”

  “Yes, I do,” Missie answered, wondering why the faded curtains at the window had escaped Mrs. Taylorson’s clean sweep. “It will be just fine.”

  “I don’t usually keep boarders,” she said, “but yer husband seemed in a real need like. An’ he said thet ya were clean—an’ sensible. So I says, ‘Okay, I’ll give it a try.”’ She looked Missie over once more.

  “One must have rules, though, when one has boarders,” she continued, “so I’ve made ’em up an’ posted ’em here. Don’t expect this third one will bother ya much, ya bein’ the way ya are, but one never knows—an’ one needs rules. I’ll leave ya now to look over things an’ decide what ya want to be bringin’ in. I’ll go put on some tea.”

  She stepped out of the room, and they were alone.

  Missie wanted to cry, but she fought against it. She must keep herself well in hand.

  Willie went over to the window and threw it wide open. Missie turned to the posted list, headed “Twelve Rules of This House.”

  “Uh-oh,” she said, “you just broke rule number one.”

  Willie quickly was at her side.

  “ ‘Number one,” ’ Missie read. “ ‘Do not leave window open; the dust blows in!”’

  “‘Number two: No loud talking or laughing,”’ Willie said, picking up with the next one.

  “Number three: ‘No having men to your room or going out with them, excepting your husband.”’ Missie turned to Willie. “I guess you’re legal.”

  They continued down the list, alternating the reading.

  “ ‘All water must be used at least twice before it is thrown out. We’re powerful short, you know.”’

  “‘Mealtimes are eight, twelve-thirty, and six, and must be strictly kept. It bothers Mr. T’s ulcer to be kept waiting.”’

  “‘Bedtime is ten.”’

  “‘Borders’—look at the spelling of that. Makes me feel like a bunch of petunias,” Missie commented. “ ‘Borders are expected to attend church on Sundays.”’

  “‘Rent must be paid in advance.”’ Then Willie added, “I’ll take care of it.”

  “‘No borrowing money or property.”’

  “ ‘Border must care for her own personal needs and clothes.”’

  “‘Hair can be washed at back-door basin—once a week.”’

  “‘Number twelve’—I guess she ran out of ideas,” Missie said. “There’s nothing listed here for number twelve.”

  “Good,” Willie said. “Then I won’t be breakin’ a rule when I kiss ya.” He pulled Missie into his arms.

  Missie struggled against her tears as Willie held her close. She was glad he did not release her right away. It gave her time to regain her composure. At last she stepped back and smiled.

  “I’ll bet if she’d thought of it, that would have been on the list,” she said. Willie grinned and kissed her again.

  Willie and Missie went downstairs and promptly settled the account. Missie could have cried as she watched him pay for three long months. How could she ever bear it? She would die of loneliness. She turned her back and bit her lips in an effort to keep herself under control.

  Mrs. Taylorson tucked the money into the bosom of her dress and smiled warmly at the couple.

  Mrs. Taylorson insisted that Missie move in right away. The day would be spent in sorting out what Missie would need and getting her settled. There was no rule about sewing machines, but just to be safe, Missie asked. She was pleased Mrs. Taylorson did not object to having hers in the room. Missie would appreciate her machine, which would help fill the hours while she sewed for her coming baby.

  Mrs. Taylorson informed
them they would be expected for the evening meal at six o’clock sharp. She would see them then. If they needed assistance in the meantime, they could feel free to knock on the kitchen door.

  Willie drove their wagon back up the street in front of the Taylorsons’ home, and the sorting began. It was hard to decide what should go and what should stay. Missie tended to want to send everything, and Willie kept thinking of things she might need or long for. At last they reached a compromise, and Missie was soon settled into the small upstairs room. Willie, too, moved in his few needs for the one week he would share the room with Missie. He then returned the wagon to the outskirts of the town, where it was left in Henry’s care.

  Promptly at six the LaHayes descended the steps toward the hall. Finding the dining room was not difficult with the aroma of home-cooked food guiding them. They entered the room and found the table set for four.

  A gentleman was already seated, fork in hand, but he did have the courtesy to lay down his fork and rise to his feet as the couple entered. It wasn’t exactly a smile that crossed his face to welcome them, but neither was it a frown.

  “Howdya do,” he said officiously, extending a hand to Willie. “I’m J. B. Taylorson.”

  Missie wondered what the J. B. was for.

  “I’m William LaHaye—an’ this is my wife, Melissa,” Willie responded. Missie didn’t dare look at “William,” or she would have started giggling.

  Mr. Taylorson nodded to the chairs, “Won’t ya sit down.” It was plain he wanted to get on with the business of eating.

  Willie seated Missie and took the chair beside her just as Mrs. Taylorson entered from the kitchen with a bowl of food in each hand.

  “Here ya are,” she said. “I told Ben thet I told ya six sharp.”

  So the B was for Ben. That still left the J.

  Mrs. Taylorson settled herself, and Mr. Taylorson blessed the food in a rather perfunctory manner—the same way he said his “howdy.” Once the formality was over, his full attention was given to the meal. The beans, potatoes, and meat were simply prepared, yet tasty, and very welcome after the monotonous trail fare.

  Mrs. Taylorson allowed no slack in the conversation. Her questions followed so closely on the heels of the previous one that there was scarcely time for a civil reply. She offered many suggestions as to what a mother-to-be should be eating and doing, and most of them made a lot of sense.

  After the meal was over, Mr. Taylorson slid back his chair and pulled a pipe from his pocket.

  “Now, Ben,” Mrs. Taylorson chided, “smoke’s not good fer a woman in Mrs. LaHaye’s condition. Why don’t ya take thet on out to the porch?”

  Missie felt embarrassed. “That’s fine, Mrs. Taylorson. We don’t want to drive your husband from his own home. Willie and I were thinking of a walk, anyway.”

  But Mr. Taylorson had already risen. “I’d rather smoke on the porch enyhow—git out of this insufferable heat.” He gathered his pipe and tobacco and headed for the door. “You smoke?” he asked Willie.

  “No, sir.”

  “Ya can join me enyway iffen you’d like.”

  Willie followed him out, and Missie began to help Mrs. Taylorson clear the table.

  “Now, now,” Mrs. Taylorson said in alarm. “Yer room-andboard payment doesn’t say enything ’bout deductions fer yer help.”

  Missie stammered, “I... I wasn’t thinking of deductions. I just thought I could give you a hand.”

  “Fine, fine, iffen ya wish to, but it ain’t called fer—an’ it won’t change a thing.”

  Missie helped carry the leftover food and the dishes to the kitchen. It really was unbearably hot. She finally excused herself and went to find Willie. She really did want a walk.

  The first thing Willie said when they were alone was that he felt greatly relieved to know Missie would be well cared for. She wanted to answer that she would just as soon take care of herself, thank you just the same. But she held her tongue. She knew this arrangement and separation was very hard for Willie, too, and he was doing it only because of necessity. Doing it for her. Missie decided she would work at making these last days together peaceful and cheerful.

  THIRTEEN

  News

  Amid the busyness of getting ready to leave with the southbound supply train at the end of the week, Willie burst through the bedroom door. Missie looked up at him from her sewing machine.

  “Guess what?” he exclaimed.

  “Whatever it is, it must really be something,” Missie answered with puzzled surprise.

  “It is! It really is! I went in to thet telegraph place uptown and I found out thet fer only a few cents we can send a telegram back home.”

  “Back home?”

  “Yep! Right to yer folks. The office in town there will git the message to ’em. So I figured as how we should do jest that.”

  “What would we say?”

  “Jest let ’em know thet we made it safe an’ sound... an’... maybe tell ’em about the baby.”

  “Oh, Willie,” Missie cried, “could we?”

  “Grab whatever ya need an’ let’s go.”

  Missie quickly smoothed her hair, then picked up a light cotton bonnet. Just in time she remembered the window and gently closed it just in case Mrs. Taylorson should check her room while she was gone.

  “Slow down some,” Willie cautioned with a chuckle. “It ain’t gonna go away.” Then he continued, “The man says thet ya have ten words.”

  “Oh, dear,” Missie sighed, “how are we going to say everything we want to tell them in ten words?”

  They reached the office, and Willie opened the door for Missie. She couldn’t have said if her breathlessness was due to their brisk walk or her excitement.

  They labored together over the wording, composing and changing, recomposing and changing again. Finally they felt they had done the best they could. Willie handed the message and the money to the man behind the desk.

  “ISAIAH 41:10,” the message read. “MISSIE REMAINS TETTSFORD STOP GRANDCHILD DUE OCTOBER STOP INFORM PA.”

  Missie felt her heart constrict with emotion as she envisioned her parents’ excitement and relief at receiving the telegram, then passing the news on to Willie’s pa.

  “Oh, Willie,” Missie asked, “do you think Pa LaHaye will mind getting the message secondhand?”

  “Iffen I know my pa,” Willie said, “he’d think me a squanderin’ ignoramus iffen I sent two of ’em to the same town.”

  “When will it get there?”

  “Fella says if no lines are down and there’s no other trouble, they should have it in a couple a’ days.” He took her arm and turned her toward the door of the telegraph office. “Now I’ll walk ya on back to the Taylorsons’ and then git back to the figurin’ an’ loadin’ of my supplies.”

  “No need to go with me. I’ll find my way back and just take my time. Where’s Henry?”

  “He’s over at the smithy’s. He’s been a powerful help to me. I don’t know what I’da done without ’im.”

  “Has he been callin’ again?”

  “Iffen ya mean has he been to town, yes. I haven’t asked him his doin’s.”

  Missie smiled. “It’s not really that hard to figure out, is it?”

  “Poor Henry,” said Willie, “he has my sympathy. Once one of you pretty little things gits yer fingers all twisted up in a fella’s heart, he’s a goner. Well, I’ll see ya at six.”

  Missie turned to walk back to the Taylorsons’ lighthearted in spite of the oppressive heat at this small but satisfying link to the family back home.

  She tried again to picture her pa and ma when they received the telegram. It wasn’t hard to imagine it. They’d stop whatever they were doing and thank God for His care for their children, and they would pray for the new baby. Missie felt both joy and sadness together.

  When she reached her room she was no longer in the mood for sewing. She opened her window wide and lay down on the bed.

  In a very few days the supply train wou
ld be going south, with Willie following. How she wished she could go, as well. The absurd notion of trying to stow away crossed her mind. Once he discovered her, Willie would simply turn around and bring her back. No, there seemed no way out. Willie would go, and she would have to stay.

  “God,” she prayed, “that help you’re promising... I’m really needing it right now.” The tears were again pushing behind her eyelids when Missie heard heavy steps on the stairs. She quickly went to the window and closed it.

  “Ya got visitors,” Mrs. Taylorson called. “Seein’ as how they’re ladies, I gave ’em the privilege of the parlor.”

  Missie hurried down. To her joy she found Kathy Weiss and Melinda Emory.

  She greeted them eagerly, exchanging a quick hug with each young woman in turn.

  “Henry told us where to find ya,” Kathy explained.

  “Oh, I’m so glad you came,” Missie said. “I was up in my room lying down, and I confess I was beginning to feel sorry for myself.”

  Melinda Emory took her hand with great empathy. “And you have reason to. If I were you, I’d be feeling the same way.”

  “Would you?” Missie swallowed a lump in her throat as she looked into the face of the newly widowed woman. Her separation from Willie, difficult though it was, had a reunion time at the end of it.

  Melinda was nodding her head in answer to Missie’s question, and tears gathered in her eyes. “I would. In fact, I’m not sure I would stand for it at all.”

  “Oh, I tried to argue, but Willie just wouldn’t hear of it,” Missie said, shaking her head. “He’s downright unreasonable about things... well, since Becky...”

  “I can understand how Willie feels,” Kathy said. “An’ as hard as it is, I think he might be right.”

  “Of course he is,” Melinda said. “Men usually are in this kind of situation. It’s just very difficult for us women, that’s all. We’re too sentimental to be practical.”

  Missie nodded. “I guess that’s so,” she said, “and I’m afraid I have made it rather hard for Willie.”

  “I don’t suppose he expected you to stay without some resistance,” Kathy comforted.