Love's Enduring Promise Read online

  “Different how?”

  Marty nearly choked as she took another swallow of her coffee to delay the inevitable. “Well, this here girl thet Tommie loves . . .” She paused a moment, then rushed on, “An’ he truly does love her, Ma . . . I saw thet by the way he talked . . . the way he looked. Well, this here girl . . . her name is . . . is Owahteeka.”

  Marty looked quickly at Ma, and she could tell immediately that she caught the significance. Her needles ceased clicking, her face looked pale, and her eyes held pain.

  “Tommie?” she whispered.

  “Yeah, well . . . ya see . . .” Marty now felt the need to hurry with an explanation. “Tommie wasn’t lookin’ for this to happen. Ya see, he was jest lookin’ fer stray cows, out in the hill country, an’ he stopped at a berry patch to pick some berries fer pie. An’ . . . an’ this girl was there, too, pickin’ berries, an’ they started talkin’ . . . she does speak English . . . an’ then they got to know each other better over the months like. An’ . . . well . . . Tommie loves her. An’ it sounds like she loves Tommie.”

  Ma laid aside her knitting and rose to her feet.

  “But he can’t, Marty, they can’t. Don’t ya see thet? It jest doesn’t work. It always means sadness, sorrows—always.”

  “I see,” Marty said slowly, “but Tommie doesn’t.”

  “What did he say? Don’t the girl’s people care?”

  “She doesn’t have people—thet is, no one but an old man—a grandfather. They haven’t told ’im yet. Owahteeka thinks . . . thinks it better to wait,” Marty finished lamely.

  “To wait, huh?” repeated Ma. “Then thet’ll stop ’im from doin’ somethin’ foolish. Maybe there’s somethin’ more thet we’ll know then?”

  “I don’t know,” said Marty, trying to carefully feel her way along. “The way Tommie talked, I don’t think the grandfather will be around long. An’ . . . an’ . . . I don’t think she plans to tell him. Jest wait ’til he’s gone—an’ then go ahead. Thet’s what I think,” she finished in a rush.

  “Oh, dear God,” Ma prayed, nearly weeping, “whatever are we gonna do?”

  Marty sighed and leaned back in her chair. Who was she to try to give advice to a woman like Ma Graham?

  “Well, seems to me,” she finally said, weighing every word, “ya have only a couple choices. Ya can fight it an’ probably lose Tommie, or ya can come to terms with it and welcome an Indian daughter-in-law.”

  Marty tried to read Ma’s expression as she paced the floor between the table and the stove. Suddenly Ma stopped and straightened her shoulders.

  “Marty,” she said, “I jest thought me of a third choice. I won’t fight it an’ I won’t encourage it, but I sure am goin’ to do some prayin’.”

  “Prayin’? How?”

  “Prayin’—how do ya think?” The words tumbled out from Ma. “It jest won’t work, Marty. An’ I won’t have my Tom hurt. Grandchildren thet ain ’t anybody’s grandchildren ’cause they’re neither white nor brown. It ain’t to happen, Marty.”

  “Iffen ya pray like thet, Ma,” Marty spoke quietly, slowly, “will ya be askin’ fer help? For both of ’em? Or jest givin’ orders?”

  Ma’s shoulders slumped and tears slid down her cheeks. She did not bother to wipe them away. Finally the battle within her seemed to subside. She sat down heavily in the chair across from Marty.

  “Yer right—course ya are. I’d like to pray thet God would jest quickly put an end to all this. It scares me, Marty. Truly, it does. I jest feel thet no good can come out of it—no matter what. I’ll pray—I’ll pray lots, an’ I’ll try hard to say, ‘Thy will be done’ an’ truly mean it. But I’ll tell ya now, Marty, it don’t seem ta me thet God’s wantin’ folks of different races to be marryin’ an’ raisin’ young’uns thet turn out ta not belong nowhere. God ain’t fer bringin’ confusion of ideas or skins, far as I can tell—nor hurt an’ pain of bein’ shut out, put down. How can thet be of Him, Marty?”

  Ma didn’t seem to expect an answer and stopped her discourse. She sat rubbing her work-worn hands together in agitation.

  “Me an’ Ben gotta have a long talk on this,” she finally said. “Then the two of us will try an’ talk some sense into Tommie. He’s a good boy, Marty, and he’s got a good head on his shoulders. He’ll realize thet this can’t be good—won’t be good for him or for her, either.”

  She wished that Ma had left just a wee small crack in the door instead of closing it so firmly, but Marty only nodded. She felt she had not done what she had come to accomplish, had nearly promised Tommie she would do. Maybe Ma was right. Who was she, Marty, to know the proper way to handle such a situation? And surely as Ma spent time in prayer, if she were wrong it would be revealed to her. But it might take time.

  Poor Tommie. Marty’s heart ached for him. Somehow she felt that no matter how things went, there was heartache in store for the boy. If only there were some way to spare him the sorrow. She hoped Clark was well on his way back from town. She was feeling like it would be awkward for both Ma and her if she stayed much longer for this visit. And she was anxious to lay it all out for him on the quiet ride home.

  SEVENTEEN

  A Call on Wanda

  Marty was busy at the kitchen table making Clark’s favorite dessert. Clare came in from outside, pulled up a stool, and stood on it to watch her work.

  “Are ya mad at Pa?” came his voice at her elbow.

  Marty stopped rolling the dough and looked at the boy. “Whatcha meanin’?”

  “Thet’s his favorite,” explained Clare. “Ya always make his favorite when ya been mad.”

  He jumped down and was gone before Marty could even answer. He had laid the words out very matter-of-factly, as though they bore no consequence and needed no explaining. Marty frowned. It was a while before the rolling pin again went to work on the dough.

  Do I really do thet? she asked herself. An’ iffen I do, does it show thet much?

  The fact was, she hadn’t had a fuss with Clark at all. She was simply softening him up a bit to ask him for the team so she could pay an afternoon call on Wanda. Certainly Clark was not one to keep his woman restricted to home, but he did have some rather stubborn notions when it was nearing her confinement time. Marty easily could envision Clark wanting her to stay put for the present. Maybe his favorite dessert would put him in a more pliable mood, she had reasoned, and then this smart young Clare had come along. If he could see through her so easily, it was quite likely Clark would, too.

  Marty shrugged and couldn’t help but smile wryly as she put the dessert in the oven. Her menfolk maybe knew her just a bit too well. It possibly was foolish to think of venturing out right now, but she really felt she should have a talk with Wanda.

  Gradually the news was making its way from neighbor to neighbor that something seemed to be wrong with the Marshall child, and Marty held her breath lest word of the rumors get back to Cam and Wanda. She knew there was not much she could do, but she hoped she could just learn if Wanda was aware that her small son was—different. Marty felt that Wanda’s acceptance of the fact would be her own protective wall—the only thing that could shield her from the hurt if the neighbors’ questions and comments did get back to her.

  The dessert baked to perfection, and Clark must have picked up the aroma even before he stepped through the kitchen door.

  “Umm,” he called ahead, “apple turnovers. Makes a man’s mouth water.”

  Marty smiled but still felt unsure about how she should proceed with her request. Nandry led Arnie in and washed him up at the hand basin, and they joined the rest of the family at the table.

  The meal was pleasant but a bit on the rushed side. Clark had pressing work to which he wanted to return as soon as possible. Marty knew she must not waste a moment before getting down to business.

  “Ya be needin’ the team this afternoon?” she began.

  Clark gave her a long look. “Ya plannin’ on pickin’ rocks?”

  Marty felt warmth ris
e into her cheeks, but she bit back a quick retort and instead spoke quietly, her voice controlled. “I thought as how I’d like to take me a quick trip to see Wanda.”

  “It could be a mite quicker than you’d planned for.”

  Marty got his implication with no difficulty.

  “Oh, Clark,” she said with some impatience, “I been through this before. Now, don’t ya think if my time was close I’d be knowin’ it?”

  Clark looked unconvinced. “As sudden travail cometh upon a woman,” he said, looking at her with meaning in his gaze.

  Marty was sure she had lost the argument.

  Clark finished his coffee in silence and rose to go.

  “Tell ya what,” he said, stopping as he put on his coat, “iffen yer so set on seein’ Wanda, I’ll drive ya on over.”

  “But yer work—”

  “It’ll keep.”

  “But it’s not at all necessary,” Marty told him. “I’ll be jest fine on my own. Honest, Clark, there’s no need—”

  “It’s my drivin’ ya or not at all—take yer pick,” Clark said, his voice telling her the discussion was over.

  Marty swallowed a lump of anger. Yer so stubborn. Most as bad as Jedd Larson, she shot back, though silently.

  “All right,” she said finally, her anger still churning her insides. “I’d be much obliged iffen ya’d drive me over.”

  “I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes,” Clark said and went for the team.

  Marty turned to the table and vented some of her anger on the dirty dishes.

  “Ya gonna make another apple dessert, Ma?” asked Clare.

  Marty felt like swatting him.

  “An’ you, boy,” she said instead, “you go out an’ haul in some firewood. Fill up the woodbox—right to the top—an’ be quick ’bout it, too.”

  Clare went. Marty knew she had been unfair. Clare was used to hauling wood, and goodness knew it wouldn’t hurt him any, but she hadn’t needed to take out her frustrations on him.

  The ride to the Marshalls’ was a fairly silent one. Marty still felt peevish, and Clark did not make any attempt to draw her out. When they arrived, Clark went on to the barn, where Cam was working on harnesses, and Marty went in to see Wanda. Little Rett lay on the floor on a blanket.

  Wanda’s eyes shone as she spoke of him. “He can sit up real good now,” she told Marty and went over to demonstrate.

  But, Wanda, Marty wanted to protest, he’s a year and a half old. He should be walkin’—no, runnin’. He should be runnin’ after his pa and sayin’ words. And here you are gloryin’ in the fact that he can finally sit.

  But of course Marty did not say it. She merely smiled her approval at Rett’s achievement as he teetered back and forth, trying to maintain a sitting position with his mother catching him when he was about to topple over. Wanda talked on enthusiastically, and soon the men joined them.

  They were seated at the crowded little table when Marty felt the first labor pain. It caught her by surprise, and she stiffened and tried to breathe slowly and regularly. She soon felt normal again and hoped no one had noticed the episode. When the next one came a few minutes later, she felt Clark’s eyes upon her and looked up to see him watching her closely. She knew he was aware.

  Clark refused a second cup of coffee and said they really must be getting home.

  Cam, still bragging about his boy, pushed back from the table and went with Clark for his team.

  Marty smiled bravely as she bid Wanda farewell, and prayed that Clark would please hurry.

  In short order the team was at the door, and Clark jumped down to help Marty into the wagon. They traveled home at a much brisker pace than they had made the journey to the Marshalls’.

  “Are ya gonna make it?” Clark asked at one point, and Marty nodded, holding her hands tightly in front of her as another spasm swept over her. “I sent Cam for the doc.”

  Marty felt thankfulness flow through her. Her previous impatience with her husband’s concern for her welfare now seemed petty and shortsighted.

  The tiny baby girl arrived safely, in Doc’s presence and in her mother’s bed, at precisely five-twenty that afternoon.

  Missie, Clare, and Arnie were all impressed with the little bundle. Clae and Nandry, too, gave an enthusiastic welcome to the new addition to the Davis family.

  “Can we call her Elvira, Ma?” Missie asked.

  “Iffen ya like,” said Marty.

  “Good. I read a story about an Elvira in a book of Mr. Whittle’s. I think it’s a nice name.”

  This was the first time Ma was not present at the birthing of one of Marty’s babies. But in the days immediately following, Nandry took over the running of the household. Marty couldn’t believe the young girl’s efficiency.

  “Nandry,” she said as she rocked the baby after a feeding, “I jest don’t know how we ever managed without ya.”

  Nandry gave a brief small smile and went back to her supper preparations.

  EIGHTEEN

  The New Preacher

  Teacher Whittle took his new responsibility very seriously. He had drawn up careful descriptions of each likely pastoral candidate, including background, disposition, and education, and presented it to Clark and Ben.

  From the eight names under consideration, the committee chose three they felt might be possibilities. Mr. Whittle, as the contact man, was commissioned to write the necessary letters. He did so with great flourish, describing in detail the community, the great pioneer fervor of its settlers, and their depth of religious conviction. The letters were sent off in due course, and the committee awaited the answers with a great deal of expectancy and some trepidation.

  A letter finally arrived. The candidate appreciated their interest in him, and the position sounded indeed worthy, but after much prayer, he “did not feel the Lord leading” in their direction. Ben wondered if this meant the promised salary was not enough.

  Then they heard from Candidate Number Two. He, too, found it difficult to resist such a splendid opportunity, but he was getting married in a month’s time, and as his wife-to-be was a very delicate little thing, he felt he could not ask her to move so far away.

  “Kinda likes his soft chair and slippers,” mused Ben.

  Candidate Three was finally heard from. He had considered the proposal with great care, had taken much time to think about it, and perhaps in the future he would be able to consider it, but for the present he was unable to give them an answer.

  “So he’s hopin’ fer somethin’ bigger,” murmured Ben and struck the name from the list.

  The other five were reconsidered. To Clark and Ben they didn’t seem like the kind of men who would fit their needs, but the schoolteacher was sure of their capabilities.

  “Take the Reverend Knutson here,” he said with enthusiasm. “He has just graduated from seven years of study for the ministry. He would be a splendid minister.”

  Clark and Ben couldn’t help but wonder what had taken him so long, but they finally consented to allow Mr. Whittle to contact Reverend Knutson, as well as a Reverend Thomas, whose name was also on the original list.

  After some time, the Reverend Knutson wrote back to declare he was most eager to take the gospel to the people of the sin-darkened western territory.

  With the prospect of a minister willing to come, a meeting of the community was called to make final plans and preparations.

  The group decided to approve the selection and agreed that the pastor, too, would board at the Watleys’. Their boarder’s room was a large one and could accommodate another single bed and an extra desk. Mr. Whittle was delighted with this arrangement. He could renew acquaintance with the good reverend, and it would be such a boost to his own morale to have stimulating conversation with someone of his own educational status. Really, there was a great lack of intellectuals in this community. Then, too, his calling on Tessie had been received with favor, and he was most anxious to have someone with whom he could discuss this new and exciting part of his life.<
br />
  The Sunday meetings would be held in the schoolhouse. It would be cramped, but they could squeeze in, so long as there was no need to move about.

  Everyone was full of excitement at the prospect of their very own minister. It would be so wonderful, so comforting, to have someone there permanently. In times of birth, death, or marriage, that’s when a minister was needed—not just once or twice a year as he made his itinerate pass through the area.

  Secretly, the teacher hoped it would not be too long before he personally would be standing before Pastor Knutson with his bride, Tessie, at his side.

  True, he had a few things to work out yet—like where to live with a wife. He could hardly move her in with him at the Watleys’, though the idea had occurred to him before it was planned that the minister would lodge there. However, he was confident these things would work themselves out.

  Arrangements were made to bring the new parson out, and the people eagerly looked forward to the first church meeting. March fifteenth was the date set, and the winter months seemed to pass more quickly in anticipation of this important event in the life of the community.

  Shortly after Baby Ellie had arrived, Ma Graham came to call. Marty was awfully glad to see her, not just to show off the new baby girl, but also to have a chance for a nice long visit. Chats with Ma were always full of news. Her face now was flushed with it.

  “I declare, Marty,” she beamed as they settled to cups of coffee, “I’m gonna have me another son-in-law.”

  Marty looked up in surprise.

  “Really?” She caught some of the excitement from Ma. “Nellie?”

  “Yeah, Nellie.”

  “I didn’t know—”

  “Not many did. Don’t know much about it myself. Nellie doesn’t say much, an’ the young man—well, I’m still marvelin’ thet he finally got it said, him being as tight-lipped as he is.”

  “Who—?”

  “Shem Vickers.”

  “No! Really?” Marty laughed with Ma as she nodded in confirmation.