Love Comes Softly Page 14

  “She seems so young yet,” Ma said. “But ya know ya can’t say no once a young’un has the notion.”

  “But she’s not jest bein’ a strong-willed girl,” Marty countered. “She jest be in love. Don’cha remember, Ma, what it was like to be so young an’ so in love thet yer heart missed beatin’ at the sight o’ him an’ yer face flushed when ya wasn’t wantin’ it to? ’Member the wild feelin’ thet love has?”

  “Yeah, I reckon,” Ma responded slowly. “Though ’twas so long ago. I do remember, though, when I met Thornton, guess I didn’t behave myself much better than Sally Anne.” Ma gave a short chuckle but quickly looked serious again.

  “What was it like, Ma, when ya lost Thornton?”

  “When I lost Thornton?” repeated Ma. “Well, it be a long time ago now. But I ’member it still, though it don’t pain me sharp like it used to. Myself—way down deep—wanted to die, too; but I couldn’t let that happen, me havin’ three little ones to look out fer. I kept fightin’ on, yet all the time I only felt part there. The rest of me seemed to be missin’ or numb or somethin’.”

  “I know what ya mean,” Marty said, her voice so low she wasn’t sure she was heard. More loudly she said, “Then ya met Ben.”

  “Yeah, then I met Ben. I could see he be a good man an’ one ya could count on.”

  “An’ ya fell in love with ’im.”

  Ma paused, then shook her head. “No, Marty, there was no face flushin’ an’ fast heart skippin’.”

  Marty stared.

  “No, it be different with Ben. I needed ’im, an’ he needed me. I married ’im not fer love, Marty, but fer my young’uns—an’ fer his.”

  Ma stopped talking and sat studying her coffee cup, turning it round and round in her hand. “Fact be, Marty—” She stopped again, and Marty knew this conversation was very difficult for her. “Fact be, at first I felt—well, guilty like. I felt like I be a... a loose woman, sleepin’ with a man I didn’t feel love fer.”

  If Ma hadn’t seemed so serious, Marty would have found that statement humorous. It was hard to imagine Ma, a steady, solid, and plain woman, with a faith in God and a brood of eleven, as a “loose woman.” But Marty did not laugh. She did not even smile. She understood some measure of the deep feelings being expressed by Ma Graham.

  “I never knowed,” Marty finally whispered. “I never woulda guessed thet ya didn’t love Ben.”

  Ma’s head came up in an instant, her eyes wide.

  “Lan’ sake, girl!” she exclaimed. “Thet were then. Why, I love my Ben now, ya can jest bet I do. Fact is, he’s been a right good man to me, an’ I ’spect I love ’im more’n I love myself.”

  “When—when an’ how did it happen?” Marty asked, both fascinated and a little frightened by what she might hear. “The head spinnin’ an’ the heart flutterin’ an’ all?”

  Ma smiled. “No, there’s never been thet. See... I learnt me a lesson. There’s more than one way thet love comes. Oh, sure, sometimes it comes wild like, makin’ creatures into wal-lerin’ simpletons. I’ve seed ’em, I’ve been there myself; but it doesn’t have to be thet way, an’ it’s no less real an’ meanin’ful iffen it comes another way. Ya see, Marty, sometimes love comes sorta stealin’ up on ya gradual like, not shoutin’ bold words or wavin’ bright flags. Ya ain’t even aware it’s a growin’ an’ growin’ an’ gettin’ stronger until—I don’t know. All the sudden it takes ya by surprise like, an’ ya think, ‘How long I been a feelin’ like this an’ why didn’t I notice it afore?’”

  Marty stirred. It was all so strange to get a peek inside of Ma like this. She pictured a young woman, widowed like herself, with pain and heartache doing what she had felt was best for her children. And Ma had felt... guilty. Marty shivered.

  I do declare, she thought, I couldn’t have done it. Thanks be to whatever there be in charge of things thet I wasn’t put in a position like thet. Me, I’ve jest had to be a mama.

  She pushed away from those thoughts and rose to get more coffee. She didn’t want to even consider it anymore. Now Ma was happy again and she needn’t feel guilty anymore. She now loved Ben. Just how or when it happened, she couldn’t really say, but it had. It just—well, it just worked its way into her heart—slowly, softly.

  Marty took a deep breath, pushed it all aside, and changed the subject.

  * * *

  Little Clare was getting round and dimpled, cooing at whoever would talk to him. Missie took great pride in her new baby “brudder.” Clark was happy to take the “young fella” and rock him if he needed quieting or burping when Marty was busy getting a meal or cleaning up or doing the dishes. Marty was often tired by the end of the day, but she slept well, even though her nights were interrupted with feedings.

  Clark was working doubly hard on the log cutting. He had told Marty that their cabin was too small, and come spring, he planned to tear off the lean-to and add a couple of bedrooms. Marty wondered if he had forgotten his promise of fare for her trip back home. Well, there was plenty of time to remind him of that. It was only the first of March.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Visitors

  A new baby gave the neighbor ladies a delightful excuse to put aside their daily duties and go calling. So it was in the weeks following the arrival of little Clare that Marty welcomed some of her neighbors whom she had not previously known, except perhaps fleetingly as a face at Clem’s funeral.

  The first to come to see Marty and the baby was Wanda Marshall.

  Marty set aside the butter she was churning and welcomed her sincerely. “So glad thet ya dropped by.”

  Small and young, with blond hair that at one time must have been very pretty, she had light blue eyes that somehow looked sad even as she smiled. Marty recognized her as the young woman who had spoken to her the day of Clem’s funeral, inviting her to share their one-room home.

  Wanda smiled shyly and presented a gift for the new baby.

  When Marty opened the package, she found a small bib, carefully stitched and with embroidery so intricate she could scarcely understand how one could do such fine work. It looked delicate and dainty, like the giver, Marty thought. She thanked Wanda and exclaimed over the stitching, to which Wanda gave a slight shrug of her thin shoulders.

  “I have nothing else to do.”

  “Lan’ sake,” said Marty, “seems I never find time fer nuthin’ since young Clare came along. Even my evenin’s don’t give me much time fer jest relaxin’.”

  Wanda did not respond as her eyes gazed around the house. Eventually she spoke almost in a whisper. “Could I see the baby?”

  “My, yes,” Marty answered heartily. “He be havin’ a sleep right now—he an’ Missie—but iffen we tippy-toe in, we can have us a peek. Maybe we’ll be able to have us coffee afore he wakes up wantin’ his dinner.”

  Marty led the way into the bedroom. Wanda looked over at the sleeping Missie with her tousled curls and sleep-flushed cheeks. “She’s a pretty child, isn’t she?”

  “Missie? Yeah, she be a dolly thet ’un,” Marty said with feeling.

  They then turned to Marty’s bed, upon which little Clare was sleeping. He was bundled in the carefully made finery his proud mama had sewn for him. His dark head showed above the blanket, and stepping closer, one got a look at the soft pink baby face, with lashes as fine as dandelion silk on his cheeks. The small hands were free and one tiny fist held a corner of his blanket.

  Marty couldn’t help but think he looked beautiful, and she wondered that her visitor made no comment. When she looked up, it was to see her guest quickly leaving the bedroom.

  Marty was mystified. Well, some folks you never could figure. She placed a tender kiss on Clare’s soft head and followed Wanda Marshall back to the kitchen.

  When Marty reached the kitchen, the young woman stood looking out of the window. Marty quietly went to add more wood to the fire and put on the coffee. Finally Wanda turned slowly and Marty saw with surprise that she had been struggling with tears.

&n
bsp; “I’m sorry,” she said with a weak attempt at a smile. “He’s... he’s a beautiful baby, just perfect.”

  She sat down at Marty’s table, hands twisting nervously in her lap, her eyes downcast, seemingly to study the movement of her hands. When she looked up again, Marty thought she looked careworn and older than her years.

  With another effort at a smile, she went on, “I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t know it would be so hard. I mean, I had no idea I’d react so foolishly. I’d... I’d love to have a baby. My own, you know. Well, I did. I mean—that is, I have had babies of my own. Three, in fact, but they’ve not lived—not any of them, two boys and one girl, and all of them...” Her voice trailed off; then her expression hardened. “It’s this wretched country!” she burst out. “If I’d stayed back east where I belong, things would have been different. I would have my family—my Jodi and Esther and Josiah. It’s this horrible place. Look... look what it did to you, too. Losing your husband and having to marry a... a stranger in order to survive. It’s hateful, that’s what—just hateful!”

  By now the young woman was weeping in broken, heartrending sobs. Marty stood rooted to the spot, holding slices of loaf cake. Lan’ sakes, she thought frantically, the poor thing. What do I do now?

  She took a deep breath for control and crossed to Wanda, laying a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “So sorry. Why, iffen I’d lost young Clare, I don’ know... I jest don’ know iffen I could’ve stood it.”

  She made no further reference to her loss of Clem. This woman was battling with a sorrow Marty had not faced—bitterness. Marty continued. “I jest can’t know how ya must feel, losin’ three babies an’ all, but I know ya must hurt somethin’ awful.”

  By now Marty had her arms around the shaking shoulders and pulled the young woman against her. “It’s hard, it’s truly hard to be losin’ somethin’ thet ya want so much, but this I know, too—ya mustn’t be blamin’ the West fer it all. It could happen anywhere—anywhere. Womenfolk back east sometimes lose their young’uns, too. Ya mustn’t hate this land. It’s a beautiful land. An’ you. Yer young an’ have yer life ahead of ya. Ya mustn’t let these tragedies bitter ya so. Don’t do a lick o’ good to be fightin’ the way things be, when there be nuthin’ a body can do to change ’em.”

  By now Wanda had been able to quiet her sobbing and seemed to allow herself the comfort of Marty’s words and arms.

  “Life be what ya make it, to be sure,” Marty murmured. “No woman could find good in buryin’ three of her babies, but like I said, you is young yet. Maybe”—she was about to say maybe Clark’s God—“maybe the time thet lies ahead of ya will still give ya babies to hold an’ love. Ya jest hold on an’ keep havin’ faith an’...”

  Marty’s voice trailed off. Lan’ sakes, I didn’t know I could talk on so without stoppin’.

  “An’ ’sides,” Marty said as another thought overtook her, “we’re gonna have a doc in town now, an’ maybe with his help...”

  She let the thought lie there with no further comment.

  Wanda seemed at peace now. She lay against Marty for a few more minutes, then slowly straightened. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m very foolish, I know. You’re so kind and so brave, and you’re right, too. I’ll... I’ll be fine. I’m glad... about the doctor.”

  The coffee was threatening to boil over, and Marty ran to rescue it. As they sat with their coffee and cake, Marty began their chat by asking Wanda about her background.

  Marty learned that Wanda had been a “city girl,” well bred, well educated, and perhaps a bit spoiled, as well. How she ever had gotten way out west still seemed a puzzle even to her. She shook her head as though she still couldn’t quite fathom how it had all come about.

  Clare fussed and Marty went to bring him out, nursing him as they continued their visit over coffee. Not knowing just what effect the baby’s presence might have on Wanda, Marty kept him well hidden with the blanket.

  Wanda talked on about having so little to do. She did beautiful stitching, that Marty knew, but she didn’t have anyone to sew for. She didn’t quilt, she couldn’t knit or crochet, and she just hated to cook, so didn’t do any more of that than she had to. She loved to read but had read her few books so many times she practically could recite them, and she had no way of getting more.

  Marty offered the practical suggestion that she would teach her to quilt, knit, or crochet if she cared to learn.

  “Oh, would you?” Wanda enthused. “I’d so much love to learn.”

  “Be glad to,” Marty responded cheerily. “Anytime ya care to drop in, ya jest come right ahead.”

  Young Clare finished nursing and set himself to squirming. Marty turned her attention to the baby, properly arranging her clothing and lifting him up for a noisy burp.

  Wanda laughed quietly, then spoke softly. “Would you mind if I held him for a minute?”

  “Not a’tall,” Marty responded. “Why don’t ya jest sit ya there in the rockin’ chair a minute. He’s already spoiled by rockin’, I’m thinkin’, so a little more won’t make no difference.”

  Gingerly Wanda carried the baby to the rocking chair and settled herself with him snuggled up against her. Marty went to clear the table.

  When Missie called a few minutes later and Marty crossed through the sitting room to get the little girl, she noticed Wanda gently rocking, eyes far away yet tender, baby Clare looking like he fully enjoyed the attention.

  Poor thing, Marty’s heart responded. Poor thing. I be jest so lucky.

  Ma Graham came next, bringing with her a beautiful hand-knit baby shawl. Marty declared she’d never seen one so pretty. Ma brought her youngsters with her on this trip. They all were eager for their first look at their new little neighbor. Ma seemed to watch with thoughtful eyes as Sally Anne, eyes shining, held the wee baby close. Each one of Ma’s children took a turn carefully holding the baby—even the boys, for they had been raised to consider babies as treasures indeed.

  The group lunched together, and before it seemed possible, the afternoon was gone.

  The next day an ill-clad stranger, with two equally ill-clad little girls, appeared at Marty’s door. At Marty’s welcoming “Won’t ya come in,” the woman made no answer but pushed a hastily wrapped little bundle at Marty.

  Marty thanked her and unwrapped the gift to find another bib. Quite unlike the one that Wanda Marshall had brought—in fact, as different as it could be; the material was coarse, perhaps from a worn overall, though the stitches were neat and regular. There had been no attempt to fancy it up, and it looked rather wrinkled from handling. Marty, however, thanked the woman with simple sincerity and invited them once more to come in.

  They came in shyly, all three with downcast eyes and shuffling feet.

  “I don’t remember meetin’ ya afore,” Marty ventured.

  “I be...” the woman mumbled, still not looking up. Marty didn’t catch if it was Rena or Tina or what it was, but she did make out Larson.

  “Oh, ya be Mrs. Larson.”

  The woman nodded, still staring at the floor.

  “An’ yer two girls?”

  The two referred to flushed deeply, looking as though they wished they could bury themselves in the folds of their mother’s wrinkled skirt.

  “This be Nandry an’ this be Clae.”

  Marty wasn’t sure she had heard it right but decided not to ask again.

  As they waited for the coffee to boil, Marty took a deep breath and attempted to get the conversation going. “Be nice weather fer first of March.”

  The woman nodded.

  “Yer man be cuttin’ wood?”

  She shook her head in the negative.

  “He be a bit down,” she finally responded, twisting her hands in her lap.

  “Oh,” Marty quickly grasped at this, hoping to find a connection with her withdrawn visitor. “I’m right sorry to be hearin’ thet. What’s he ailin’ from?”

  Mrs. Larson hunched a shoulder
upward to indicate it was a mystery to her.

  So be it fer thet, thought Marty sadly, picturing a husband and father driven to drink.

  “Would ya like to see the baby?” she inquired.

  The trio nodded.

  Marty rose. “He be nappin’ now. Come along.”

  She knew there was no need to caution for silence. This ghostly trio was incapable of anything louder than breathing, she was sure.

  They reached the bed where the infant slept, and each one of the three raised her eyes from her worn shoes just long enough for a quick look at the baby. Was that a glimmer of interest in the younger girl’s eyes? She probably imagined it, Marty decided, and she led the way back to the kitchen.

  Marty was never more thankful to see a coffeepot boil in all of her life. Her visitors shyly helped themselves to a cookie when they were passed and seemed to dally over eating them as though to prolong the enjoyment. Marty got the feeling they didn’t have cookies often. Marty wrapped up as many as she dared for them to take home. “We’ll never be able to eat all these afore they get old,” she assured the girls, carefully avoiding eye contact with their mother. She did not want to offend this poor woman.

  They left as silently as they had come, watching the floor as they mumbled their good-byes.

  Marty crossed to the kitchen window and watched them go.

  They were walking. The drifts made the road difficult even for horses, and the air was cold with a wind blowing. She had noticed that none of her visitors were dressed very warmly. She watched as they trudged through the snow, leaning into the wind, clasping their too-flimsy garments about them, and tears formed in her eyes. She reached for the gift they had brought with them, and suddenly it became something to treasure.

  Hildi Stern and Mrs. Watley came together. Hildi was a good-natured middle-aged lady. Not as wise as Ma Graham, Marty told herself, but a woman who would make a right fine neighbor.

  Mrs. Watley—Marty didn’t hear her given name—was a rather stout, boisterous lady. She didn’t appear to be overly inclined to move about too much, and when Marty asked if they’d like to go to the bedroom for a peek at the baby, Mrs. Watley was quick with a suggestion. “Why don’t ya jest bring ’im on out here, dear?”