The Love Comes Softly Collection Page 14

  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.

  “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. Mart
y 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?”

  They decided to wait until Clare finished his nap.

  Each lady brought a parcel. Hildi Stern’s gift was a small hand-knit sweater. Marty was thrilled with it.

  Mrs. Watley presented her with another bib. This one, well sewn and as simple and unfussy as it could be, would be put to good use along with the others. Marty thanked them both with equal sincerity.

  When they had finished their coffee, Mrs. Watley, looking like she enjoyed her several helpings of cookies and loaf cake, exclaimed what a grand little cook Marty was. Next they inspected the new baby. After they pronounced him a fine specimen, saying all of the things that a new mother expected to hear, Mrs. Watley turned to Hildi Stern.

  “Why don’t ya run along an’ git the team, dear, an’ I’ll be a meetin’ ya at the door?”

  It was done.

  Mrs. Vickers was the last of the neighbor visitors close enough that a new baby merited a drive on the winter roads. She had her boy, Shem, drive her over and sent him on to the barn with the horses while she came bustling up the walk, talking even before Marty got to the door to open it.

  “My, my, some winter we be havin’. Though, I do declare, I see’d me worse—but I see’d me better, too—ya can jest count on thet—heerd ya had a new young’un—must be from the first mister, I says when I hears it—ain’t been married to the other one long enough fer thet yet. How it be doin’? Hear he’s a healthy ’un—an’ thet’s what counts, I al’ays say. Give me a healthy ’un any day over a purdy ’un—I al’ays say—take the healthy ’un ever’time.”

  She kicked the snow from her boots and came on into the kitchen. “My, my, ain’t ya jest the lucky ’un—nice little place here. Sure beats thet covered wagon ya was livin’ in. Not many women hereabout have a home nice as this, an’ ya jest gettin’ it all a handed to ya like. Well, let’s see thet young’un.”

  Marty tactfully suggested they have coffee while Clare finished his nap, and Mrs. Vickers didn’t turn the offer down. She settled herself on a kitchen chair and let her tongue slide over her lips as though adding oil to the machinery so it would run smoothly.

  Marty had opportunity for little more than a slight nod of her head now and then. She thought maybe it was just as well. If she’d been given a chance for speech, she may have said some unwise things to her visitor.

  Between Mrs. Vickers’s helpings of loaf cake and gulps of coffee, Marty heard that:

  “Jedd Larson be nothin’ but one lazy good-fer-no
thin’, al’ays gettin’ started when ever’one else be done—’ceptin’ when it come to eatin’ or drinkin’ or raisin’ young’uns—they been married fer ten years—already had ’em eight young’uns—only three thet lived, though—buried five—his missus—so ashamed an’ mousy like—wouldn’t no one ’round even bother to go near—”

  Marty made herself a promise that come nice weather she’d pay a call on Mrs. Larson.

  “Thet Graham clan—did ya ever see so many kids in the self-same family? Almost an insult to humans, thet’s what it be—bad as cats or mice—havin’ a whole litter like thet—”

  Marty found herself hard put to hold her tongue.

  “See’d thet young Miz Marshall yet? I declare me—thet young prissy woulda been better off to stay her back east where she be belongin’—her an’ her first-class airs—an’ not even able to raise her a young’un—woman’s got no business bein’ out west if she can’t raise a young’un—an’ confident like—I think there be somethin’ funny there—hard to put yer finger on—but there all the same—doesn’t even give ya a proper welcome when ya call—me, I called, neighbor like, when each of the young’uns died—told her right out what she prob’ly be a doin’ wrong—well, ya know what—she most turned her back on me—”

  Poor Wanda, thought Marty, aching once more for her new friend.

  “Well, now—if that’s the way she be, I says, leave her to it. Have Hildi and Maude been over? I see’d ’em go by t’other day—goin’ over to see thet new young’un of the Davises, I says to myself—well, Hildi be a fine neighbor—though she do have some strange quirks—me, I’m not one to be a mentioning ’em. Maude Watley, now—thet be another matter—wouldn’t do nothin’ thet took any effort, thet one—she wasn’t always big as the West itself—be there a time afore she catched her man thet she be a dance-hall girl—she wouldn’t want one knowin’ it o’ course—but it be so—have ya been to town yet?”