Love Comes Softly Page 15

  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-nothin’, 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?”

  At Marty’s shake of her head, she hurried ahead.

  “Well, mind ya, when ya do go, don’t ya be tellin’ nuthin’ to thet there Miz McDonald thet ya don’t want spread ’round thin like. She be a first-rate tongue wagger, thet ’un.”

  Marty also found out that Miz Standen, over to town, had her a Saturday beau.

  “I’m bettin’ thet the visitin’ parson had him somethin’ to hide, or he’d settle himself to one place.” The woman dropped her voice as if someone else might hear the dark secret.

  “The Krafts are expectin’ them another young’un—makin’ five.”

  “Milt Conners, the bachelor of the area, seems to be gettin’ stranger ever’day. Should git ’im a woman—thet would be doin’ him some good—he’s gettin’ liquor somewhere, too—nobody knows where, but I do have my s’picions.”

  And on and on she went, like a walking newspaper. The new doc would be arriving in April—folks saying Clark bought him—well, they needed a doc—hope he was worth it and not here just to make money on people’s woes.

  Young Sally Anne was hitching up with Jason Stern—supposed those two families be pairing off regular like in the next few years.

  The woman finally stopped for a breath, and Marty wondered aloud that Shem had not come in from the barn and supposed he was getting cold and tired of waiting. Well, she’d send a slice of cake and a gingerbread cookie or two out with Mrs. Vickers.

  Mrs. Vickers must have taken the hint and made her way out the door, still chattering as she left. Marty’s head was spinning and her ears tingling. The visitor hadn’t even looked at the baby.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  New Discoveries

  The days of March were busy ones for Clark. Marty watched as he pushed himself hard at the logging, working as long as there was light and then doing the chores with the aid of the lantern. Each night at the supper table he tallied up the total logs he’d felled for the new addition, and together they kept track of how many more were needed.

  Marty’s days were full, too, doing the usual housework and caring for the new baby and Missie. With the increased laundry needs, she found it difficult to get the clothes dry between one washing and the next.

  In the evenings after the children were down for the night, both Clark and Marty were happy to sit quietly before the open fire, Marty with her quilt pieces or knitting, Clark with one of his books, working on some project, or mending some small tool of one kind or another. Marty found it increasingly comfortable to talk with Clark. In fact, she looked forward to relating the events of the day and reporting on Missie’s conversations with her.

  Clark had spent many evenings fashioning a new bed for Missie so the fast-growing Clare would be able to take over the crib. Marty enjoyed watching the bed take shape. She noticed the few simple tools Clark worked with responded well to his capable hands. She carefully pieced the quilt that would go on the bed and felt a growing sense of a shared accomplishment.

  As they worked, they talked about the people and happenings that made up their little world. The early fall and long winter had brought animals down from the hills in search of food. Lately a couple of coyotes had been moving in closer and closer at nights, and Clark and Marty chuckled together about poor Ole Bob’s noisy concern at the intrusion.

  The neighbors were rarely seen during the winter months, so news was scarce. Clark said measles had been reported in town, but no serious cases had developed.

  The two talked of spring planting and plans for the new bedroom, hoping that spring would be early rather than late in coming. They laughe
d about Missie’s attempts at mothering her “brudder Clare.” It wasn’t any particular conversation or subject, but they probably were discovering deeper things about each other without actually being aware of the fact. Feelings, dreams, hopes, and, yes, faith were shared in a relaxed, ordinary way.

  One evening as Marty quilted and Clark sanded the headboard for the bed, their talk turned to the Scripture passage he had read aloud at breakfast that morning. Having no background in such things, Marty found that a lot of the truths she heard from the Bible were difficult to understand. Over time Clark had explained about the promises to the Jewish people of a Messiah who would come. But their perception of His purpose in coming was far different from what He actually came to accomplish. They wanted freedom from their oppressors; He came to give freedom from self and sin. They wanted to be part of a great earthly kingdom, but His kingdom was a heavenly one.

  Marty was beginning to understand some of the things concerning the Messiah, but there were still a lot of unanswered questions in her mind.

  “Do ya really think thet God, who runs the whole world like, be knowin’ you?” she asked forthrightly.

  “I’m right sure thet He do,” Clark responded simply.

  “An’ how can ya be so sure?”

  Clark looked thoughtfully at the Book carefully placed on the shelf near the table. “I believe the Bible, and it tells me thet He does. And because He answers my prayers.”

  “Ya mean by givin’ ya whatever ya ask fer?”

  Clark thought a minute, then shook his head. “No, not thet. Oft times He jest helps me to git by without what I asked fer.”

  Marty shook her head. “Thet seems ta be a strange idea.”

  Clark looked at her a moment, then said, “I’m thinkin’ not so strange. A lot of times, what folks ask fer, they don’t need a’tall.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like good crops, new plows, an extry cow or two.”

  “What about iffen ya lose something thet ya already had an’ had sorta set yer mind on?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Ya mean like Clem or Ellen?”

  Marty nodded slowly.

  “He don’t take away the hurt, but He sure do share it with ya.”

  “Wisht I woulda had me someone to share mine with.”

  “He was there, an’ I’m thinkin’ thet He helped ya more than ya was aware.”

  “But I didn’t really know to ask Him to.”

  “I did.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Catastrophe!

  On March sixteen little Clare marked his first month in the family. So far he had been a first-rate baby, but Clark kept warning, “Jest ya wait ’til he starts cuttin’ his teeth.”

  Marty told Clark she hoped he would be wrong—and Clark fervently hoped so, too. “Missie had herself a plumb awful time with them teeth,” he told her.

  The day had turned colder again after some hints of spring, and it looked like another storm might be hitting soon. Clark had left early in the morning to restock their supplies.

  He was back earlier than usual, and the anticipated storm was still holding off. Mrs. McDonald had sent a small parcel for the baby. Marty opened it and found another small bib.

  “I do declare,” she laughed. “Thet boy sure be well set up fer bibs. Guess he be well fixed fer droolin’ when those teeth come in.”

  Clark laughed with her.

  Missie’s bed had been completed by now and set up in the bedroom, and the small crib was moved into the sitting room, where it was warmer for the baby during the day. He was awake more often now and liked to lie and look around, waving his small fists frantically in the air. Marty still took him into the bed with her at night.

  When the day ended and evening fell, Clark and Marty both noticed a shift in the wind. Clark commented, “Guess we not be gettin’ thet storm tonight after all.”

  The thought was a welcome one. Large drifts of snow still lay over the ground, and their hopes for an early spring were disappointed regularly. The weather mostly stayed cold with occasional snow flurries, and the arctic winds made winter’s long stay even drearier.

  With Clark’s hurried trip to town and Marty having baked bread as well as done the washing for the baby, they were both tired from a long day’s work, so Clark said good-night and headed for the lean-to.

  Marty tucked herself in, stretching her toes deep into the warm blankets. She nursed young Clare so he would sleep as far into the night as possible and settled down with him tucked in beside her. She thought she had barely fallen asleep when she was awakened with Clark bending over her, hurriedly pulling on his jacket.

  “The barn be ablaze. Ya jest stay put. I’m goin’ fer the stock,” and he was gone.

  Marty’s head felt foggy with sleep. Had she had a dream? No, she was sure he really had been there. What should she do? It seemed to take forever before she finally was able to move, though in truth it no doubt was a matter of seconds. She scrambled from the bed, making sure Clare and Missie were both sleeping, and then, without stopping to dress herself or even slip into her house socks, she ran through the house to the kitchen window. Before she even pulled the curtain aside she could see the angry red glow. Horror filled her as she looked at the scene. The barn’s roof was on fire, with leaping flames towering into the dark sky and smoke pouring upward, and there was Clark silhouetted against the frightening scene. He had swung open the barn door and smoke was billowing out.

  As Marty realized what he had actually said to her and saw him about to enter the inferno, her own voice choked out, sounding as desperate in her ears as she felt, “No, Clark, no. Don’t go in there, please, please—”

  But he had gone—for the animals. We can get more animals, Clark, her heart silently cried.

  Marty stood at the window—watching, straining, dying a thousand deaths in what seemed forever, praying as best she could. And then through the smoke plunged Charlie—or was it Dan?—and right behind him came the other horse, rearing and pawing the air. The saddle horse came close behind, dragging his halter rope and tossing his head wildly. He ran until he crashed stupidly into the corral fence, falling back only to struggle up again to race around frantically.

  Marty stared unblinking at the barn door. “Oh, Clark, Clark, please, please. God, iffen ya can hear me, please let ’im come out,” she whispered through teeth clenched tightly together.

  But the next dark shape to come through the smoke was a milk cow, then another, and another.

  “Oh, God!” sobbed Marty. “He’ll never make it.”

  The walls of the barn were now engulfed in flame, too. The fire licked hungrily along the wall, reaching terrifying fingers toward the open door. And then she saw him, stumbling through the entrance, dragging harnesses with him and staggering along until he reached the corral fence. She could see him clinging to it for support and pulling a wet towel he must have grabbed on his way out away from his head and face.

  “Oh, God!” cried Marty as she collapsed in a heap on the cold kitchen floor.

  Somehow the long night blurred together from then on. Marty simply couldn’t take it all in. Clark was safe, but the barn was gone. Neighbor men, with water and snow, seemed to be everywhere, now fighting to save the other outbuildings.

  Women were there, too, bustling about her, talking, giving the men a hand by turns, making up sandwiches and coffee. Marty felt numb with emotional exhaustion. Someone placed baby Clare in her arms.

  “He’s cryin’ to eat,” she said. “Best ya sit ya down an’ nurse ’im.”

  She did. That much she could understand.

  When morning came, the barn lay in smoldering ruins, but the sheds had been saved.

  Tired, smoky faces gathered around a hastily made campfire in the yard for the coffee and sandwiches. Their clothes and boots were ice crusted, and their hands cupped around mugs for warmth. They talked in hushed tones. Losing one’s barn and feed, with winter still in full swing, was a great loss, and each one knew it only too well.


  Eventually the men quietly gathered their women, anxious to be home and out of frozen clothing. Just as the first team left the yard, Jedd Larson arrived with his team.

  “Good ole Jedd.” Marty heard an annoyed whisper. “Prob’ly be late fer his own buryin’.”

  Jedd took over where the others had left off, helping himself to a cup of coffee and grabbing up a sandwich. As the neighbor families, one by one, took their leave, he appeared to be settling in for a long chat.

  Poor Clark, Marty thought as she glanced anxiously out the kitchen window. He jest be lookin’ beat. All ashes an’ soot an’ half frozen, an’ now Jedd wants to sit an’ jaw him to death—no sense a’tall, thet Jedd. Well, I won’t ’low it, and pulling her shawl about her shoulders, she marched out.

  “Mr. Larson,” she greeted the man, keeping her voice even. “Right good of ya to be comin’ over to give us a hand. Guess things be under control like now, thanks to all our fine neighbors. Have ya had coffee? Good! I’m sorry to be interruptin’ like, but right now I’m afeared thet my husband be needed indoors—iffen ya can be excusin’ ’im.”

  She had never referred to Clark as her husband before, and Clark’s cup paused midway to his mouth, but he said nothing. She gave a meaningful nod toward the door, and Clark added his thanks to Jedd and went into the house.

  “Give yer missus our greetin’s,” Marty told the man. “We won’t be keepin’ ya any longer, ya havin’ chores at home waitin’ on ya an’ all. Ya’ll be welcome to come agin when ya can sit an’ chat a spell. Bring yer family along. Thank ya agin. One really ’preciates fine neighbors. I’d best be gettin’ in to my young’uns. Good day, Mr. Larson.”

  Marty turned to the house, looking over her shoulder as Jedd Larson crawled into his wagon and aimed it for home. She noticed he didn’t have the wagon box moved to the sleigh runners yet. No doubt he had kept planning on getting to it but just hadn’t found the time.