Love's Enduring Promise Read online

  “Oh, Clark, I didn’t even know,” Marty whispered, choking up a little. She lifted his hand and placed a kiss on his fingers. “Guess all I can do is try to make it up to ya now.”

  He rose from his chair and bent over her, planting a kiss on her forehead. “Ya know—I jest might hold ya to thet. Fer starters, how ’bout my favorite stew fer supper—thick an’ chunky?”

  Marty wrinkled her nose. “A man,” she said, “thinks the only way to prove yer love is to pleasure his stomach.”

  Clark rumpled her loose hair.

  “I best be gittin’ to those chores or the cows will think I’ve fergotten ’em.”

  He kissed her on the nose and was gone.

  TWO

  Ponderin’s

  The sun stretched and rose from its bed the following day, scattering pink and gold upon the remaining winter snow and the white-and-green fir trees. It promised to be a good day for the school raising. Marty breathed a prayer of thanks as she moved from her bedroom. She had been concerned that they might have another early spring storm, but here was a day just like she had hoped and prayed for. She apologized to the Lord for doubting His goodness, whether it rained or shone, and went quickly to the kitchen.

  Clark had beat her to it this morning and had already left the house to do the chores. The fire he had built for her spread its warmth through the farm home. Marty hurried to get the breakfast on the table before the children appeared.

  As she worked at the stove, stirring the porridge and making toast, a sleepy-eyed Clare walked into the room. His shirt was untucked and the suspenders of his overalls were twisted and fastened incorrectly. One shoe was on but still untied, and he carried the other under an arm.

  “Where’s Pa?” he questioned immediately.

  Marty smiled as she looked at the tousle-haired boy.

  “He’s chorin’,” she answered. “Fact is, he should be most done. Yer gonna have to hurry to git in on it this mornin’. Here, let me help.”

  She tucked in the shirt, fastened the suspenders correctly, and placed him on a chair to do up his shoes.

  “This the day?” he wondered.

  “Yep—this is the day. By nightfall we’ll have us a school.”

  Clare thought about that for a while. He had already told Marty he wasn’t sure he’d like school, but everyone else seemed excited about it. He smiled good-naturedly.

  “Well, I better hurry,” he said as he slid off the chair. “It’s a good thing me not goin’ ta school—Pa needs me.”

  Marty smiled. Sure he does, she thought. Pa needs ya—needs ya to git in his way when he’s feedin’, needs ya to insist on draggin’ along a pail thet’s too big fer ya. He needs ya to slow his steps when he takes the cows back to pasture, needs ya to chatter at him all the time he’s workin’. She shook her head but the smile remained. Yeah, he needs ya—needs yer love an’ yer hero worship. She bent to give the little boy a hug, then helped Clare into a warm coat, put his hands into his mittens and his cap on his head, and opened the door for him. He set out briskly to find his pa, Ole Bob prancing around him with delighted barks.

  Marty returned to her breakfast preparations, glancing occasionally at the children’s bedroom doorway. She’d have to call for Missie. She was a late sleeper and didn’t bounce out of bed like Clare did each morning. Missie, too, liked adventure and discovery of what the day might hold, but she was willing to wait for it until a little later. Already she was a good little helper and was especially looking forward to assisting Marty with the new “little sister” on the way. For Missie’s sake, Marty hoped the new baby would be a girl. She couldn’t have loved Missie any more if she had been born of her own flesh and blood.

  Marty set the table for their breakfast, wondering how many of the neighbor women were doing the same with similar excitement coursing through them at the thought of the new school. Their young’uns would not have to grow up ignorant just because their folks had dared to travel west to open up the frontier for farming and ranching. The children could grow up educated and able to take their place in the community—or other communities, if they would so choose.

  Marty’s thoughts turned to the two Larson girls, daughters of her friend Tina. Husband Jedd hadn’t felt that the new school was all that necessary, calling it “plain foolishness—girls don’t need edjecatin’ anyway.” But Tina Larson’s eyes had silently pleaded that her girls be given a fair chance, too. They were getting older, thirteen and eleven now, and they needed the schooling before it got too late for them.

  As she moved about her kitchen, Marty prayed that Jedd might have a change of heart.

  In the midst of her praying, she glanced out the kitchen window and saw her men coming from the barn. Clark’s normally long strides were restrained to accommodate the short, quick steps of little Clare. Clare hung on to the handle of the milk pail, sure that he was helping to carry the load, and chattered at Clark as he walked. Ole Bob bounded back and forth in front of them, assuming that he was leading the way and that without him the two would never reach their destination.

  Marty swallowed a lump in her throat. Sometimes love hurt a little bit—but oh, such a precious hurt.

  The Davis family was the first to arrive down by the creek, but then, they didn’t have far to go, the land for the school having been set aside by Clark from his own homestead. Clark unhitched the team and began to pace out the ground, pounding in stakes as he went to mark the area for the school building.

  Clare scampered around after him, grabbing up the hammer as soon as it was laid down, handing out stakes, and being a general help and beloved nuisance.

  An old stove had been placed in their farm wagon, and Marty busied herself preparing a fire and putting water on to heat. This stove didn’t work nearly as well as the one in her kitchen, but it would be better than a campfire and would assist the ladies greatly in preparing a hot meal.

  Missie pushed back her bonnet and let her light brown curls blow free. She enjoyed the feeling of the warmth of the sun on her head as she moved the team to a nearby clump of trees, where she tied them and spread hay for their breakfast.

  Soon other wagons and sleighs began to arrive, and the whole scene took on a lively, excited atmosphere. Children ran and squealed and chased. Even Clare was tempted away from dogging his father’s activities.

  The women chattered and called and laughed as they greeted one another and fell in with the meal preparations.

  Businesslike, the men began eyeing logs, organizing and choosing those best suited for footings, and mentally sorting the order in which the logs should be used. Then the axes went to work. Muscled arms placed sure blows as chips flew, and strong backs bent and heaved in unison as heavy logs were raised and placed. Marty noted with some pride Clark’s acknowledged leadership among the men and their respect for him.

  It was hard work, made lighter only by the number who shared it and the satisfaction that it would bring. An occasional hearty laugh or shared chuckle broke through the sounds of the work itself. And soon the shape of their schoolhouse was clearly seen as the walls gradually grew with each log set in place.

  The early spring sun seemed almost hot, and the workers discarded jackets as their bodies grew warm from effort.

  The old stove cheerily did its duty—coffee boiled and large kettles of stew and pork and beans began to bubble, spreading their welcome aroma throughout the one-day camp.

  A child running by stopped in midstep to sniff hungrily and ask if dinner was ready yet, and a man, heaving a giant log, called over his shoulder to find out how soon the meal would be set out. At the stove, the woman who stirred the pot called that he should hold his horses, and she gave the little boy a smile and pat and admonished him to run along, no doubt imagining her child doing sums at a yet unseen blackboard.

  The sun, the logs, the laughter—but most of all, the promise—made the day a good one. They all would go home weary yet refreshed—bodies aching but spirits uplifted. Together they would accomplis
h great things, not just for themselves, but for future generations. They had given of themselves, and many would reap the benefits.

  Marty and Clark thought Ben Graham said it best as the group stood gazing at the new structure before turning teams toward home.

  “Kinda makes ya feel tall like.”

  THREE

  Little Arnie

  Marty forced herself to set about getting supper. Clark would soon be in from the field and, thankfully, chores would not take him long.

  In the sitting room Missie was busy bossing little brother Clare.

  “Not thet way—like this!” Marty heard her exclaim in disgust.

  “I like it this way,” Clare argued, and Marty felt sure he’d get his own way. The boy had a stubborn streak—like her, she admitted ruefully to herself.

  She stirred the pot to be sure the carrots were not sticking to the bottom and crossed mechanically to the cupboard to slice some bread. She wasn’t herself at all—and she knew the reason.

  She glanced nervously at the clock and held her breath as another contraction took hold of her. She really must get off her feet. She hoped Clark would be back soon.

  As the contraction eased, Marty moved on again, placing the bread on the table and going for the butter.

  She was relieved to hear the team arrive to Ole Bob’s welcome and proceed on to the barn.

  Clare must have heard the team, too, and ran through the kitchen, no doubt happy to be released from Missie’s demanding play and return to a world where men worked together without interference from the womenfolk. Marty shook her head and chuckled in spite of herself as he grabbed his jacket from a hook and excitedly shoved an arm in the wrong sleeve. He would later discover his mistake and correct it as he ran, Marty knew.

  Chores did not take long and Clark was soon in, bringing a foaming pail of milk that Clare assisted in carrying.

  Marty dished up the food and placed it on the table as the “menfolk” washed in the outside basin. She sank with relief into her chair at the table and waited for the others to take their places.

  Clark finished the prayer and began to dish food for himself and Clare. He glanced at Marty, then stopped suddenly and looked steadily into her face.

  “What’s troublin’?” he asked quietly.

  She managed a weak smile. “I think it’s time.”

  “Time!” he exclaimed, setting the potatoes on the table with a thump. “Why didn’t ya say so? I’ll get the doc.” He was already on his feet.

  “Sit ya down an’ have yer supper first,” Marty told him, but he was shaking his head before she could finish.

  “Best ya git yerself to bed,” he said, then turned to the children. “Missie, watch Clare.” He looked into the little girl’s face. “Missie, the time’s close now fer the new baby. Mama needs to go to bed. Ya give Clare his supper an’ then clear the table. I’m goin’ fer the doc. I won’t be long, but ya’ll have to be a big girl and take care of things ’til I git back. If yer ma needs anything, ya get it for her, ya hear?”

  Missie nodded solemnly.

  “Now,” Clark said, assisting Marty to her feet, “into bed with ya, and no arguin’.”

  Marty allowed herself to be led away. Bed was the thing that she wanted most—and second to that, she suddenly realized, was Ma Graham.

  “Clark,” she asked as he pulled back the quilt for her, “do we hafta get the doc?”

  “ ’Course,” he responded, stopping to look at her. “Thet’s what he’s here fer.”

  “But I’d really rather have Ma, Clark. She did fine with Clare, and she could—”

  “The doc knows what to do iffen somethin’ should go wrong. I know Ma has delivered lotsa babies, and most times everythin’ goes well, but should somethin’ be wrong, Doc has the necessary know-how and . . . and all.”

  A tear slid down Marty’s cheek. She had nothing against the doc, but she wanted Ma.

  Don’t be silly, she told herself, but the thought remained, and as the next contraction seized her, the desire for Ma to be with her grew.

  Clark handed her a nightie from the peg behind the door and helped her slip out of her dress and into the soft flannel gown.

  He tucked her in and assured her with a kiss that he’d be right back. Marty noted his pale face and his quick, nervous movements. He left the room almost on the run, and a moment later Marty heard the galloping hoofbeats of the saddle horse leaving the yard.

  From the kitchen came the voices of the children. Missie was still bossing Clare, telling him to hurry and clean his plate and to be very quiet ’cause Mama needed to rest so she could get the new baby sister.

  Marty wished she could sleep, but of course none came as the contractions steadily increased in strength and frequency.

  Missie rather noisily cleared the table, though Marty could tell she was trying to do it quietly. Then it sounded like she was busy putting Clare to bed. He protested that it was not bedtime yet, but Missie refused to listen and eventually won, to Marty’s surprise and relief. Clare was bedded down for the night.

  Missie poked her head into the bedroom to report on things, and fortunately it was between contractions, so Marty was able to converse normally with her. Marty hugged her with one arm, thanked her for her help, and directed the little girl to get herself into bed. Missie nodded solemnly, then obediently went along to do her mother’s bidding.

  The moments, then the hours, crawled by slowly. The contractions were awfully close together now and harder to bear without crying out.

  Ole Bob barked and Marty, relieved, wondered at the doc getting there so quickly. But soon it was Ma who bent over her.

  “Ya came,” said Marty in disbelief and thankfulness. Tears immediately and unashamedly ran down her cheeks. “How did ya know?”

  “Clark stopped by,” Ma answered. “Said ya was needin’ me.”

  “But I thought he was goin’ fer the doc.”

  “He did. The doc will do the deliverin’. Clark said ya needed me jest fer the comfortin’.” Ma smoothed back Marty’s hair. “How ya doin’?”

  Marty managed a wobbly smile. “Fine . . . now. I don’t think it’ll be as long this time as with Clare.”

  “Prob’ly not,” Ma responded. She patted Marty’s arm. “I’ll check on the young’uns and get things ready fer the doc. Call iffen ya need me.”

  Marty nodded. “Thank ya,” she said. “Thank ya fer comin’.

  I’ll be fine . . . now.”

  Ma came and went, and then Marty was dimly aware of more voices joining Ma’s in the kitchen. The words floated on the air toward her, and then Doc was beside the bed, talking to Ma in low tones, and Clark was bending over her, whispering words of assurance.

  Marty was rather hazy about the rest of it until she heard the sharp cry of a newborn.

  “She’s here,” Marty murmured quietly.

  Doc’s booming voice answered her.

  “He’s here. It’s another fine son.”

  “Missie will be disappointed,” Marty almost whispered, but Doc heard her.

  “No one could be disappointed for very long over this boy. He’s a dandy,” and a few minutes later the new son was placed beside her. In the light of the lamp, Marty could see he was indeed “a dandy,” and love for the new wee life beside her spread through her being like warm honey.

  Then Clark came, beaming as he gazed at his new son and placing a kiss on Marty’s hair.

  “Another prizewinner, ain’t he, now?” he said proudly. Marty nodded and smiled wearily.

  Clark left, soon to return with a sleepy child in each arm. He bent down.

  “Yer new brother,” he whispered. “Look at ’im sleepin’ there. Ain’t he jest fine?”

  Clare just stared big eyed.

  “A boy?” Missie asked, sounding incredulous. “It was s’posed to be a girl. I prayed fer a girl.”

  “Sometimes,” Clark began slowly, “sometimes God knows better than us what is best. He knows what we want might not be right
fer us now, so sometimes, ’stead of givin’ us what we asked Him fer, He sends instead what He knows is best fer us. Guess this baby boy must be someone special fer God to send him instead.”

  Missie listened carefully; then a smile spread over her face as the baby stretched and yawned in his sleep.

  “He’s awful cute, ain’t he?” she whispered. “What we gonna call him, Pa?”

  They named the baby Arnold Joseph and called him Little Arnie right from the first.

  Clare seemed to find him a bit boring and complained that “Arnie don’t do nothin’,” though he would have defended him to the death. Missie fussed and mothered and wondered aloud why she’d ever felt a sister would’ve been any better.

  Things settled down again to a comfortable routine. The crops and the gardens were planted. And Marty was going from early morning till late into the evening, for the new baby, along with the joy, also brought more work. Marty’s days were full indeed—full, but overflowing with happiness and love.

  FOUR

  Visits

  By fall of that year, Baby Arnie had grown steadily into a healthy and strong little boy. He had firmly established his rightful spot in the family, laughing and cooing his way into their hearts. He ignored Missie’s instructions about the proper way to crawl and scooted around on his tummy.

  When the crops were harvested, Clark declared the year’s yield the best ever.

  Marty somehow managed to keep up with the produce of her garden. Having Missie’s helpful hands to entertain Arnie and keep an eye on Clare was greatly appreciated.

  The only disappointment that fall was the new school. Over the busy summer months the men had found enough time to shingle the roof, install the windows, and put in the floor. A potbellied stove had been ordered and installed and simple desks had been built. The area farmers had each contributed to a pile of cordwood that stood neatly stacked in the yard. A crude shelter for the farm horses and the necessary outbuildings had been erected. Even the chalkboards were hung—but the school stood empty and silent. In spite of the diligent work done by the search committee, no teacher had been located.