The Love Comes Softly Collection Page 4

  By now tears were streaming down Marty’s cheeks. Her dress had suffered another tear near the hem, and she had thorns in her hands from the wild rosebushes through which she had forced her way. She checked the creek—up and down its banks, searching the clear, shallow water, but no sign of Missie or of anything that belonged to her.

  Maybe she followed the road, Marty thought frantically, and she set off at nearly a run down the dusty, rutted roadway. On and on she stumbled. Surely Missie couldn’t have gone this far, Marty tried to reason, but she hurried on because she knew of nothing else to do. Then over the hill in the road ahead she saw Clark’s team coming toward her.

  She didn’t even consider stopping by the side of the road and waiting for him to approach but plodded doggedly on toward the wagon.

  Whatever could she say to Clark? How could she tell him? She could not even be trusted to care for one small child. Would Clark have some idea of where to search that she had not already tried?

  Soon she had to step aside to allow the team to draw up beside her. Heart constricting with remorse and fear, she turned her dirt- and tear-streaked face up to Clark—and there sat Missie big as life on her pa’s knee, looking very proud of herself.

  Clark whoaed the horses to a stop and reached down a hand to help Marty into the wagon. She climbed up reluctantly, her head spinning. Oh, what must he think? They traveled toward home in silence. Why didn’t he say something? He’d not spoken, other than a giddup to the team. Missie was quiet, too. Well, she’d better be, the little rascal. If she said one word, Marty knew she’d feel like smacking her. Her great relief at seeing the child safe and sound was now replaced with feelings of anger. Marty’s face felt hot, both from the efforts of her frantic search and her deep humiliation. Then her chin went up. So he wasn’t talking. Well—neither was she. He could think what he would; she wasn’t doing any explaining. She hated him anyway, and she didn’t think much more of his undisciplined child.

  Iffen I can jest stick it out fer thet wagon train, then I’ll be leavin’ this wretched place so fast ya won’t even find my tracks, she railed silently.

  The woman in her wanted desperately to resort to tears, but the woman in her also refused to give in to even that small comfort.

  Don’t ya dare, she warned herself, don’t ya dare allow him thet satisfaction.

  She held her head high, eyes straight ahead, and remained that way until they reached the house. She disdained any help Clark might have offered and quickly climbed down over the wheel, managing to tear her dress even further.

  He placed Missie on the ground, and Marty scooped the child up rather brusquely and went into the house. Missie seemed unaffected by it all and paid no attention as her new mama noisily went about starting another fire in the kitchen stove.

  Another meal to prepare—but what? It caused her additional embarrassment, but Marty knew it would have to be pancakes again. That was about the only thing she really knew how to make. Well, let him choke on them. She didn’t care. Why should she? She owed him nothing. She wished she had stayed in her wagon and starved to death. That’s what she wished.

  Amazingly enough, Marty’s fire took, and the fine cook stove was soon spilling out heat. Marty didn’t even think to be grateful as she stormed about the kitchen, making coffee and preparing the second batch of pancake batter for the day. She’d fry a few pieces of ham rather than bacon, she swiftly decided.

  She really couldn’t understand why it bothered her so much that all her efforts since coming to this house had met with such complete failure. She shouldn’t care at all, and yet she did—much as she didn’t want to acknowledge it. Marty felt deeply that failure was a foe to be combated and defeated. It was the way she had grown up, and it was not easily forsaken now.

  While the griddle was heating, she cast an angry look at Missie.

  “Now, you stay put,” she warned, then hurried out to bring in all her washing before the night’s dampness set in.

  When Clark came in from the barn, supper, such as it was, was ready. If he was surprised at pancakes again, he did not show it. Marty’s cheeks again burned to realize that his pancakes had been just as good as hers.

  So what? she raged to herself. My coffee be a sight better.

  It must have been, because when she again missed noticing Clark’s empty cup and he got up to refill it, he remarked, “Good coffee,” as he poured her a second cup. Marty turned her face away and simply shrugged.

  After supper she cleared the table and washed Missie up for bed. She still felt like shaking the little tyke each time she touched her but refrained from doing so.

  When Missie had been tucked in and Marty had washed her own hot, dusty feet, she excused herself with a murmur. Gathering her clothes she had brought in from the line, she took the items to her bedroom and shut the door. She carefully folded her worn but clean dresses and undergarments, laying them on her bed. If only she had a needle and some thread. But she wouldn’t ask him, she determined. Never!

  She sat down on the bed to allow herself time for some well-earned self-pity. It was then she noticed a small sewing basket in the corner behind the door. For a moment she couldn’t believe her amazing find, but upon crossing to the basket, she discovered far more than she had dared to hope.

  There were threads of various colors, needles of several sizes, a perfect pair of scissors, and even some small pieces of fabric.

  Determinedly Marty settled down. Sewing—now, that was one thing she could do. Though mending hardly fit into the same category as sewing, she felt a surge of anticipation.

  She was soon dismayed, though, as she tried to make something decent out of the worn things before her. The longer she worked the more discouraged she became. She had attacked the least-worn items first, but by the time she reached the last few articles, she was completely dejected. They’d never last the winter, and it was a sure thing she’d never ask him for anything. Even if she was forced to wear nothing but rags.

  “We’ve never been fancy, but we try an’ be proper,” she remembered him saying.

  “Well, Mr. Proper, what would ya do if ya had nothin’ to make yerself proper with?” she demanded through gritted teeth as she pulled the tattered dress over her head and replaced it with a carefully mended nightdress.

  Marty fell into bed, and the events of the day crowded through her mind—the too-hot stove and the coffee boiling over, the tantrum-throwing Missie, the frantic search for the child, more pancakes. A sob arose in her throat. If only Clem were here . . . and again she cried herself to sleep.

  Six

  Housecleaning

  The next morning presented a cloudy face as Marty looked toward the window. The weather was changing. It wouldn’t be long until the beautiful Indian summer would give way to winter’s fury. But not yet, she told herself, determined to be cheerful in spite of her wretched circumstances. The day was still warm and the sky not too overcast. Perhaps the clouds would soon move away and let the sun shine again.

  Slowly she climbed from bed. Surely today must be an improvement on yesterday, she hoped. Already yesterday seemed a long way in the past—and the day before, the day she had buried Clem. Marty could hardly believe it was only two days ago. But two days that had seemed forever.

  Marty slipped into the gingham she had mended the night before, cast a glance in Missie’s direction, and quietly moved toward the door. She did hope that the morning scene of yesterday would not be repeated. She didn’t know if she could face it again.

  She put on the coffee and set the dishes on the table, then started preparations for the morning pancakes.

  Dad-blame it. She bit her lip. I’m tired of pancakes myself.

  It hadn’t seemed so bad to have pancakes over and over when that was all that was available, but with so many good, fresh provisions at her disposal, it seemed a shame to be eating pancakes. She’d have to figure something out, but in the meantime they needed a meal to start the day. She went out for another piece of side bac
on.

  Missie awoke and without incident allowed Marty to dress her. So that battle seemed to have been won! She placed the tot in the homemade chair and pulled it back from the table to keep small fingers from getting into things.

  When Clark came in from the barn, the breakfast was ready and Missie was sitting well behaved in her chair. Clothed and in her right mind, Clark’s expression seemed to say, though he made no comment, to Marty’s relief.

  They sat down together at the table, and after the morning reading and prayer, breakfast proceeded with nothing out of the ordinary occurring.

  Marty watched surreptitiously for Clark’s coffee cup to need a refill, but when she jumped up for the pot he waved it aside.

  “I’d like to but I’d better not take time for a second cup this mornin’. The sky looks more like winter every day, an’ Jedd still has him some grain out. I’m gonna git on over there as quick as I can”—he hesitated—“but thet’s right good coffee.”

  Marty poured her own second cup and put the pot back. The only thing he could say about her was that she made good coffee. Well, maybe she was lucky—and he was lucky—she could do that much!

  Clark stopped at the door and said over his shoulder, “I’ll be eatin’ my noon meal with the Larsons agin.” Then he was gone.

  This time Missie’s whimpering lasted only a few minutes. Marty’s thoughts turned to his parting announcement. “Bet he’s tickled pink to be able to have ’im one meal a day to the Larsons. Wouldn’t it be a laugh should Mrs. Larson give ’im pancakes?”

  In spite of herself Marty couldn’t keep a smile from flitting across her face. Then she sat down to leisurely enjoy her second cup of coffee and plan her day.

  First she would completely empty and scrub out the kitchen cupboards, and then she’d go on to the rest of the kitchen, including the walls, window, and curtains. By night, she vowed, everything would be shining.

  She didn’t spend as long over her coffee as she had intended, for she became anxious to begin her activities and see everything fresh and clean.

  She hurriedly washed up the dishes and found some things she hoped would keep Missie amused for a while. Then she set to work in earnest. She might lack in a lot of ways, she thought, but she could apply herself to work—and apply herself she did.

  By the time the ticking clock on the mantel told her that it was twelve-thirty, the cupboards were all scrubbed and rearranged to suit her own fancy. She had discovered several items, too, like ground corn for muffins and grains for cooked cereals. Maybe breakfast wouldn’t always have to be pancakes after all.

  She stopped her cleaning to prepare a meal for herself and Missie. Fried ham and a slice of bread with milk to drink satisfied them both. She was glad that milk was plentiful. Along their way west, Clem had fretted that she should be drinking milk for the baby. Now there was milk in abundance, and Clem’s boy would be strong when he arrived.

  After Marty tucked Missie in for her nap, she set to work again. She felt tired, but under no circumstances would she lie down and give Missie a chance to repeat her performance of yesterday. That little mite must have walked over a mile before she met her pa. At the thought of it Marty felt again the fear and sting of humiliation. No sirree, there was no way she would let that happen again, even if she dropped dead on her feet.

  On she worked, washing the curtains and placing them out in the breeze to dry. Then she tackled the window until it shone, and went on to the kitchen walls with more energy than she knew she possessed. It was hard, slow work, but she was pleased with her accomplishment. As she scrubbed away at the wooden log walls, she was amazed at the amount of water it took. A number of times she had to stop and refill her pan. Remembering the curtains, she stopped her scrubbing and went in search of anything resembling an iron so she could press the curtains before rehanging them. She found a set of sad irons in the shed’s corner cupboard and placed them on the stove to heat. She then realized that in her preoccupation with her scrubbing, she had let the fire go out, so the task of rebuilding it was hers once more. She scolded herself as she fussed with the small flame to try to coax it into a blaze. When finally it began to sustain itself, she returned to her scrubbing. She refilled her pan many more times and had to take the buckets to the well for more water. Finally the task was finished. The logs shined, even if they had soaked up the water.

  By the time she brought in the curtains, the irons were hot enough to press them. The renewed curtains looked fresh and crisp as she placed them at the window.

  Missie wakened and Marty brought her from her bed and got a mug of milk for each of them. Missie seemed cheerful and chatty after her sleep, and Marty found her talkative little companion rather enjoyable. It kept her mind off other things—just as her hard work had been doing.

  She placed Missie in her chair with a piece of bread to nibble on and set to work on the wooden floor with hot soapy water and scrub brush. By the time she was through, her arms and back ached, but the floor was wondrously clean. She gave the rug at the door a good shaking outside and replaced it again, then stood and surveyed the small kitchen. Everything looked and smelled clean. She was proud of herself. The kitchen window gleamed, the curtains fairly crackled with crispness, the walls—well, now, the walls looked sort of funny. Oh, the logs looked clean and shiny but the chinking—somehow the chinking looked strange, sort of gray and muddy instead of the white it had been before.

  Marty crossed to the nearest wall and poked a finger at the chinking. It didn’t just look muddy. It was muddy—muddy and funny. Marty wrinkled her nose. What had she done? The water, of course! It wasn’t the logs that had drunk up the water; it was the chinking! It had slurped up the scrub water thirstily and was now gooey and limp. She hoped with all of her heart that it would dry quickly before Clark got home. She looked at the clock. It wouldn’t be long, either. She’d better get cracking if supper was to be more than pancakes.

  She had noticed that the bread was as good as gone. Then what would she do? She had never baked bread before, nor even watched her mother do it that she could remember. She hadn’t the slightest idea how to start. Well, she’d make biscuits. She didn’t know how to bake them, either, but surely it couldn’t be too hard. She washed her hands and went to the cupboard. She felt that it was more “her” cupboard now that she had put everything where she wanted it.

  She found the flour and salt. Did you put eggs in biscuits? She wasn’t sure, but she’d add a couple just in case. She added milk and stirred the mixture. Would that do it? Well, she’d give it a try.

  She sliced some potatoes for frying and got out some ham. She supposed that she should have a vegetable, too, so she went to work on some carrots. As she peeled them she heard Ole Bob welcome home the approaching team. Clark would care for the horses and then do the chores. He’d be in for supper in about forty minutes, she guessed, so she left the carrots and went to put the biscuits in the oven. They handled easily enough, and she pictured an appreciative look in Clark’s eyes as he reached for another one.

  She went back to her potatoes in the frying pan, stirring them carefully so they wouldn’t burn.

  “Oh, the coffee!” she suddenly cried and hurried to get the coffeepot on to boil. After all, she could make good coffee!

  She sliced some ham and placed it in the other frying pan, savoring the aroma as it began to cook. She smelled the biscuits and could barely refrain from opening the oven door to peek at them. She was sure they’d need a few minutes more. She stirred the potatoes again and looked anxiously at the muddy chinking between the logs. It wasn’t drying very fast. Well, she wouldn’t mention it and maybe Clark wouldn’t notice it. By morning it would be its old white self again.

  The ham needed turning and the potatoes were done. She pulled them toward the back of the stove and put more wood in the firebox. Then she remembered the carrots. Oh dear, they were still in the peeling pan, only half ready. Hurriedly she went to work on them, nicking a finger in her haste. Finally she had t
he pot of carrots on the stove, on what she hoped was the hottest spot to hurry them up.

  The potatoes were certainly done, rather mushy looking from being overcooked and overstirred, and now they sat near the back of the stove looking worse every minute. The biscuits! Marty grabbed fiercely at the oven door, fearing that the added minutes may have ruined her efforts, but the minutes had not ruined them at all. Nothing could have done any harm to those hard-looking lumps that sat stubbornly on the pan looking like so many rocks.

  Marty pulled them out and dumped one on the cupboard to cool slightly before she made the grim test. She slowly closed her teeth upon it—to no avail; the biscuit refused to give. She clamped down harder; still no give.

  “Dad-burn,” murmured Marty, and opening the stove, she threw the offensive thing in. The flames around it hissed slightly, like a cat with its back up, but the hard lump refused to disappear. It just sat and blackened as the flame licked around it.

  “Dad-blame thing. Won’t even burn,” she stormed and crammed a stick of wood on top of it to cover up the telltale lump.

  “Now, what do I do with these?”

  Marty looked around. How could she get rid of the lumpy things? She couldn’t burn them. She couldn’t throw them out to the dog to be exposed to all eyes. She’d bury them. The rotten things. She hurriedly scooped them into her apron and started for the door.

  “Missie, ya stay put,” she called. Then remembering her previous experience, she turned and pulled the coffeepot to the back of the stove.

  Out the door she went, first looking toward the barn to make sure that her path was clear. Then she quickly ran to the far end of the garden. The soil was still soft, and she fell on her knees and hurriedly dug a hole with her hands and dumped in the disgusting lumps. She covered them quickly and sprinted back to the house. When she reached the yard, she could smell burning ham.