by Linda Ford
“Will you come to church with us?” she asked when he returned with the buckets full of milk and a pocket full of eggs.
He shook his head.
Disappointment like a sharp pin pricked her thoughts. For some reason she’d imagined him accompanying them, proving to Sally she could trust Kate’s judgment. “But surely you want to worship with God’s people.”
“It’s not a place for hobos.”
She wanted to argue but after Sally’s comments... “I could let you have some of Jeremiah’s clothes.”
“It’s not just the clothes.”
“I’m sure you’d be welcome.”
“It’s not the place for me. I’ll worship God in His outdoor cathedral.” He nodded and strode away.
Kate stared after him. Poor man, used to being an outsider. Perhaps she could help him realize he fit in so next Sunday he’d feel he could show his face inside a church building.
She had extra time to prepare for church and took pains with her hair, pinning it into a soft roll around her face. She wished, momentarily, her hair could be a rich brown instead of being streaked with a rust color. She dismissed the useless thought and pulled on white gloves.
She put Mary’s blond curls into dangling ringlets and smoothed Dougie’s brown thatch. She’d have to cut it soon.
The three of them climbed into the truck and headed for town and church. Doyle met them at the church steps.
“You look very nice this morning.” He smiled his approval and Kate was glad she’d been able to spruce up more than usual.
Doyle pulled her hand through his arm and led her inside, the children following them.
She sighed. The familiar routine filled her with contentment.
He led her to the front pew, his customary place, and waited for the children to go in first so he could sit beside her. As always, attentive but circumspect, he limited his touches to a brushing of their fingers under the hymnal and a quick squeeze of her hand when the preacher announced Doyle had donated money for a bell in the belfry.
After the service, grateful parishioners surrounded Doyle thanking him for his generosity.
Kate stood proudly at his side, watching the way he accepted their praise—a kind man and handsome with his neatly groomed blond hair, his blue eyes and decked out in his dark, spotless suit. He noticed her studying him and reached out to pull her to his side. “Are you ready to go?” he asked.
She nodded. Dougie had raced away to play with Tommy and a couple other boys. Mary waited in one of the pews humming and swinging her feet. They collected the children and headed for the restaurant where they were given the best table, next to the wide windows looking out on Main Street. Mary sat beside Kate, as quiet as a mouse. Dougie fidgeted beside Doyle.
“Sit still, child,” Doyle said and Dougie did his best to settle down.
Doyle ordered for them all—roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, mashed potatoes and gravy, carrots and turnips. It always seemed a bit extravagant to Kate to spend as much money on one meal as she spent on groceries in several weeks but she knew if she mentioned it, Doyle would say the same thing he said every time they were together—he could afford it and she deserved it. Besides the beef was excellent.
After ice cream they headed outside. Dougie raced ahead, loving the thunder of his boots on the wooden sidewalks, Mary skipped along in his wake. Doyle waited until they were out of earshot before he asked the inevitable question.
“When are you going to sell the farm and marry me?”
She laughed. “You know the answer.”
“Be practical, Kate. You can’t stay out there by yourself.”
“I’m not by myself. I have the children.”
“And too much work. Jeremiah had help when he was alive and here you are trying to do it all yourself. You deserve better. Let me give it to you.”
“Doyle, you’re sweet. And I appreciate it. I do.” His attention made her feel like a woman. Made her feel cherished. “But I have help.”
He slowed his pace and looked down at her. “Help? What do you mean?”
“I have someone to put in the crop for me.” She hoped he wouldn’t ask about the rest of the work and how she planned to get the crop off in the fall. One day at a time. That’s all she needed.
“You hired someone?”
“Doyle, don’t sound so surprised. It’s what I’ve done the last three years.”
“You hired the Oliver lad, but he’s gone.”
She smiled up at him. “He’s not the only man in the country.”
He didn’t return her smile. “So who did you hire?”
She hesitated, sensing his disapproval. If she said a hobo, she knew he’d react even more strong than Sally. “What’s the matter? You should be glad I have help. You just finished saying it was too much for me.”
“When are you going to give up and marry me?”
He annoyed her, insinuating she would eagerly accept his will for her. “I’ve never said I was.”
“You’re just being stubborn. You’re a fine woman except for that.”
She jerked her hand away from where it rested in his arm. “I am not stubborn. I am determined. And marrying you will not change that.” She took two steps away. “Children, it’s time to go home.”
Doyle reached for her but she moved farther away. “Kate, be reasonable.”
“How can I be? I’m stubborn, remember?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Forgive me.”
He had the sweetest smile but this time she wouldn’t be affected by it. However, she couldn’t refuse to grant him forgiveness. “Very well.”
“Someday,” he murmured. “You’ll admit I’m right. You don’t belong on the farm, struggling to survive. You and the children deserve better.”
Consideration for the children always caused her hesitation. Maybe they would be better in town where they didn’t have so much work helping her keep the farm going, where they’d surely get more of her time and attention. It bothered her how often they had to manage on their own while she did chores, or chased cows or tried to get the tractor to run, though with Hatcher’s help the past few days, she’d been less rushed, less demanding of the children.
“Tell Mr. Grey thank you,” she told her children. She added her thanks to theirs and climbed into her truck.
Doyle leaned toward the window. “When are you coming to town again?”
“I’m awfully busy right now.”
He gave her a knowing look, which she ignored.
“Be sure and drop in at the office.”
“Of course.” She always did unless she had too many things to take care of. Which was often.
“Maybe I’ll visit you. Make sure everything is what it should be.”
“You’re welcome anytime, of course. You know that.” Though he had no right to judge how things were. Not that he could. He didn’t know oats from wheat from pigweed. And a cow was a smelly bulk of animal flesh, not the source of milk, cream, butter and meat.
She fumed as far as the end of the street then her attention turned to the fields along the road, several already planted. Soon hers would be, as well. And she again prayed for rain.
* * *
Monday, Hatcher ate a hurried breakfast at the house then headed out to start the next field. After the children left for school, Kate gathered up seeds and went to the garden. With little cash to purchase groceries, they depended on what they could raise.
She seeded the peas and turnips and carrots, paused to wonder if there would be another frost then decided to put in the beans. It was time-consuming, tiring work moving the string to mark each row, digging a trench for the seed with the hoe, measuring it out judicially then carefully covering it with soil, praying all the while for rain at the right time.
She had started tomatoes in ear
ly March but she wouldn’t put them out for a week or two yet.
She paused long enough to make sandwiches to take out to Hatcher.
For weeks, she’d saved the eyes from peeling the potatoes. As soon as the children were home to help, she’d plant them. Then carry water to the many rows that would soon be green potato plants.
She didn’t finish until suppertime. For once she didn’t argue when Hatcher offered to milk the cows. As soon as the dishes were done she asked the children to help her carry water to the garden.
The three of them carried pail after pail, soon soaked to their knees despite efforts to be careful.
When Hatcher grabbed two pails and started to help, she didn’t complain. She could see the children were worn-out. “You two go get ready for bed. I’ll be in as soon as we finish this.”
At first she kept up with Hatcher, but soon he hauled four pails to her two and then six.
“I’ll finish,” he said. “The kids are waiting for you to tuck them in.”
She protested weakly. “This is my job.”
“Nothing wrong with needing help.”
“I have to learn to manage on my own.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Kate,” she said. “My name is Kate.”
“Yes, ma’am. Mine’s Hatcher. Hatcher Jones.”
“I know.” About to say something more, the thought fled her brain as a slick gray automobile purred up the driveway. Doyle. What was he doing here? He never visited during the week. He was always too busy. But then, so was she.
She waved as he climbed from his car, half expected him to head to the garden but he waited for her in front of the house.
Wearily she headed his direction, acutely aware of her muddy state. Why did he pick a day to visit when she looked her worst? “What brings you out here?” she asked, as she drew near.
He let his gaze take in every detail of her state, managed to look pained, then smiled. “Maybe I miss you.”
“I’ve been here for a long time and you’ve never before missed me enough to drive out during the week.”
He didn’t answer. His gaze went to Hatcher and stayed there. “That the hobo?”
“That’s my hired man.”
“Maybe I should introduce myself.”
Before she could ask why, he headed toward the garden.
Chapter Six
Hatcher watched the man step from his fine car and adjust his charcoal-colored suit. He immediately recognized the type. Even dust from a stiff west wind wouldn’t dare stick to him. The man looked his way. Even across the distance, Hatcher could read the censure in the man’s gaze. The prissy man headed toward Hatcher with his nose so high he pranced. Ignoring his approach, Hatcher strolled back to the trough, hung the pails on a hook and headed toward his shanty.
“Wait up,” the suited man called.
Hatcher pretended he didn’t hear. He had nothing he wanted to say to or hear from any man. That man in particular. Fifty feet away he could smell the arrogance of him. Just the sort who would demand to know all about you as if it was his business.
“I say. Stop so I can talk to you.”
His gut said hurry on. His breeding demanded politeness. He hesitated, slowed.
“Please wait,” Kate begged.
The sound of her voice compelled him to stop. He had no desire to put her in the middle of a power struggle.
The suit fella breathed hard by the time he reached Hatcher’s side even though he’d only hurried the width of the farmyard. Hatcher had seen Kate chase across it many times and never show a puff. Then he grimaced at the dust on his shoes and shook each foot.
“So you’re the ho...”
Kate shot the man a look that caused him to pause.
“You’re the man Kate’s hired for the season.” He waited as if he expected Hatcher to suddenly sweep his hat off and pull his forelock.
Hatcher did no such thing.
The man harrumphed importantly. “My name is Doyle Grey. I’m the lawyer in town.” He said it like Hatcher should be impressed.
He wasn’t.
The man leaned back, full of his own importance. “As Kate and I are going to marry, I thought it prudent I check things out for her.”
Kate pulled herself tall. “I’ve never said I’d marry you, Doyle.”
He shrugged, gave her a look that said he knew he’d get what he wanted. He always did. “It’s only a matter of time, as we all know.” He turned away too quickly to see the woman he planned to marry tighten her jaw and glower.
Hatcher ducked his head to hide a smile. A man should know better than to try and force a woman like her to do his bidding. Her strong opinions needed consideration.
Aware of Doyle Grey’s attentive study, Hatcher concentrated on wiping mud from the back of his hand. “Glad for both of you.” He resumed his homeward journey.
“Didn’t get your name,” the lawyer said.
“Didn’t give it.” He lengthened his stride, determined to leave the man fussing without his participation.
“Why not? Is there something you’re hiding?”
Hatcher ignored the man’s challenging tone. A lawyer. Just the sort he did not want to talk to. For sure, he didn’t intend to linger in his royal highness’s presence.
“Come on, Doyle,” Kate said. “I’ll show you the garden. We were watering the potatoes.”
“Why are you bothering with all this work? Why doesn’t he tell me his name?” Mr. Lawyer couldn’t seem to make up his mind which way to go. “Marry me and I’ll take you away from this.”
Hatcher eased out his breath when the man decided to follow Kate to the garden. He slowed his retreat so he could listen to her reply.
“I don’t want to be taken away from this. I love the farm. I intend to keep it.”
Hatcher grinned to himself. The man might be a lawyer but he wasn’t very sharp when it came to Kate, his intended.
“What’s the man’s name? You must know it.”
Hatcher stiffened. He couldn’t hope to keep it a secret.
“Hat—” She broke off with a sigh. “How do I know if it’s his real name or his hobo name?”
His feet grew lighter.
“I wonder if I’ve seen him somewhere,” Mr. Lawyer said.
Hatcher’s relief died as quickly as it came. Be sure your sin will find you out. Numbers thirty-two, verse twenty-three. He hurried to his quarters, yanked his shirt off the hook where he’d hung it to dry and dropped it in his knapsack. He would vamoose before Doyle Grey asked any more questions.
He ground to a stop as he stuffed his Bible in on top. He’d given his word to the woman. He said he’d put in the crop for her. He’d promised God, as well, and the Word said, If a man vow a vow unto the Lord he shall not break his word, he shall do according to all that proceedeth out of his mouth. Numbers thirty, verse two. He put his Bible back on the table. He’d leave as soon as he’d fulfilled his promise. Perhaps he’d get away before her lawyer friend dug up anything on him.
One thing puzzled him. Why hadn’t Kate given his name? Her excuse that it might be a hobo name didn’t hold a drop of water. Was she afraid of what Doyle would discover? Was she so desperate to get her crop in she’d protected him? Or had it been innocently unknowing?
The question still plagued him the next morning when he headed over for breakfast. He thought to ask her but as he reached the open door he saw Mary in tears as her mother tugged a brush through her hair. Kate looked ready to fry eggs on her forehead.
Dougie sidled up to him. “Mary’s crying again.”
“I hear.”
“Momma’s getting mad.”
Kate shot her son a look with the power to drive nails and Mary choked back another smothered sob.
Hatcher ducked away to hide his smile and patted Dougie’s
head. “Might be a good time to pretend you don’t notice.”
“I guess.”
“Breakfast is ready.” Kate nodded toward the waiting plate as she continued braiding Mary’s hair.
Hatcher grabbed the plate.
Dougie sat on the step beside him. “I’m glad I don’t have to have my hair brushed and braided.”
“Me, too,” Hatcher said around his mouthful of eggs and fried pork. “Course a man has to shave. That’s not a lot of fun.”
“I never seen anybody shave.” Dougie sounded as if he’d lost Christmas and Easter all at once.
“It’s not hard to learn. Only a nuisance.” He didn’t add especially if you couldn’t get hot water and the only mirror you had was the size of your thumb.
“It’s done,” Kate announced and Mary shuddered a grateful sob. “What do you say, Mary?”
“Thank you, Momma.”
“You’re welcome and you look very nice.”
Hatcher almost swallowed his food the wrong way. Mary didn’t sound grateful and Kate didn’t sound sincere. For some reason he found the situation amusing but seeing the tightness around Kate’s eyes decided he best hide it. With thanks for the meal, Hatcher put his empty plate on the stand next to the door and headed for the tractor.
As he worked he chuckled often, remembering the scene. He guessed the two of them often struck sparks off each other. Kate, so strong willed, Mary, so uncertain of herself. No doubt they would eventually learn to understand each other.
He soon settled into the pleasure of the work. He enjoyed sitting on the tractor watching the field grow smaller and smaller as he went round and round. There was nothing quite like the smell of freshly worked soil. Or the beauty of birds swooping in after the discer, looking for bugs to eat. The fresh wind on his face blew the dust away on one side of the field, blew it in over him on the other. His eyes and nose and lungs filled with dust. The red neckerchief he pulled over his mouth and nose helped but it was always a relief to turn back into the wind. It became a game—struggle through the dusty length, enjoy the wind in his face until he turned the corner and again faced the dust.
