The Love Comes Softly Collection

by Janette Oke

  The horses trudged on. Her body ached from the bouncing of the wagon over the track of ruts that had to make do as the road.

  She was relieved to see the homestead of the Grahams appear at the base of a cluster of small hills. They drove into the yard, and he leaped lightly down and turned to help her. She was too numb to refuse, fearing that if she tried it on her own, she’d fall flat into the dust. He lifted her down easily and steadied her on her feet before he let her go. He flipped a rein around the hitching post and motioned her to precede him into the house.

  She noticed nothing of her surroundings. In her befuddled state, her mind refused to record anything. She remembered only that the door was opened by a surprised Mrs. Graham, who looked from the one to the other. Marty was vaguely aware that others were there, apparently waiting for the call to the midday meal. In the corner she saw the preacher in conversation with a man, who, she supposed, was Ben. Children seemed to be all around. She didn’t even try to ascertain how many. The man—Clark Davis, he’d said his name was—moved toward the two men in the corner while he talked to Mrs. Graham.

  Including the preacher and Ben in his explanation, he was saying, “We’ve decided—”

  We! she stormed within herself. Ya mean you.

  “. . . to marry up while the preacher be still here to do the honors. It will mean a home fer Mrs. Claridge here an’ a mama fer my Missie.”

  She heard Mrs. Graham’s “It’s the only sensible thing to be a doin’” and the preacher’s “Yes, yes, of course.”

  There was a general stir about her as a spot was cleared, and in what seemed almost an immorally brief span of time she was hearing the familiar words. She must have uttered her own responses at the proper times, for the preacher’s words came through the haze, “. . . now pronounce you man and wife.”

  There was a stirring about her again. Mrs. Graham was setting extra places at the table and encouraging them to “set up an’ eat with us afore ya go on.” And then they were at the table. The children must have been fed by the older girls before the grown-ups arrived home from the funeral. The preacher blessed the food, and general talk continued on around her. She probably ate something, though she later could not remember what it was or anything else about the meal. She felt like a puppet, moving, even speaking automatically—being controlled by something quite outside of herself.

  They were moving again. Getting up from the table, making preparations to be on their way. The preacher tucked away a lunch that had been prepared for him and said his farewells. One of the older Graham boys led the man’s horse up from the barn. Before the preacher left the house, he turned to Marty and in a simple, straightforward manner took her hands in his and wished God to be very near her in the coming months. Marty could only stare dumbly into his face. Ben and Clark followed him to his waiting horse, and Mrs. Graham said her good-bye from the open door. Then he was gone. Mrs. Graham turned back into the room, and the men went toward the hitching rail and Clark’s team.

  “Sally Anne, ya go an’ git young Missie up from her nap an’ ready to go. Laura, you an’ Nellie clear up the table an’ do up these dishes.”

  Mrs. Graham bustled about, but Marty was aware only of the movement about her as she sat limp and uncaring.

  Sally returned, carrying a slightly rumpled little figure, who, in spite of her sleepiness, managed a happy smile. Marty noticed only the smile and the deep blue eyes that looked at her, being a stranger to the little one. This must be Missie, she thought woodenly. This was verified when Clark stepped through the door and the girl welcomed him with a glad cry and outstretched arms. He swept her up against his chest and for a moment placed a cheek against hers. Then, thanking his host and hostess, he turned to let Marty know that they’d be on their way.

  Mrs. Graham walked out with her. There were no congratulations or well-wishing on the new marriage. No one had made an attempt to make an occasion of it, and Marty breathed a sigh of relief for that. One misplaced word, no matter how sincerely spoken, would have broken her reserve and caused the tears to flow, she was sure. But none had been spoken. Indeed, the marriage was not even mentioned. These pioneer people were sensitive to the feelings of others.

  They said good-bye only as one neighbor to another, though Mrs. Graham’s eyes held a special softness as she looked up at Marty on the wagon seat and said simply, “I’ll ’llow ya a few days to be settlin’ in an’ then I’ll be over. It’ll be right nice to have another woman so close to hand to visit now an’ then.”

  Marty thanked her and the team moved forward. They were again at the mercy of the dusty road and the hot sun.

  “There it be—right over there.” Marty almost jumped at Clark Davis’s words, but she lifted her eyes to follow his pointing finger.

  Sheltered by trees on the north and a small rise on the west was the homestead that belonged to this man beside her.

  A small but tidy cabin stood apart, with a well out front and a garden spot to one side. A few small bushes grew along the path to the door, and even from the distance Marty could see colors of fall blooms among their stems.

  Off to one side was a sturdy log barn for the horses and cattle, and a pig lot stood farther back among a grove of trees. There was a chicken house between the barn and the house and various other small buildings scattered here and there. She supposed she must learn all about each of them, but right now she was too spent to care.

  “It’s nice,” she murmured, surprising herself, for she hadn’t intended to say any such thing. Somehow, in her mind, it looked so much like the dreams that she and Clem had shared, and the knowledge hurt her and made her catch her breath in a quiet little sob. She said nothing more and was relieved when Missie, seeing that they were home, took all of her pa’s attention in her excitement.

  When they pulled up at the front of the cabin, a dog came running out to meet them and was greeted affectionately by both Clark and Missie.

  Clark helped Marty down and spoke gently. “Ya best git ya in out of the sun and lay yerself down a spell. Ya’ll find the bedroom off’n the sittin’ room. I’ll take charge of Missie an’ anythin’ else thet be needin’ carin’ fer. It’s too late to field work today anyway.”

  He opened the door and held it while she passed into this strange little house that was to be her home, and then he was gone, taking Missie with him.

  She didn’t take time to look around her. Feeling that she must lie down or else collapse, she made her way through the kitchen and found the door off the sitting room that led to the bedroom. The bed looked inviting, and she stopped only long enough to slip her feet from her shoes before falling upon it. It was cooler in the house, and her weary body began to demand first consideration over her confused mind. Sobs overtook her, but gradually her churning emotions subsided enough to allow her to sink into deep but troubled sleep.

  Three

  Marriage of Convenience

  Marty awoke and stared toward the window, surprised to see it was already dusk. Vaguely aware of someone stirring about in the kitchen, the smell of coffee and bacon made her acknowledge she was hungry. She heard Missie’s chatter, and the realization of why she was here swept over her again. Without caring about anything, she arose, slipped on her shoes, and pushed her hair back from her face. She supposed she looked a mess, but what did it matter? She was surprised in the dim light to see her trunk sitting against the wall by a chest of drawers. Everything she owned was in there, but that thought failed to stir her.

  She opened the trunk, took out her brush, and stroked it over her hair. Then she rummaged for a ribbon and tied her hair back from her face. She had made some improvement, she hoped. She smoothed her wrinkled dress and moved toward the bedroom door and the smell of the coffee. Clark looked at her inquiringly as she entered the room, then motioned her to a chair at the table.

  “I’m not much of a cook,” he said, “but it be fillin’.”

  Marty sat down and Clark came from the stove with a plate of pancakes and an
other with a side of bacon. He set it down and went back for the steaming coffee. She felt a sense of embarrassment as she realized he was taking up what she should have been doing. Well, it would be the last time. From now on she’d carry her load. Clark sat down, and just as Marty was about to help herself to a pancake, she was stopped by his voice.

  “Father, thank ya fer this food ya provide by yer goodness. Be with this, yer child, as Comforter in this hour, an’ bless this house an’ make it a home to each one as dwells here. Amen.”

  Marty sat wide-eyed looking at this man before her, who spoke, eyes closed, to a God she did not see or know—and him not even a preacher. Of course she had heard of people like that, various ones who had a God outside of church, who had a religion apart from marryin’ an’ buryin’, but she had never rubbed elbows, so to speak, with one before. Nor did she wish to now, if she stopped to think about it. So he had a God. What good did it do him? He’d still needed someone to help with his Missie, hadn’t he? His God didn’t seem to do much about that. Oh well, what did she care? If she remembered right, people who had a God didn’t seem to hold with drinkin’ an’ beatin’ their women. With a little luck she maybe wouldn’t have to put up with anything like that. A new wave of despair suddenly overwhelmed her. She knew nothing about this man. Maybe she should be glad that at least he was religious. It might save her a heap of trouble.

  “Ain’t ya hungry?”

  His words made her jump, and she realized she had been sitting there letting her thoughts wander.

  “Oh yeah, yeah,” she stammered and helped herself to the pancake he was holding out to her.

  Little Missie ate with a hearty appetite, surprising in one so tiny, and chattered to her father at the same time. Marty thought she picked out a word or two here and there, but she really couldn’t put her mind to understanding what the child was saying.

  After the meal she heard herself volunteering to wash up the dishes, and Clark said fine, he’d see to putting Missie to bed, then. He showed Marty where things were and then, picking up Missie, he began washing and readying her for bed.

  Marty set to work on the dishes. As she opened doors and drawers of another woman’s cupboards, a further sense of uneasiness settled on her. She must force herself to get over this feeling, she knew, for she had to manage in this as if it belonged to her. She couldn’t restrain the slight shudder that ran through her, though.

  As she returned from emptying her dishwater on the rosebush outside the door, Clark was pulling a chair up to the kitchen table.

  “She be asleep already,” he said quietly.

  Marty placed the dishpan on its peg and hung the towel on the rack to dry. What now? she wondered in panic, but he took care of that for her.

  “The drawers in the chest all be empty. I moved my things to the lean-to. Ya can unpack an’ make yerself more comfortable like. Feel free to be a usin’ anythin’ in the house, an’ if there be anythin’ thet ya be needin’, make a list. I go to town most Saturdays fer supplies, an’ I can be a pickin’ it up then. When ya feel more yerself like, ya might want to come along an’ do yer own choosin’.” He paused a moment, then looked into her face.

  “I think thet ya better git ya some sleep,” he said, his voice low. “It’s been a tryin’ day. I know thet it’s gonna take ya some time before it stops hurtin’ so bad—fer ya to feel at home here. We’ll try not to rush ya.”

  Then his gaze demanded that she listen and understand. “I married ya only to have Missie a mama. I’d be much obliged if ya ’llow her to so call ya.”

  It was an instruction to her; she could feel it as such. But her eyes held his steadily, and though she said nothing, her pride challenged him. All right, she knew her place. He offered her an abode and victuals; she in turn was to care for his child. She’d not ask for charity. She’d earn her way. Missie’s mama she would be. She turned without a word and made her way to the bedroom. She closed the door behind her and stood for a few moments leaning against it. When she felt more composed, she crossed quietly to look down on the sleeping child. The lamp gave a soft glow, making the wee figure in the crib appear even smaller.

  “All right, Missie,” Marty whispered, “let’s us make ourselves a deal. Ya be a good kid, an’ I’ll do my best to be a carin’ fer ya.”

  The child looked so tiny and helpless there, and Marty realized that here was someone barely more than an infant whom life had already hurt. What deserving thing had this little one done to have the mother she loved taken from her? Marty’s own baby stirred slightly within her, and she placed a hand on the spot that was slowly swelling for the world to know that she was to be a mother. What if it were my little one, left without my care? The thought made near terror take hold of her. Again she looked at the sleeping child, the brown curls framing her pixie face, and something stirred within Marty’s heart. It wasn’t love that she felt, but it was a small step in that direction.

  Marty was up the next morning as soon as she heard the soft click of the outside door. Clark must have come into the kitchen before going to the barn. Quietly she dressed so as not to disturb Missie and left the room, determined to uphold her part of the “convenience” marriage which was now her lot. So she had a roof over her head. She’d earn it. She would be beholden to no man, particularly this distant, aloof individual whose name she now shared. She refused, even in her thoughts, to recognize him as her husband. And speaking of names, she cautioned herself, it wasn’t going to be easy to remember that she was no longer Martha Claridge but Martha Davis. Listlessly she wondered if there was a legal difficulty if she stubbornly clung to her “real” name. Surely she could be Martha Lucinda Claridge Davis without breaking any laws. Then with a shock she realized her baby would have the Davis name, too.

  “Oh no!” She stopped and put her hands to her face. “Oh no, please. I want my baby to have Clem’s name,” she whispered her horror.

  But even as she fought it and the hot tears squeezed out between her fingers, she knew she’d be the loser here, as well. She was in fact married to this man, no matter how unwelcome the idea; and the baby who would be born after the marriage would be his in name, even though Clem was the true father. She felt a new reason to loathe him.

  “Well, anyway, I can name my baby Claridge iffen I want to,” she declared hotly. “He can’t take thet from me.”

  She brushed her tears on her sleeve, set her chin stubbornly, and moved into the kitchen.

  The fire was already going in the big black cook stove. That must have been what he came in for, and Marty was glad she wouldn’t have to struggle with that on top of her almost insurmountable task of just carrying on. She opened the cupboard doors and searched through tightly sealed cans until she found the coffee. She knew where the coffeepot was, she thought thankfully. Hadn’t she washed it and put it away herself? There was fresh water in the bucket on a low table near the door, and she had the coffee on in very short order.

  “Well, thet’s the first step,” she murmured to herself. “Now what?”

  She rummaged around some more and came up with sufficient ingredients to make a batch of pancakes. At least that she could do. She and Clem had almost lived on pancakes, the reason being that there had been little else available for her to prepare. She wasn’t going to find it an easy task to get proper meals, she realized. Her cooking experience had been very limited. Well, she’d learn. She was capable of learning, wasn’t she? First she’d have to discover where things were kept in this dad-blame kitchen. Marty rarely used words that could be classed as profane, though she had heard plenty in her young lifetime. She sure felt like turning loose a torrent of them now, though. Instead she chose one of her father’s less offensive expressions—about the only one she’d ever been allowed to use.

  “Dad-blame!” she exploded again. “What’s a body to do?”

  Clark would expect more than just pancakes and coffee, she was sure, but what and from where was she to get it?

  There seemed to be no end of
tins and containers in the cupboards, but they were all filled with other basic ingredients, not anything that could work for breakfast.

  Chickens! She’d seen chickens, and where there were chickens there should be eggs. She started out in search of some, through the kitchen door, through the shed that was the entry attached to the kitchen. Then her eye caught sight of a strange contraption at the side of the shed. It looked like some kind of pulley arrangement, and following the rope down to the floor, she noticed a square cut in the floorboards, and one end had a handle attached. Cautiously she approached, wondering if she might be trespassing where she did not belong. Slowly she lifted the trapdoor by the handle. At first she could see nothing; then, as her eyes became more accustomed to the darkness, she picked out what appeared to be the top of a large wooden box. That must be what the pulley and rope were for. She reached for it and began to pull on the ropes, noticing that the box appeared to be moving upward. It took more strength than she had guessed it would, yet she found she could handle it quite nicely.

  Slowly the box came into view. She could feel the coolness that accompanied it. At last the box was fully exposed, and she slipped the loop of rope over a hook that seemed to be for that purpose. The front of the box was fitted with a door, mostly comprised of mesh, and inside she could see several items of food. She opened the door and gasped at the abundance of good things. There were eggs in a basket; crocks of fresh cream, milk, and butter; side bacon and ham. On the next shelf were some fresh vegetables and little jars containing preserves and, of all things, she decided after a quick sniff, fresh honey. Likely wild. What a find! She’d have no problem with breakfast now. She took out the side bacon and a few eggs. Then she chose some of the jam and was about to lower the box again when she remembered Missie. The child should have milk to drink as long as it was plentiful, and maybe Clark liked cream for his coffee. She didn’t know. In fact, she didn’t know much at all about the man.