by Janette Oke
What could she say to this man who sat before her? This man who comforted her when she sorrowed, understood her joys, gave her strength when her own strength was spent, shared with her his faith, and introduced her to his God. There was so much she felt. That strange, deep stirring within her—she understood it now. It was a longing for this man, his love. She wanted him; she knew that now. But how . . . how could she tell him?
She stood there mute, wanting to say it all, but no words came. Then he rose and reached for his hat.
“Where ya be headin’?” She found her voice then.
“I’m thinkin’ thet I’ll spend me the night over at the doc’s. Iffen little Clare be wakin’, I’m thinkin’ thet he should wake to some of his own ’stead of strangers.”
“But Doc says he won’t wake till morn.”
“Maybe so. All the same, I’ll find comfort jest watchin’ him sleep peaceful like. I’ll be over in the mornin’ to be sure ya not be needin’ anythin’.”
He turned to go, but she knew she mustn’t let him. If he went now without knowing . . .
Still her voice would not obey her command. She reached out and took his sleeve. He turned to her. She could only look at him, imploring him to read in her eyes what she could not say with her lips.
He looked into her face searchingly; then he stepped closer and his hands went to her shoulders, drawing her toward him.
He must have read there what she wanted him to see, but still he hesitated a moment.
“Ya bein’ sure?” he asked quietly.
She nodded her head, looking deep into his eyes, and then she was in his arms, being held the way she ached to be held, feeling the strength of his body tight against her, raising trembling lips to his.
How long had she wanted this? She wasn’t sure. She only knew that now it seemed like forever. She loved him so much. She must later find the words to tell him so, but for now she would content herself with being held close, hearing his words of love whispered tenderly against her hair.
How did it all come about—this miracle of love? She didn’t know. It had come upon her unawares . . . softly.
Love’s Enduring Promise
Contents
Dedication
1. New Beginnings
2. Ponderin’s
3. Little Arnie
4. Visits
5. Exciting News
6. Wanda’s New Baby
7. Mrs. Larson
8. A Strange Answer
9. Nandry an’ Clae
10. A Trip to Town
11. Family and Teacher
12. School Days
13. Somethin’ New
14. Tommie’s Friend
15. Search for a Preacher
16. Marty Talks to Ma
17. A Call on Wanda
18. The New Preacher
19. School and Visits
20. Bits ’n Pieces
21. Reverend Knutson
22. Life Moves On
23. Church and Family
24. Christmas
25. One More Time
26. Josh and Nandry
27. A New Parson, a New House
28. Livin’ and Learnin’
29. Missie’s Callers
30. Missie’s Discovery
31. Christmas Surprises
32. One More Surprise
33. A Special Day
Dedicated with love to
Edward
Terry, Lavon, Lorne, and Laurel
—my wonderful family
One
New Beginnings
Marty stirred restlessly. The dream had possessed her, and now she felt an uncontrollable shiver run through her body.
With her gradual wakefulness came an intense relief. She was here, safe and belonging, in her own bed.
Still, an uneasiness clung to her. It had been a horrible dream, so real and frightening. Why, she asked herself, did she even have this dream after all this time? And it had been so real—so very real.
She could feel the dream’s frightening details close in about her again as she thought about it. The broken wagon, a howling blizzard pulling and tearing at the flapping canvas, and she, Marty, huddled alone in a corner, vainly clasping a thin, torn blanket about her shivering body in an effort to keep warm. Her despair at being alone was more painful than the cold that sought to claim her.
I’m gonna die, she had thought during the dream, all alone. I’m gonna die—and then, thankfully, she had awakened and had felt the warmth of her familiar four-poster and looked through the cabin window at a sky blessed with twinkling stars.
But she could not suppress another shiver, and as it passed through her body, a strong arm went about her, drawing her close.
She hadn’t meant to waken Clark. His days were such busy ones, full of farming and care of the animals, and she knew he needed his sleep. As she studied his face in the pale light from the window, she realized he wasn’t really awake—not yet.
A flood of love washed over her. Whenever she needed assurance of his love, it was readily given to her, even from the subconscious world of sleep. This was not the first time that, even before he awakened, he had sensed her need and held her in his arms.
But wakefulness was coming to him now. He brushed a kiss against her loose hair and whispered, “Somethin’ wrong?”
“No, I’m fine,” she murmured. “I jest had me a frightenin’ dream, thet’s all. I was all alone an’—”
His arm tightened. “But yer not alone.”
“No, an’, Clark, I’m so glad—so glad.”
As he held her close, she knew her shivering had ceased and the reality of the dream was gone.
She reached a hand to his cheek. “I’m fine now—really. Go back to sleep.”
His fingers smoothed her hair, then gently rested on her shoulder. Marty lay quietly, and in a few moments Clark’s breathing assured her that he was asleep again.
Marty had control of her thoughts now. With the terror of the dream pushed aside, now she used the quiet moments before the dawn to think through and plan for the activities of the day.
Over the winter months, every moment the community menfolk could spare from their own work had been given to felling and skidding logs. The families in the area felt strongly the need for a school for the educating of their children, and they knew the only way they would get one would be to build the structure themselves and find a teacher to go with it.
It would be a simple one-room affair, built near the creek on a piece of property donated by Clark and Marty Davis.
Gradually the piles of logs had grown. The men had been anxious to bring in the required number in front of the spring thaw, and then before the land would be beckoning to their plows, there would be time for a work bee or two.
The log count had been taken—the requirement filled. Tomorrow was the day set aside for the “school raisin’.” The men hoped to complete the walls and perhaps even add the rafters. The building would then be completed through the summer as time allowed. By fall the children would have a school of their own.
Marty’s thinking jumped ahead to the teacher. They still needed to find a teacher, and they were so difficult to locate and interest in coming out to the frontier. Would they build their school only to discover that they were unable to obtain a qualified teacher? No, they must all pray—pray that the little group working on the search would be fruitful, that their efforts of building the school would not be in vain, that a suitable teacher would be found.
Little Missie would not attend the school for its first term. She would be five come November and probably too young to join the others starting in the new school. Marty felt torn—she wanted Missie at home with her for another year. Still, in all the excitement over the new school, it was hard to not be actually involved with a child in attendance. She reminded herself again that Clark and she had decided Missie should wait—a hard decision, for Missie talked about the new school constantly.
At first the
school had seemed so far into the future, but now here they were on the threshold of its “birthin’.” The thought of it stirred Marty, and she knew she would be unable to go back to sleep, even though she should. It was too early to begin the day’s work. Her moving about might waken the other members of the family.
She lay quietly, sorting out in her mind what food she would prepare for the school work crew on the morrow and what would need to be done in preparation today. She mentally dressed each of her children and even mentally noted which of the neighbor women she might want to have a chat with when the work would allow it. The opportunity to gather together, even if it meant hard work and extra effort, was something Marty treasured, and she knew the others of their community shared her anticipation.
The minutes seemed to tick by slowly, and finally her restlessness drove her from under the covers. She lifted herself carefully and slowly, for the child she carried made most movements cumbersome.
Jest another month, she reminded herself, an’ we will see who this is.
Missie was hoping for a baby sister, but little Clare didn’t care. A baby was a baby to his small-boy way of thinking; besides, a baby stayed in the house, and he, at every opportunity, marched along with his pa, trying to match his steps with Clark’s. So Clare couldn’t see a baby adding much to his world.
Marty slipped into her house socks and wrapped a warm robe about her. The little house was cold in the morning.
She went first to look in on the sleeping Missie and Clare. It was still too dark to see well, but through the light from the window their outlines assured her that they were covered and comfortable as they slept.
Marty went on to the kitchen and as quietly as possible lit the fire in the reliable old kitchen stove. Marty felt a kinship with her stove—almost like a man with his team, she reckoned with a little smile. The stove and she worked together to bring warmth and sustenance to this home and family. Of all the things their home held, the stove, she felt, was really hers.
The fire was soon crackling, and Marty put the kettle on to boil and then filled the coffeepot. It would be a while before the stove warmed the kitchen and the coffee began to boil, so Marty pulled her robe about her for warmth and lifted Clark’s worn Bible from the shelf. She’d have time to read and pray before the family began to stir.
She felt especially close to God this morning. The dream had made her aware again of how much she had to be thankful for, and the anticipation of the new school added to her feelings of well-being. As close and cared for as she felt with Clark, only God truly understood her innermost self. She was glad for the opportunity to pour it all out to the One she had come to know only recently.
Marty sat slowly sipping the hot coffee, enjoying its warmth spreading through her whole being. She felt refreshed now, both physically and spiritually. Again her eyes sought out the passage on the pages open in her lap. The verse had seemed meant especially for her at this particular time. Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.
The words were rich in promise and a comfort to her, particularly after her troubled dream. Alone. The word was a haunting one. She was so thankful she was not alone. Once more in deep humbleness and gratitude she acknowledged the wisdom of her Father in bringing Clark so quickly to her after the tragic death of husband Clem. She realized now that as soon as she had inwardly healed sufficiently to be able to reach out to another, Clark was already there, eager to welcome her. Why had she fought God’s provision for her for so long—with every fiber of her being? Ma Graham had said it took time for the heart and the emotions to be restored, and Marty was sure that was the reason. Given that time—and Clark’s gentle patience—she had been able to love again.
To love and be loved, to belong, to be a part of another’s life—what a precious part of God’s plan for his creation, she thought as she poured herself another cup of coffee.
Had she ever been able to really tell Clark all she felt? Somehow to attempt putting it into words seemed never to do her true feelings the proper justice. Oh, she had tried to express it verbally, but words were so inadequate. Instead she sought to say it with her eyes, her actions. Indeed, her very being responded to him daily in a hundred ways.
The little life within her gave a sudden kick.
“An’ you,” Marty whispered, “you are one more expression of our love. Not jest the creatin’ of ya, but the birthin’ an’ the raisin’. Thet’s love, too. Yer special, ya know. Special ’fore we even know who ya are. Special because yer ours—God-given. God bless ya, little’un, an’ make ya strong of body, mind, an’ spirit. Might ya grow tall an’ straight in every way. Make yer pa proud—an’ he will be proud. Long as yer beautiful an’ strong of soul—even if yer body should be weak or yer mind crippled—jest be upright of spirit. I know yer pa. Thet’s what’s most important to ’im. An’ to yer ma, too.”
A stirring from the bedroom interrupted Marty’s inner conversation with her unborn child, and a moment later Clark appeared.
“Yer up early,” Marty said, welcoming him with a smile. “Couldn’t ya sleep, either?”
“Now, who could lay abed with the smell of thet coffee floatin’ in the air? I declare, iffen those ladies anxious to catch themselves a man would wear the aroma of fresh-perked coffee ’stead of some Paris perfume, they jest might git somewhere.”
They chuckled together, and Marty made to rise from her chair.
“Jest stay sittin’.” Clark laid his hand on her shoulder. “I know where the cups are. Don’t usually have the pleasure of a cup of coffee afore chorin’. Maybe ya could make this a habit.” He grinned companionably and reached for a mug. She knew he didn’t really want her getting up any earlier, considering her busy days keeping up with two lively young’uns and another on the way.
Clark poured his coffee and came to the table where he sat across from her. He seemed to study her carefully, and Marty read love and concern in the look.
“Ya be all right?”
“Fine.”
“Junior behavin’?”
Marty grinned. “When ya got up and came out here, I was jest sittin’ here havin’ a chat with her.”
“Her, is it?”
“Accordin’ to Missie, it daren’t be anythin’ else.”
“Had me a bit worried there in the night.”
“Thet weren’t nothin’ but a silly dream.”
“Wanna talk ’bout it?”
“Not much to be sayin’, I guess. It was the awful feelin’ of bein’ alone thet frightened me so. Don’t rightly know how to be sayin’ it, but, Clark, I’m so glad thet I never had to really be alone—even after I lost Clem. There was you an’ Missie right away to fill my life. Oh, I know I shut ya out fer a time, but ya were there. An’ Missie gave me someone to think about, a purpose, right away. I’m so glad, Clark. So thankful to God thet He didn’t even give me a choice but jest stepped in an’ took over, even when I wasn’t thinkin’ of Him.”
Clark leaned across the table and touched her cheek. “I’m glad, too, Mrs. Davis.” There was teasing in his eyes, but there was love there, too. “Never met ’nother woman thet could make better coffee.”
Marty playfully brushed his hand aside. “Coffee—pawsh.”
Clark’s expression grew more serious. “Guess I was kinda hooked even ’fore I smelled the first potful. Never will fergit how little an’ alone ya looked headin’ fer thet broken-down wagon, tryin’ so hard to hold yer head up when I knew thet inside ya jest wanted to die. The inside of me jest cried right along with ya. Don’t s’pose there was another person there who understood yer feelin’ better than I did. I ached to somehow be able to ease it fer ya.”
Marty blinked away a tear. “Ya never told me thet afore. I thought thet ya were jest desperate fer someone to be carin’ fer yer young Missie.”
“True, I was, an’ true, thet was what ya were s’pose to think. I tried hard fer the first couple of m
onths to convince myself of it, too. Then I finally had to admit thet there was more to it than thet.”
Marty reached out and squeezed his hand. “I got me a rascal,” she teased.
“An’ then ya up an’ put me through the most miserable months of my life—wonderin’ iffen ya’d ever feel the same ’bout me or iffen ya’d jest pack yer bags an’ leave. Guess I learned more ’bout prayin’ in those days than I ever had afore. Learned more ’bout waitin’, too.”
“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.
