The Love Comes Softly Collection

by Janette Oke

  The baby stirred, and Willie adjusted him in his arms.

  “Hey,” Willie said suddenly. “Has he got a name?”

  “He has,” Missie assured him, “and a good one, too. He’s Nathan—Nathan Isaiah.”

  “Nathan Isaiah,” Willie repeated. “I like it. I like it a lot.” Lifting his small son up so he could plant a kiss on his downy head, he whispered, “Nathan Isaiah, I love you.” The baby answered by wrinkling up his little face and letting out a lusty cry. His parents both laughed, and then Missie took him in hand to feed him.

  After four days, the LaHayes were ready to leave. Mrs. Taylorson could hardly bear to see them go. She cooed and cuddled the baby and insisted upon holding him until the very last moment. Even Mr. Taylorson took time off from his store to come and see them off. He reminded them three times to consider their home as their own, should they be back in town.

  Kathy and Melinda were both tearful, and they both brought going-away gifts for Baby Nathan. The kind old preacher offered a parting prayer, and his wife insisted they have some of her fresh-baked bread for the trail.

  Henry fussed over Missie’s bed in the wagon, determined that no wind or rain should be allowed to cause discomfort for her or the baby. It was not so hot for traveling now. In fact, Missie had to bundle up both herself and the baby against a cool breeze.

  At last they were on the trail, and Missie mentally ticked off the new calendar she carried in her head. In just six days they would be home. Finally she would see the land Willie had learned to love. Her excitement grew within her until she could hardly contain it. At last she would be free of the drab, barren, dusty town. She would move into her own home like a nesting bird and make their dreams come true. She cradled her son close to her. “And you—you little rascal,” she crooned to him, “you weren’t even in those dreams. But I think you’re going to fit in just fine.”

  Sixteen

  The Ranch

  “We’re almost there now,” Willie announced, excitement in his voice. “Jest over thet next hill.”

  They had already traveled six days. For fear of tiring Missie or the baby, Willie had stopped each evening a little earlier than would have been normal. Now it was noon of the seventh day.

  Missie swallowed hard. Their very own homestead, their dream—Willie’s and hers—was “just over the next hill.” But the countryside they had been traveling through was even bleaker than that around Tettsford Junction. Until she saw some improvement in the landscape with her own eyes, Missie was finding it impossible to believe there would be any significant change. Hills and more colorless hills, covered only with coarse, dry-looking grass. Tumbleweeds somersaulted along in the wind, rolling and bouncing forever and ever. Occasional cactus plants or an outcropping of rocks were the only variations in the scenery. But maybe by some miracle . . . She so wanted to share Willie’s enthusiasm.

  Far in the distance was a line of dark mountains. Missie had expected—had hoped—that the mountains would become her friends. But they remained aloof, offering only a dim outline, shadowing themselves in a gloomy haze.

  “Sometimes they’re purple—sometimes blue—sometimes almost pink,” Willie had explained, “dependin’ on how the sun hits ’em. An’ then in the winter, with the snow on their peaks, they’re a dazzle of white.”

  “Can we see the mountains from our place?” Missie had asked, fervently hoping it might be so. She was eager to enjoy Willie’s mountains in each of their changing moods.

  “Not from our valley,” Willie had responded. “In order to see the mountains ya’d have to build up on a hill—an’ ya wouldn’t want thet. Too much wind, no protection.”

  “Too much wind,” Missie murmured softly now, thinking back on Willie’s words. “Way too much wind.” She wrapped her heavy shawl more tightly about her against its steady blowing.

  So they couldn’t see the mountains from their house. Then what could they see? She had asked Willie that, too.

  “Lookin’ to the east, down the draw,” Willie had told her, “ya can look right out on the range. Mile after mile of low hills, with nothin’ to git in the way of yer lookin’.” Willie seemed to feel those empty miles to gaze upon were a great asset. What Missie pictured in her mind’s eye made her shiver.

  They now topped the hill, and Willie reined in the team. Missie shut her eyes, wishing she didn’t have to open them just yet.

  “Well,” Willie announced triumphantly, “there it is. Ain’t it somethin’?”

  Missie opened her eyes slowly.

  Tucked in a small valley, just as Willie had said, were a few small scattered structures and what seemed like miles and miles of corral fence.

  “You said it was green,” Missie said through stiff lips, immediately regretting the remark.

  “It is in the springtime. This is late fall. Nothin’s green now.” Willie remained unshaken. “Well, what d’ya think of it?”

  Missie had been dreading that question. How could she answer it? She couldn’t let Willie down—yet she couldn’t lie.

  “It’s . . . it’s . . . really something,” she managed, thankful she had remembered Willie’s own words.

  “Sure is,” Willie agreed, obviously interpreting her answer with his own optimism.

  He pointed a finger toward the valley and leaned toward her.

  “The corrals for the horses and cows all lay over there.”

  Missie fleetingly wondered how he ever thought she or anyone else could miss them. They seemed to fill up the whole valley.

  Willie continued, “Thet there buildin’ is the barn. We’ll build an even bigger one later. Thet there’s the bunkhouse right in there, an’ the cook shack is there beside it.”

  “Where’s the house?” asked Missie.

  “The temporary one? Right there.”

  Missie’s eyes followed his finger. The temporary house, like the bunkhouse, cook shack, and barn, looked to her like a giant heap of dried grass.

  “They’re made of sod,” Willie informed her matter-of-factly.

  “Sod?”

  “Yeah. Ya cut blocks of sod from the ground an’ pile ’em up. Makes a real snug place to live in fer the winter.”

  Missie swallowed, eyes staring and heart pounding. “Sod,” she whispered. Her lips trembled as she fought to control her emotions, and she turned her face away.

  Willie spoke to the team and the wagon rumbled on. Missie closed her eyes again. No miracle had taken place “over the next hill.” There was no fairyland awaiting her. But she needed a miracle now—to help her through the ordeal she knew lay ahead.

  The sod house at a distance had been shock enough, but Missie’s close-up view of it was even more difficult. As the wagon creaked to a stop before the small, low structure, Missie caught her lip between her teeth to keep a sob from escaping.

  Henry had arrived earlier and started a fire to warm the house for the baby. He emerged now, grinning eagerly from ear to ear.

  The smoke poured from the little pipe of a chimney and dissipated into the wind. Missie recognized the pungent odor of buffalo chips. They had been forced many times on the trail to use them when wood supplies had been scarce, but Missie had never really accepted or appreciated this type of fuel. As she sat on the wagon seat, she looked around and realized that there would be no wood. There were few trees in sight.

  Willie helped her down and she stood a moment to steady her legs and her mind, bracing herself for whatever she found behind the dwarfed door that guarded the entrance to her new home.

  Willie led the way, and Missie ducked her head to follow him into the dark interior of the little sod house.

  It was high noon, and still the room was so dark Missie’s eyes took several moments to adjust. When she finally could see, she gazed around the one small room. In the corner was their bed, but not the neat, spread-covered version she had pictured. It was an oversized platform with a quilt hastily thrown over some kind of lumpy bedding—definitely made up by a man.

  A s
mall black stove hovered beneath the smoke-spewing chimney. Close beside it were a small wooden table and two stools pushed beneath it. A cluttered shelf stretched along the wall, with crocks and tins randomly stacked across it.

  The two tiny windows were hardly large enough to look out of—and one had to stoop to do so. The small panes of dirty glass were held snugly in place by the sod stacked firmly around them. Missie, her thoughts swirling around like leaves in a wind, promised herself she would give them a good washing at her first opportunity. She jerked her thoughts away from the windows, amazed that at such a traumatic moment she could even notice the dirt on the tiny panes.

  Her gaze traveled up to the ceiling. It, too, was sod held precariously in place by strips of board, twine, and wire. It looked as if it periodically gave up parts of itself. Would it come tumbling down—on her, on her baby?

  She quickly lowered her eyes lest they give her away—and immediately noticed the floor. It was dirt! Hard-packed, uneven dirt. Missie sucked in a ragged breath, but Willie was talking cheerily.

  “It ain’t much, but it’s warm an’ snug. Come next year we’ll build a real house—of either rock or wood—ya can have yer choice.”

  “Coffee’s ready,” Henry called. Willie stepped forward to take Nathan from Missie. She was reluctant to let him go but gradually released her grip, and Willie put him down on the bed. Her eyes surveyed the roof above the bed to be sure a clump of turf was not about to fall.

  “Sit right here,” Henry invited, and Missie numbly did as she was told.

  The hot coffee revived her somewhat, and Missie soon discovered that her hands and feet could move again. She felt Henry’s eyes upon her and knew she must respond in some way.

  “Well,” she said, forcing a chuckle past the lump in her throat, “sure won’t be much to keeping house.” She saw Henry’s face relax.

  Willie reached for her hand. “I know it won’t be easy, Missie—this first year—but jest you wait. Next year, I promise, we’ll build ya jest what ya want.”

  Missie took another swallow of coffee. Henry had brewed it strong and dark. Oh, how she needed its strength right now.

  “Where are all the crates and boxes of my things?” she asked softly. She was surprised she had said the word my, but she couldn’t have avoided it.

  “We stored ’em in the back shed by the barn until ya got here. We didn’t rightly know jest which stuff you’d want. I can git ’em fer ya right away, iffen you’d like.”

  Missie looked around her at the already crowded room.

  “I think you’d best leave them where they are for now. There doesn’t seem to be much room for extras here. And, Willie, put my sewing machine with them, too, will you please?”

  Willie started to argue, but then his eyes also surveyed the room.

  “Does seem a mite crowded like,” he said. “Funny, it seemed plumb empty when you were gone.”

  “Yer team is still standin’ out there,” Henry broke in, placing his cup on the table. “I think thet I’d best go on out an’ take care of ’em. Where d’ya want the wagon left?”

  “Jest pull it up beside the house. We still have to move in all the things fer this young’un.”

  Henry nodded and left.

  “Where’s Henry stayin’?” Missie asked, toying with her cup.

  “In the bunkhouse.”

  “Alone?”

  “No, we have three others there now. Two hands an’ the cook.”

  “Must be crowded.”

  “They don’t have much gear.”

  “You’ve got more cattle, then?”

  “A nice start.”

  “And horses?”

  “A fairly good string.”

  “You’re about fixed, then, I imagine.”

  Willie nodded slowly, pushed his cup back, and rubbed his hands over his weary-looking face. He stood and walked to the window, bending his head to look out at whatever lay beyond.

  “Missie,” he said without turning around, “this was a mistake. Don’t know why I didn’t see it before. Jest too plumb lonesome to think straight, I guess. I never shoulda brought ya here. I shoulda left ya there at Tettsford till I had a decent house built. This ain’t no fittin’ place fer a woman . . . an’ a baby.”

  Missie went silently to him, terribly sorry her feelings had been so transparent. It must have hurt Willie to see her disappointment.

  “Oh, Willie,” she said reaching her arms around his neck and pulling his head down toward her. “It’s all right. Truly it is. I admit, it did catch me off guard, but I’ll get used to it. Really. Really I will. I’d have never stayed there in Tettsford—not without you. I was so lonesome for you I nearly died of it every day. I’d as soon be here—no, sooner—I’d sooner be here with you than back there in that bedroom all alone.”

  Willie pulled her tight. “Missie, I’m sorry . . . sorry,” he whispered, “but it won’t always be this way. I promise. I’ll make it up to ya someday. Jest as soon as I can. Ya’ll have jest as fine a place as yer own home was . . . as ya deserve to have.”

  My home! Missie thought, closing her eyes. Oh, if only I were at home! Wasn’t that where she really belonged? Why hadn’t Willie been content with it, too?

  She looked across at the sleeping baby and the tears stung her eyes. Willie was kissing the top of her head. If she could keep from looking up at him, she could recover her composure. Nathan began to fuss, and Missie turned gently from Willie without lifting her face.

  Taking a breath to steady her voice, she said, “He’s hungry. Guess I’d better care for him before I do anything else.”

  “I’ll bring in his things,” Willie said and reached for his hat. “Missie.” He stopped at the door and turned to her. “I love you.”

  She looked at him, nodded, and forced a smile before he went out the door.

  I’d sooner be here with you than back there in that bedroom all alone, she repeated over and over again.

  Seventeen

  Winter and Christmas

  Missie lifted the already heavy buckets and trudged forward a few paces. She dropped them with a thump and stooped again to gather buffalo chips from the near-frozen ground. The driving wind whipped her shawl, and she made an effort to wrap it more securely about her. Her fingers tingled from the cold. She chided herself for not having worn mittens.

  At length the second pail was full. She hoisted her load and hiked slowly back to her sod house, the buckets thumping against her legs. She would need two more pails to complete the day’s supply. She dreaded the thought of going out once more. Her arms and back were aching, and she was now having to range farther and farther from the house in order to fill the pails.

  As she neared the soddy she could hear little Nathan crying. She hurried her steps. Poor little fellow! How long had he been asking for his dinner?

  Missie set down her load, then scrubbed her hands thoroughly at the basin in the corner. The cold water increased the tingling feeling, and she rubbed them vigorously with the rough towel in an effort to restore the proper circulation. At last there was feeling in her fingers again. Casting her shawl aside, she hurried to her baby, crooning words of love to him even before she reached his bed.

  Somehow she had managed two long weeks of living in the crowded soddy. Nathan was a big part of the reason she was able to function at all. The wee baby brought life and meaning to Missie’s world, such as it was.

  The air was growing colder now and the wind more harsh. Willie’s eyes, full of concern, often watched the sky. A winter storm of sleet and snow could sweep in upon them long before he and his farmhands were ready for it. Missie worried about her dwindling fuel supply, but she said nothing to Willie. No need to give him further worries. Surely a woman should be able to shoulder the task of keeping the fire going. Still, she didn’t know how she would manage it once the snow covered the ground. Frets about that and other matters related to simply surviving nagged constantly in the back of her mind.

  She changed Nathan
, fed him, and held him close for several minutes before returning him to his bed.

  Missie checked the coffeepot on her small stove. The full-sized stove she had brought from “back home” at her mama’s insistence remained packed in its crate. It was too big for the little sod house. Missie pushed the kettle toward the center so the water would boil. Willie might soon be in, and he would be chilled to the bone. But it was Henry’s voice Missie heard first, just outside the door.

  “Still think thet we can’t put it off any longer—no matter what else needs to be done. Snow could come anytime.”

  “Yeah,” Willie agreed, “yer right. Shouldn’ta let it go this long. We’ll plan on first thing in the mornin’. We’ll use two wagons an’ all the hands.”

  “Ya think they’ll mind?”

  “I’m boss, ain’t I?”

  “Sure ya are.”

  Missie could sense the grin in Henry’s voice.

  “But I reckon they might think they was hired on to punch cows—not pick up chips.”

  “We’ll see,” Willie said as the two men ducked through the door.

  Oh, Missie thought, if only this means what I hope it means.

  The next morning, soon after breakfast, two wagons and five men set out to gather chips for the winter fires. All day long they shuttled back and forth. They heaped the cook’s supply beside the cook shack but favored Missie with more consideration. Her pile was stored in a sod shed just behind the house. This would save her the struggle of breaking frozen chips out of the snow.

  Missie nearly cried with relief as she watched the shed fill up. Gathering chips would have been an increasingly difficult task with the coming of the winter snows. Thank you, God, her heart whispered. “And thank you, Willie—and all of you,” she would say to each of them as she was able. Missie felt light with her gratefulness. She groped for a way to express her deep appreciation. At the same time she reached for her large coffeepot and filled it to the brim. She’d at least have steaming coffee waiting to warm the men on their next trip in.