by Janette Oke
Missie hurried with him to the sod house.
“Maria,” she called triumphantly as they approached. “Here’s Cookie! He knows Spanish!” When Cookie turned to Maria with a fluent welcome in her own tongue, Maria clasped her hands with a merry laugh, and silvery-sounding Spanish arced between them.
Cookie turned to Missie and shrugged. “She says this is gonna be more fun than a fiesta,” he said, but the look in his own eyes still indicated doubt. Missie poured his tea into a big mug and passed him some fresh bread and butter.
Cookie fell into the spirit of the visit and soon seemed to be enjoying his time at the tea party almost as much as the two young women. Missie was careful to keep his mug of tea replenished and to make sure the bread was within his reach. He didn’t seem to mind even their female talk, which he had to translate back and forth.
When Maria prepared to go, the two truly did feel like neighbors. Missie gave her promise, through Cookie, that Willie would bring her over sometime soon.
“Cookie también?” Maria teased, and Missie needed no translation. They both laughed as Cookie muttered and grinned.
“I know you’re busy, Cookie,” Missie said as he bounced little Nathan on his knee, “and I thank you so much for taking the time. It’s all right. We’ll let you go now.”
Cookie put Nathan down and declared he had to get back to supper fixings. But Missie noticed he took his time about leaving.
“Muchas gracias,” Maria added her thanks, and Cookie shuffled off to return to his cook shack.
Maria’s next comment came with actions rather than words, and Missie enthusiastically nodded her agreement to pray together.
Again the two young women—of different races, different cultures, different religious backgrounds—knelt together in the small kitchen and poured out their hearts to the one true God who could hear in any language. Missie could tell that Maria’s need and longing for fellowship in the faith was as real and deep as her own.
Missie prayed, “Please, dear God, may I quickly learn enough of Maria’s Spanish to be able to share with her about matters of faith, about the life I have received through the death and life of your Son. I long so much to talk about you, your love and forgiveness, and to study the Bible together. Help me, God, to learn Spanish soon.” Missie added one more thought, “And dear God, help Cookie to know the right words to teach me.”
Twenty-Three
Another Winter Ahead
Missie and Willie made plans for the promised trip to their new neighbors, Maria and Juan, two weeks after Maria’s last visit. Missie tried to cajole Cookie into accompanying them, but Scottie, who could also speak a little Spanish, went with them instead. When the day came for the trip, Missie felt far more inclined to ride her horse than travel in a bumpy wagon. Little Nathan was lifted up to share his father’s saddle, and the four started off, Scottie setting a leisurely pace in spite of Missie’s impatience to reach their destination.
The fording of the river gave Missie some inner butterflies, and she saw again in her mind’s eye the Emorys’ bobbing, tilting wagon and the plunging terror-stricken horses. But once her horse was in and swimming strongly, Missie realized the current was not that swift.
They found Juan and Maria in a sprawling stone house that was cool and comfortable. Missie decided right away that she would prefer stone to any other available material. Juan was pleased to show Willie around and explain the process of building such a home. It wasn’t the style of house Missie had been used to, but it was cool against the heat of the day and seemed so spacious after their small soddy. Juan promised his help when the day arrived for Willie to begin the building.
The four took their leave well before dark. Mountain rains had swollen the river waters, and Scottie declared them to be higher than normal for the time of year. And even though it was not considered dangerous, he wanted to ford the river in full daylight.
Maria and Missie told each other there was great comfort in knowing another woman lived within visiting distance.
When they reached home, Willie took Missie’s horse and passed Nathan to her. Missie lingered outside, enjoying the cool of the late afternoon.
Willie turned and called back to her, “Hold supper a bit, will ya? I’m gonna ride on up to the upper spring an’ see iffen it’s still flowin’ enough fer the cattle over thet way. I should be back in an hour or two.”
Missie agreed, glad for the extra time before lighting the fire in the stove. She placed Nathan on the ground, guiding his tottering steps toward their small home. How shabby and tiny it looked compared to Maria’s. Missie would be so thankful to have more room, a floor for rugs, and windows big enough from which to hang curtains. She heard Willie’s horse leave the yard as she laid Nathan down for a much-needed nap. He was sound asleep before Missie had completed a row on the sock she was knitting.
She looked up in surprise at a knock on the door. Maybe Henry had found time for a chat. She hadn’t seen him since their Sunday “church” time. She stepped to the door and opened it, fully expecting Henry—or Cookie. But it was Brady. Missie fidgeted beneath the smile he tried on her and the intensity of his eyes.
“Oh . . .” she began, but he moved past her and entered the room. Missie felt the air tighten around her.
“’Scuse me fer intrudin’, ma’am,” he said, but there was no apology in his voice. “I thought maybe you bein’ a woman thet ya could help me out some.”
Missie remembered her lightly spoken promise of help if there was a need. A strange fluttery feeling made her wish she hadn’t been so quick to speak. She did not move from the door.
“I seem to have picked up a sliver in my finger here, an’ do ya know, there’s not one of those mangy ol’ cowpokes thet has ’em a needle.”
“Oh,” Missie said again, and then life returned to her limbs. “Oh yes . . . I have needles. Of course.” Missie moved from the open door to her sewing basket and heard the door close behind her.
She fumbled with a package of needles and finally disengaged one she thought was the proper size. As she rummaged, her mind whirled. What is Brady doing here? At this hour of the day all hands are normally busy checking cattle, mending fences, fixing gear—something. I haven’t even noticed Cookie about—oh yes, I did. As we rode up, Cookie was heading for the spring with two water pails.
She turned with the needle to find Brady standing close behind her.
“Here you are,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. But he didn’t take the needle extended to him.
“I’m afraid, ma’am, thet I’ll have to ask you to be kind enough to work thet little bit of a tool fer me. My hands never were any good with anything thet size.”
“Me?” Missie asked dumbly, thinking there was no way she was going to bend her head and work over this man’s hand as she held it in her own. She could almost feel his breath upon her now in the closeness of the small room.
“I’m sorry,” she said evenly. “You’ll have to do it yourself—or else ask Cookie to help you.”
“Now, ma’am,” the cowboy murmured, inching closer. Even in the dimness of the soddy, Missie could see his eyes seem to darken. “Don’t tell me yer man-shy?”
He reached a hand out to touch her arm and Missie stepped backward, feeling the side of the bed as she bumped up against it. She wanted to scream, but her throat tightened in a dryness that she had never felt before. She thought her knees were going to give way beneath her. A short but fervent prayer welled up within her. Oh, God, strengthen me, help me, uphold me as you promised.
Then the door swung open. “Mrs. LaHaye?” There had been no knock, but there stood Scottie. “The boss home?”
You know he’s not, Missie responded to herself. You heard him say he was going to the upper spring.
Instead, she said nothing. She shut her eyes to muster enough strength to remain on her feet.
“Brady?” said the foreman as though surprised. “Got those fences checked already?”
Brady
twisted around, his face full of anger. Without a word he slammed out through the door. Scottie pulled out a stool for Missie. She accepted it without speaking. Then he walked to the pail and handed her a small dipper of water. She was surprised to find she could still swallow.
“Brady had himself a problem, ma’am?” Scottie asked lightly, but Missie noted that his voice was edged with steel.
“A sliver . . . in his hand.”
“You fix it?”
She looked down at the needle she still held in her trembling hand and shook her head. “I told him he’d have to do it himself . . . or get Cookie.”
“Did he bother you?”
“No,” Missie replied shakily, “no, but something about him frightens me. I only know . . .” She swallowed again. “Here,” she said, holding out the needle, “would you give it to him?”
“Thet’s all right, ma’am. Keep yer needle. I’ll look after Brady.” Then he was gone, gently closing the door behind him.
Missie sat for some time before she felt her legs strong enough to stand. At length she was able to stir herself. She went over to lay a trembling hand on her sleeping son and whisper, “Thank you, Lord, for protecting us.” She turned to build a fire for preparing Willie’s supper.
She said nothing to Willie that night—not yet. But she vowed to keep an eye out for Brady. She’d put some kind of lock on the inside of the door if she had to. There was no way that man would enter her house again.
The next morning as she left the house to go to the spring for water, she glanced about furtively. How dreadful not to feel safe in one’s own yard, she thought. Then she heard voices coming from the side of the bunkhouse. One was Willie’s voice, and with the words came renewed courage for Missie.
“Henry says thet Brady drew his pay.”
“Yep,” Scottie replied.
“Not happy ridin’ fer me?”
“He didn’t say nothin’ ’bout bein’ unhappy.”
“But he quit?”
“Nope.” And after a pause, “I fired ’im.”
“Thought he was known to be good with cattle.” Willie’s voice seemed to suggest a shrug of his shoulders as though he couldn’t quite understand the situation, but Scottie was in charge where the cowhands were concerned.
“Reckon he was.” Scottie was noncommittal.
“Reckon you had yer reasons,” Willie said.
“Yeah,” Scottie said softly, “reckon I did.”
Missie continued on her way to the spring. Her world suddenly belonged to her again—her garden, her chickens, her house. She could count on Willie’s men to care not only for his cattle but to care for her and Nathan, as well. And with Willie’s men and her heavenly Father, she really had no need to worry. None at all.
Missie placed a chair in the shade of the sod house and continued her work on a pair of trousers for Nathan. His dog lay nearby, already grown almost to full size. The black mongrel showed some intelligence, and he was ever so gentle with young Nathan. For the gentleness, Missie allowed him her devotion.
It was cool in the evenings now, and Missie was thankful for the relief from the intense summer heat. For many days she had been busy canning the produce from her garden. As she watched it stack up around her, she began to wonder where she would keep it from freezing over the long winter. Unless she could persuade Willie to dig a root cellar, they would have to bury the food in the hay in the barn. Missie wished again for a new bigger house, but she held her tongue. She knew it would be hers as soon as Willie was able.
She looked up from her work and saw Henry approaching. “Hi, stranger,” she teased. “I’d begun to wonder if you were still riding for this outfit. I haven’t seen you for so long.”
“It’s this boss I got,” Henry responded. “Don’t know nothin’ but work, work, work!”
Missie laughed.
“But then,” Henry added, “guess he can’t be all bad. He’s promised me two weeks off.”
“Really? You’re going to make a trip?”
Henry flushed. “I sure am,” he offered. “Jest as fast as ol’ Flint can carry me. Seems like downright years since I last saw—”
“I’m so happy for you and Melinda,” Missie said. “She must be missing you, too, something awful.”
“I sure hope so,” Henry said. “Iffen she misses me half as much . . .” He let the sentence hang.
“Have you set a date?” Missie asked. “Or am I being nosy?”
“Don’t mind yer interest none. An’ no, not yet. Sure wish thet we could, but it depends.”
“On what?”
“On how soon I can build me a house.”
“With a little help, you can have a house up in a few days.”
“I mean a house, Missie, not a soddy.”
Missie was surprised at the intensity of Henry’s reply.
“I agree,” she said carefully, “that there’s not much inviting about a soddy, but it can be a home—be it ever so simple and confining.”
“I’d never ask Melinda to live in such conditions—never,” Henry said heatedly. “Don’t you think thet I saw the look in yer eyes when ya spotted the dirt floor, the dingy windows, the crowded—”
“Henry,” Missie interrupted softly but steadily, “answer me honestly. Do you still see that look there now? That look of surprise, of hurt, of disappointment? Is it still there?”
Henry paused to look into her face, then shook his head. “No,” he said, “I guess not. You’ve done well, Missie. Really great . . . an’ I’ve admired ya fer it. A girl like you . . . leavin’ what ya had, an’ comin’ way out here to this. I’ve truly admired ya. But, beggin’ yer pardon . . . I won’t ask thet of Melinda.”
“An’ I respect you for your thoughtfulness concerning her, Henry. But you should know something.” Missie stopped to choose her words. “Henry, I want you to know that I’d far sooner share this little one-room dirt dwelling with Willie than to live in the world’s fanciest big white house without him. And I mean that, Henry.”
Henry chuckled softly, but his expression held wonder.
“You women are strange creatures indeed,” he said. “It’s a marvel we men ever succeed in understandin’ ya a’tall. But I do thank the good Lord fer makin’ ya the way ya are.” He paused to look again into her face. “Ya really do mean thet, don’t ya?”
“I really do,” Missie said. And deep in her heart she marveled at just how much she meant it. The glory of that truth somehow unshackled her spirit from the small, shabby little dwelling, to soar far above it in the strength of her love for Willie. Somehow, the long, unwelcome winter ahead did not look so frightening now, even though she still faced being shut away inside the one confining room. She and Willie and Nathan might be crowded together, but they were bundled comfortably in the blanket of love.
Twenty-Four
Sundays
When Henry returned from visiting his Melinda, Missie sensed about him a new depth of loneliness. She wondered if he was silently realizing that perhaps love could have seen them through a winter in a little sod house, but Henry never admitted as much. He missed Melinda—that was very evident. He often found excuses to drop by the soddy and chat or play with Nathan to help fill the lonely hours in between work.
Missie noticed that Henry and the young Rusty seemed to enjoy each other’s company and often rode out together. Missie knew Scottie wisely tried to team up the men who worked well together. In the evenings in the bunkhouse, Henry was teaching Rusty to strum his guitar. The two young cowboys spent many hours singing range songs and old hymns.
One Sunday as Willie, Missie, and Henry sat talking after the three of them had their usual time of Bible reading, hymn singing, and prayer, they discussed the coming railroad, the people it would bring, future shops, schools, and even a doctor.
Then Willie said with deep feeling, “Ya know what I long fer most? A church. I jest ache sometimes to gather with a larger group of believers and sing an’ pray an’ read the Word. And hear a re
al sermon. It seems like so long . . . what I wouldn’t give fer jest one Sunday back home.”
Missie felt her eyes become misty. A Sunday back home meant Pa with his baritone voice expressing his praise, Ma in her quiet, confident manner joining in. It meant Clare and Arnie, Ellie and little Luke gathered around. It meant Nandry and Clae and their families. Missie wondered if there were more members to those families by now, how tall Clare was, if Arnie still teased Ellie, and if everyone outdid each other spoiling little Luke. She wondered if her mother Marty still looked west each night and breathed a prayer for her faraway little girl, and if Pa still lifted down the family Bible and read with a steady, assured voice the promises of God. Are they all well . . . my family? If only there was some way to span the miles, as Willie had put it, to spend a Sunday at home.
Missie blinked away her tears and came back to the reality of their small home.
“It would be so good to hear the Word with others,” Willie was saying. “I’ll be awful glad when we have enough neighbors to have our own little church and a preacher.”
Then Willie was looking around the room, seeming to size it up. “Remember how we all managed to crowd in here fer Christmas?”
“Yeah, we were toe to toe—but we fit,” Missie laughed.
“Well, we can fit again,” Willie said. “Boy, have I been dumb!”
He reached for his hat. “I’m gonna go find the rest of our congregation,” and he ducked quickly through the door.
And so it was that all the hands working on the Hanging W Ranch were invited to share Sunday services in the little sod house.
That next Sunday only Rusty came with Henry, but what a time they had singing the old hymns, accompanied by Henry’s guitar, and reading the Scriptures together. The next Sunday it was Henry and Rusty again.
A couple of Sundays later, Cookie hobbled in, clearing his throat and looking a bit embarrassed. He’d been heard to say that “religion was fer the weak and fer women.”
