by Janette Oke
In spite of ridicule from the hardened Smith (who, whenever he was asked his full name snapped, “It’s Smith—jest Smith,” making Missie wonder if he truly had a claim to even that), the weeks passed with attendance gradually growing. By Christmas Sunday, Smith was the only holdout. He saddled his horse and rode away into the quietness of the snow-covered hills. Missie prayed that God might somehow reach his cold, unhappy heart.
After their service together, Missie managed to serve them a special Christmas dinner. She even had been tempted to sacrifice two of her chickens for the occasion but could not bring herself to do so. She was getting four or five eggs a day, and as she still hadn’t determined who were the producers and who were the sluggards, she granted them all extended life, lest she slaughter the wrong ones.
With her milk, eggs, and a few hoarded raisins, she made some bread pudding. Even those who did not care for the chickens themselves did not scorn what the hens were able to produce. They smacked their lips in appreciation as they went back for seconds.
Nathan thoroughly enjoyed the whole crowded celebration. He shook his head sadly when the last figure left the small soddy. “Aw gone,” he sighed, “Aw gone.”
After having taken the plunge for Christmas Sunday, the last of the men who’d been reluctant about “religion” continued to join the regular Sunday services. Unless duty called them away, at the appointed time of two o’clock they all, except for Smith, entered the house, dusting the snow from their coats with their hats and stamping their boots. Then they quietly found places to sit for the short time of singing, Bible reading, and prayer.
Missie prayed for Rusty, the easygoing, openhearted young boy of the group. He eagerly sang the old hymns and listened attentively as the Scripture was read. She hoped his heart was being touched by the truth.
But it was the shy, backward Lane who knocked on their door one evening and mumbled in an embarrassed voice, “Is the boss in?”
Missie welcomed him in, and he stood facing Willie, nervously twisting his hat in his hand.
“I wondered, boss, iffen y’all wouldn’t mind . . . iffen you’d . . .” He cleared his throat. “I don’t have much understandin’ ’bout the things of the Bible. Could ya . . . would ya sorta go over it again . . . slow like, iffen ya don’t mind?”
So Lane was invited to sit down at the table, and by the light of the flickering lamp, with fresh cups of coffee before them, he and Willie again went over the words of the Book while Missie silently prayed.
“‘If thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus,’ ” read Willie, “‘and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved.’”
Missie was sitting off to the side, her hands finding jobs to do for which she needed little light. She was praying that God would bless His Word and open the understanding of the young man.
Her heart was full. God had been good to Willie and her. And He had given them their own unique, and very special, congregation.
Missie’s second winter in the soddy was nearing its end.
The winds seemed to be abating, and she even dared to hope for an early thaw. Already she was mentally planning her garden, though she knew full well that it would be weeks before she could actually do the planting. This year, she promised herself, she would listen to Willie and not rush the season. But she wondered if her logic could hold her eagerness in check.
This spring she hoped to have some setting hens, as well. Though she still made use of her daily egg supply, she had been holding some back each day for the sittings. A spring calf was due to Ginger, one of their two milk cows. In no way could Willie’s anticipation of the dozens of range calves expected compare to Missie’s excitement for that one calf that would be born to the cow in the barn. Pansy was still milked daily, although her supply was running low. It would soon be time for her to take a rest from the daily production and wait for her calf that was yet some months away.
And then there was the promised house to look forward to! Missie had fretted about it, fearing that the money shouldn’t be spent on one for an additional year. But Willie was determined that the start be made on their stone home as soon as possible. A good share of the outer material was almost free, he assured her, and the labor would be cheap.
With Scottie to oversee the activities of the ranch, Willie would be free to get on with the building. Juan also had promised him two helpers who had a great deal of experience with stone buildings. Willie sat at night at the small table, and he and Missie talked over plans for the house. The low rambling stone building would be built with the main living area in the middle, the kitchen and dining area located in the left wing and the bedrooms in the right. A shaded porch and small courtyard would provide a good spot for Missie to sit and do handwork while young Nathan enjoyed the out-of-doors. Willie sketched out the plans, then redrew them, over and over. Missie tried to restrain herself, not daring to let the hope become too real lest something happen to prevent it.
But she did her share of dreaming.
Oh, the fun she would have unpacking all their stored things—the proper-sized stove, the sewing machine, the rugs, the curtains, the fancy dishes. At times she thought she would burst in her eagerness.
Henry had decided that with the spring, he also would do some building. He had bought the land bordering Willie’s and had plans to put his house just as close to the LaHayes’ home as he could, so it would be convenient for the women to visit and do things together. Missie could scarcely wait for Melinda to arrive.
Willie agreed to sell Henry fifty head of cattle, with whatever calves were at heel, so Henry could get a start on his own spread. This would also give Willie some cash for the new house. If Scottie disapproved of a cattleman making sales of stock in the spring, he did not say so. He no doubt knew the transaction would assist both men in realizing their dreams.
Rusty decided to go to work on Henry’s spread, so Scottie needed to find two more hands for the Hanging W. He assured Willie he would take his time and choose carefully.
Scottie reported that the outlying ranches were already planning a fall trail drive to move their cattle to the market. If Willie wanted to, he could send as many head of cattle as he wished, along with a designated number of riders. Willie decided he’d hold his herd that year unless unexpected expenses demanded more cash. Everyone was hopeful that before another fall rolled around, the railroad would have made its promised appearance. This would eliminate the costly, time-consuming, wearying trail drive.
This winter’s losses seemed to be low, and the calf crop looked good. As each count came in, Missie’s hopes for the new home mounted. She anticipated the summer before her, and even the thought of the approaching heat was not able to shrivel her spirits. She gazed across the endless hills. She and Willie had lived in the area such a short time and already they were seeing changes—and the future promised many more. Would they all come true—the dreams, the plans? Whatever the outcome, things were going well now. She was sure, for the first time, that if they really needed to, they could carry on indefinitely just as they had been living.
She decided that as soon as Nathan woke from his nap, she’d ride up to the top of the hill for a look at the distant mountains. She was wondering what color they would appear on this bright springlike morning.
Cookie appeared at the cook-shack door carrying a dishpan. He tossed the water carelessly to the side of the path and stopped to look up at the sky. Missie wondered if he also was willing spring to come.
Twenty-Five
Nathan
Willie went to check the horses before retiring while Missie finished the dishes and prepared Nathan for bed.
“You are getting so big,” she told the little boy. “Soon you aren’t going to fit in that wee bed anymore. Your pa is going to have to make you a bigger one.”
Nathan smiled. “Big boy.”
Missie kissed his chubby cheeks. “Big boy, all right. You are Mama’s big boy.”
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p; Nathan returned her kiss in his damply affectionate fashion.
“Now,” Missie said, “let’s say our prayers.”
Missie prayed, stopping often to let Nathan try to repeat her words. He finished with a hearty “’men.” As Missie tucked him into bed, she noticed his breathing sounded heavier than usual.
“I do hope you’re not coming down with a cold,” she told him. “Won’t be long now until the days will be nice and sunny and warm, and you can go outside to play as much as you like.”
“Doggie?”
“Sure, you can play with your doggie. You always think of ‘doggie’ when I talk about outside, don’t you? Well, soon now you can be out with Max as much as you want to.”
Nathan seemed to like the idea.
Missie pulled the blanket up under his chin and kissed him again, then began to refill the lamp with oil. Willie might wish to work on the house plans again.
Willie returned and, as Missie expected, pulled his stool up to the table. He still wasn’t sure the entrance to the house was in the most convenient place. He tried various drawings, first shifting it one way and then the other. Missie watched and made suggestions while she darned a sock. Willie finally decided his first choice had been the right one.
The next day’s branding was bound to be long and tiring, and they went to bed early.
Missie lay for a few moments listening to Nathan’s breathing, then Willie’s snoring drowned out the sound. She felt a tightness in her stomach as she turned over to try to go to sleep but couldn’t decide just why.
Missie wasn’t sure who awakened first, she or Willie. But she suddenly realized she was sitting upright in bed, a feeling of panic making the blood pound in her ears. Already Willie was springing from the bed.
“What is it?” Missie called in the darkness.
“It’s Nathan! He’s chokin’ somethin’ awful.”
Missie heard it then—the rattling gasp for breath.
“Oh, dear God, no!” she cried and stumbled out of bed after Willie.
“Light the lamp,” Willie ordered, already reaching for the small boy.
Missie hurried to fetch it, her bare feet feeling the coolness of the dirt floor.
“What is it? What’s the matter with him, Willie?”
“Was he okay when ya put him to bed?”
“He was a little raspy sounding, but nothing like this. Oh, Lord, what can we do? What is it, Willie?” Missie cried, her heart tearing at each ragged breath of her baby.
No doctor! her mind screamed with each wild beat. No doctor! Not for miles and miles! No help anywhere near here!
“Have you ever seen this before in any of yer family?” Willie asked frantically.
“Never!” replied Missie, the tears overflowing. “Never! I’ve no idea what it might be. Unless—could it be pneumonia? He can’t breathe.” Oh, dear God, we need you now, her heart cried. Little Nathan Isaiah needs you now. Please, dear God, show us what to do, or send us some help—someone who knows. Please, God.
“Have ya some medicine?” implored Willie. “Some things from yer ma? Where do ya keep it, Missie?”
“All I ever brought in were the first-aid supplies. There’s more still stored in the barn, though. I’ve never unpacked it—never needed it—”
“I’ll git it—ya stay and keep ’im warm, Missie.”
“No, Willie, you wouldn’t know the box—it’ll take you too long to find it. I’ll go, I know just where it is.”
Missie pulled on her boots and shoved her arms into the sleeves of Willie’s coat, then quickly lit another lantern. She ran from the house, the mud and slush from the spring puddles splashing on her bare legs.
“Oh, heavenly Father,” her prayers continued aloud as she gasped for breath, “please help us. We don’t have a doctor. We don’t even have a neighbor near. We don’t know what to do. Please help us, God. I couldn’t bear to lose him. I just couldn’t, God.” The tears poured down her cheeks.
She found the box of medicines quickly enough and ran with it back to the house, still pleading, “Oh, please, God, please save my baby.”
As she neared the soddy she could see inside through the tiny window. Willie stood with the baby in his arms. He was praying. Missie saw his tears and the anguish on his face.
“Oh, dear God,” she prayed, coming to a sudden stop. “It’s Willie’s son, his pride and joy, God. If you must take our baby . . . be with my Willie. Give him the strength to bear it, God. He loves his boy so much. Oh, dear God, please help us, please, please help us . . . if only someone knew. . . .” She tried to silence her sobs as she hurried into the house.
She placed the wooden box on the table. Without removing the heavy coat, she frantically clawed at the lid with a hammer from a peg near the door. The lid came loose with a loud squeak. She rummaged through the medicines, having no idea what she should be looking for.
Willie paced the floor, holding young Nathan upright in an effort to ease his troubled breathing. Suddenly there was a “hullo” outside the door, and without even waiting for a reply, Cookie walked in.
He did not ask questions. His eyes and ears must have already taken in the answers because he announced, “Croup!” in a loud voice.
“What?” Willie exclaimed.
“Croup.”
“You know what it is?”
“Sure do. Thet breathin’—thet’s croup.”
“Can you . . . ?” Missie was afraid to ask.
“Can sure try. Git the fire goin’. Make it as hot as ya can and git some water boilin’ fast.”
Willie handed the struggling baby to Missie and hurried to comply. He filled the stove with cow chips and soaked them with fuel from the lamp. A brisk fire was soon blazing. Willie set the kettle directly over the flame, though it still seemed to take forever to boil.
Cookie placed a stool in the middle of the room.
“Git me a blanket.”
Willie whipped a blanket from their bed.
“Now we need a basin fer the water.”
Willie pulled the dishpan from its hook.
Cookie busily dug through the medicines Missie had strewn across the table. He carefully read the labels that had been placed on each one by Missie’s mother.
“This oughta do,” Cookie said. “Got a spoon?”
Willie handed him one and Cookie poured out a large helping of the ointment and dumped it into the basin. The water finally boiling, Cookie poured it into the pan and held out his arms for the baby. Missie was reluctant, but Cookie seemed to be their only hope. She passed over their beloved son.
“Put some more water on and keep thet fire goin’,” Cookie ordered and sat down on the stool. “Now push thet basin over here, an’ toss thet blanket over the both of us. We gotta have us a good steam bath.”
They covered the two and then waited silently. Willie poked at the fire, and Missie paced the floor in the small space left to her, praying and listening painfully to Nathan’s choking, rasping efforts to breathe. The minutes ticked by. From beneath the heavy blanket came Cookie’s voice, startling both Willie and Missie.
“Thet other water boilin’ yet?”
It was.
“Pull out this here basin an’ change the water. Put in another spoonful of the medicine, too.”
It was done, and Willie pushed the steaming pan back under the blanket tent, being careful not to release the buildup of steam already trapped within.
Again Missie paced and prayed while Willie poked at the fire and prayed. He stuffed in another chip every time he could possibly make one fit. The room was becoming unbearably hot.
Nathan began to fuss. Is he worse? Further panic seized Missie.
“Good sign,” Cookie called out. “Before, he was too busy fightin’ fer breath to bother to fight the steam. His breathin’ seems to be easin’ some.”
It has, Missie thought with wild joy. He’s not choking nearly as much. Her tears began to fall as she repeated softly to herself, “‘Fear thou not; for I am
with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee . . .’” Missie could go no further. Sobs of thankfulness were crowding out all other thoughts. “Oh, dear God, thank you, thank you.”
Willie made another change of water, passing it to Cookie beneath the blanket. Nathan stopped fussing and his breathing steadily improved.
“He’s asleep now,” Cookie announced in a loud whisper. “He seems able ta breathe without too much strugglin’.”
Missie’s arms ached to hold her baby, but Cookie kept him under the blanket.
The first streaks of dawn were reaching their golden fingers toward the eastern hills before Cookie ventured to lift the blanket from his head.
“Put on the coffeepot, would ya, missus?” was his only comment.
Willie reached to take away the blanket and move the basin.
Missie woodenly filled the coffeepot and put it on the stove. She then turned to Cookie, who was handing the sleeping baby to his father.
“Put him back to bed now,” he said, then added slowly, “This might come again fer a night or two, but iffen yer watchin’ fer it, ya should be able to ward it off. In a few nights’ time he should be over it. Croup always hits like thet—in the dead of night, scarin’ one half to death. The steamin’ helps.”
Missie looked at the little man. He spoke quietly, matter-of-factly, as though he were used to working miracles. His body appeared limp, his clothes soaked with steam and perspiration, his wispy hair clinging wetly against his scalp. His face was drained and white, and glistened with moisture in the early morning light. Yet Missie’s heart cried out that he was truly the most beautiful person she had ever seen.
She crossed the room and reached out to gently touch his soft, stubbled face. “Cookie Adams,” she said, tears and laughter in her voice, “you can’t fool me—not for a minute. You’re no grouchy, hard-riding ole cowpoke at all. You’re a visiting angel.”
Twenty-Six
Love Finds a Home
