by Janette Oke
Finally Mrs. Croft must have dared to speak some of what she was feeling. “It was hard fer me not to have a preacher man here fer my son’s buryin’. Oh, I know I ain’t rightly what you’d call a church person, but I believe in the Almighty. Can’t say I’m on speakin’ terms with ’im exactly . . . but . . . well, sometimes . . . ’specially in hard times like we jest been through . . . sometimes I jest wish I knew a little more ’bout ’im. . . .”
Willie spoke up then. “We have meetin’s here together each Sunday. I know it ain’t like being in a church, but we do read from the Word together an’ sing a hymn or two. Ya all sure would be welcome to join us. Anyone is welcome anytime.”
“Where ya meetin’?”
“Right here—in our home.”
The woman’s face expressed a new interest.
“What time ya meet?”
“Every Sunday at two o’clock.”
“I dunno,” interjected her husband. “It’s a long way from town. By the time we got back home again, it’d be ’most dark.”
The woman, disappointed, looked down at her lap and her clasped hands.
Clark suggested, “Maybe the service could be moved up a bit earlier and not ’llowed to go fer too long.”
The woman raised her head again, her eyes hopeful.
“Well,” said the man, probably sensing how much it meant to her, “we might give it a try fer a Sunday at the two-o’clock time an’ see how it goes.”
The slight smile flickering across the woman’s face said it all.
Andy’s parents had taken no part in the exchange about church. Willie turned to them. “We’d be most happy to have ya join us, too.”
The man shook his head and shuffled his feet in an embarrassed fashion. What he mumbled was, “Don’t think we be needin’ thet. Our boy’s jest fine now. Doc set his ankle and it’s ’most as good as new.”
Marty could tell that both Clark and Willie were biting their tongues to keep from jumping in with an answer.
Finally Clark said, “We spend a bit of time in our service thanking the Lord, as well. Perhaps you an’ yer wife would like an opportunity to thank God thet He ’llowed yer boy to git out safely. Ya’d be welcome to join us anytime—fer any reason.”
The man nodded silently.
Missie served them coffee and cake, and they went on their way. As she went out the door, Mrs. Croft whispered that she was already counting the days until Sunday.
Maria and Juan came often. Juan, like a new man, had been to the city to make arrangements for setting up a proper office for the practice of medicine. He had stocked a supply cupboard with the medicines and equipment he would need. The townsfolk had coaxed him to move into a building they would provide, but Juan wished to remain on his ranch. He did agree to be at a town office for two days of the week; the rest of the time he would work out of his own home. Glad that he had built a large house, he immediately converted one wing into an office and small examining room. He worried some, realizing that he had none of the conveniences of the city hospitals, but he could send some more serious cases out by train or stagecoach.
One night as they talked together, Clark noticed that the usually buoyant Juan was quiet. Maria tried to keep the conversation going, but it was easy to sense that something was troubling Juan. After asking about his new practice, the neighborhood, the ranch, and the children, and still getting very little response from Juan, the group grew quiet.
Clark eventually turned once more to Juan. “I’m a wonderin’, Doc, if I might see ya in the privacy of my room fer a few minutes,” asked Clark. Juan offered his arm and Clark managed the distance with short, awkward hops.
Clark sat on his bed and caught his breath. He needed some kind of a crutch. He must get busy fashioning one. Hopping was far too difficult and drained him of what little strength he had.
“Something troubling . . . ?” began Juan, concerned.
“Yah,” said Clark easily, “I’m thinkin’ there is.”
The doctor automatically reached for the offending limb and began to unpin the pant leg, but Clark stopped him. “Leg’s jest fine, Doc.”
Juan was puzzled.
“Something else is bringing you pain?”
“Well, ya might say thet.”
“And where is it hurting?”
“Well, I don’t rightly know. Thet’s what I was gonna ask.”
Juan’s puzzled frown deepened.
“Well,” said Clark, watching Juan closely, “I kinda got the feelin’ somethin’ was hurtin’ the doctor and he wasn’t feelin’ free to say anythin’.”
Juan looked startled and moved away to the window, where he stood looking out on the soft night.
“It shows that much?”
“It shows.”
“I am indeed sorry. I did not mean to bring my feelings to this home, to bring sadness to those I care for.”
“Anythin’ thet ya care to talk about . . . or thet I could do?” asked Clark.
Juan stood in silence for several minutes and finally turned with a deep sigh and troubled eyes.
“I think that you have heard my story—at least in part. You know that I became a doctor against my father’s wishes. You know, too, that I was responsible for my own brother’s death—”
But Clark’s hand stopped him. “No,” he said emphatically, “thet’s not the way I heard the story. Yer brother had gangrene in a bad leg; you amputated, as you had to. Yer brother chose to take his own life.”
Juan waved that aside. “My father does not see it that way. He told me to leave that night and forbade me to return to his home again.”
“I’m sorry,” said Clark. “It must be very hard for you.”
“It is. It is very hard. Now that I am again going to practice medicine, I wish with all of my heart that I could do so with my father’s blessing.” Juan hesitated, then continued. “That sounds very foolish to you, I’m sure, but—”
“Not at all. I think I’d feel the same way.”
“You would?”
“To be sure I would.”
There was silence. Clark broke it. “What of yer mother? Is she still livin’?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps that’s what bothers me most. My mother never dared to say so, but I think she was proud that I had chosen to be a doctor. When my father sent me away, my mother, for the first time in her life, dared to protest. She fell on her knees before him and pleaded that he reconsider. In the name of Mary and all the saints, she asked him to allow me to stay. ‘Must I lose both my sons on the same night?’ she cried. I can see her yet, and the vision haunts me. If only I knew that my mother was all right.”
“Why don’t ya jest go on down an’ find out?”
“Return home?”
“Sure.”
“But my father has not asked me to come.”
Clark shrugged his shoulders.
The minutes dragged by as Juan struggled with the thought. Then Clark asked softly, “Are ya afraid?”
“Of my own father?” Juan’s shock showed the insult of such a question.
“Well, I don’t know the man. Have no idea what he might do.”
“My father would never harm me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinkin’ nothin’,” responded Clark simply. “You were doin’ the thinkin’.”
Juan nodded his head in reluctant agreement.
“So,” said Clark, “since ya have nothin’ to fear, why is it a problem to go back?”
“I have not been asked,” said Juan with a great deal of dignity. “To go back so would be like a stray puppy crawling home for forgiveness and acceptance. Even my father would scorn such—”
“Ya mean it’s a matter of pride?” Clark asked quietly.
Juan’s head jerked up, his black eyes flashing fire.
“I understand,” Clark nodded gravely. “A man does have his pride.”
There was silence again. Juan began to pace the room. The air around them seemed to be
heavy with unspoken ideas. Clark again dared to break the silence.
“’Course a man can, with God’s help, swaller his pride an’ do what he knows he should. If yer mother is livin’, I’m sure she is hurtin’, too. She has no idea if you’re alive or dead. An’ if yer father is still livin’ an’ has maybe changed his feelin’s some, how would he ever find ya to let ya know?”
Still Juan struggled with the issue.
“You do not know—” he began.
“No,” agreed Clark, “I do not know. I admit to thet. But God does, an’ I don’t think you’re admittin’ to thet. Shore thing, I wasn’t raised like you was, but things have been a bit tough fer me at times, too. Life can be pretty quick to take a swipe at a man. Sometimes we can’t duck the blows. We jest gotta take ’em head-on. They smart a bit, to be sure. But . . .” Clark allowed his gaze to rest on his stub of a leg. “He knows all thet. He not only knows, but He cares. He doesn’t ask from us thet we understand or even like what we face, but jest thet we face it like a man, an’ do what we know to be right, even though it goes against us at times.”
“And the right thing for me as you see it?”
“I can’t tell ya thet. I know thet if yer troubled ’bout things as they are now, maybe ya should do somethin’ to try to straighten ’em out. I know mothers can hurt somethin’ awful, not knowing ’bout their sons. I know fathers can make mistakes thet they suffer fer, an’ sometimes it’s most difficult to be man enough to say they was wrong. Thet’s all I know. Yes . . . I know another thing, as well. I know God can help us do the right thing—even though it seems impossible. But only you can decide what is the right thing fer you.”
Juan weighed the words of the older man. At length he turned to him and extended his hand.
“I am not making any promises, except that I will think about what you have said. It is a very hard thing.”
Clark took the hand and shook it firmly. “I’ll be prayin’ you make the right decision,” he said.
They returned to the others. There were questions in many eyes, but none were asked. Maria and Juan soon declared that they must be on their way home.
Cookie came to visit Clark whenever his work would allow him a break. He usually waited until he saw Clark out on the veranda getting some fresh air or early-morning sun, and then he would hobble over to ease himself to a step or a nearby chair. He seemed to feel he and Clark had much in common. One day he even dared to talk about it.
“Leg bother ya much?”
“Not bad now. Gives me a bit of a jar if I happen to bump it.”
“Any trouble with ‘phantom pain’?”
“Some.”
“Must be a peculiar feelin’. Somethin’ hurtin’ thet ain’t even there.”
“Yah, bothers me some, all right. Itches somethin’ awful at times, an’ ya ain’t got nothin’ to scratch.” Clark chuckled ruefully.
“Well, at least I don’t have them problems,” said Cookie.
“Yer leg still bother ya a good deal?” asked Clark.
“Sometimes.” There was a moment of silence while Cookie thought of the pain. “Not as bad lately, though. Was a time I near went wild with it.”
Clark nodded his head in understanding. “How many years now?” he asked.
“I try to fergit. Guess it must be ’bout five already. No, six. Lotsa folks said as how I’da been better off to have it removed like you done.”
“Well,” Clark reminded him, “I wasn’t able to do my own choosin’. Don’t know’s I’da really picked this way to do it, iffen I had.”
“Yer leg was bad broke, Clark,” Cookie assured him evenly. “I knew as soon as I seed it thet only a miracle could save it, an’ seems to me we been a little short on miracles in my lifetime.”
Clark smiled. “Well,” he said firmly, “I ain’t seen an overabundance of miracles myself, but I shore ain’t doubtin’ them none.” Watching Cookie’s expectant face carefully, Clark went on, “Guess one of the biggest miracles I know of is when God takes a no-good sinner and makes a saint fittin’ fer heaven outta ’im. Now, thet’s a real miracle, to my thinkin’. With some trainin’ an’ the right tools an’ medicine, even an earthly fella like the doc can put a badly messed-up body together again. But only God, through His love an’ grace, can take a crushed and broken soul and restore it again. Yes sir, thet’s a miracle.”
Cookie scuffed the dust with the toe of his boot.
“Take me now . . .” Clark said confidingly, “ya know what happened with me? When I first woke up to the fact thet I had only one leg, a part of me died inside. I started tellin’ myself all kinds of stories ’bout bein’ only half a man, an’ how sad it was to be a cripple, an’ how sorry I could be fer myself, an’ even how God had let me down. Fer a minute, I almost had me convinced thet I had good reason to jest turn over to the wall and have a real good feelin’-sorry-fer-myself time. My body was broken . . . was bruised and hurtin’ . . . an’ my soul wanted to sympathize with it, see? My soul wanted to curl up an’ hurt an’ suffer an’ become bitter an’ ugly. Now, God didn’t choose to do a miracle on this here leg.” Clark tapped the stump lightly. “But He did a bigger an’ more important miracle. He worked over the inner me—the soul of me. Thet’s where I needed the miracle the most, so thet’s where He applied His amazin’ power. In here”—Clark pointed to his broad chest—“I don’t hurt anymore.”
Cookie’s eyes hinted ever so slightly of unshed tears, and Clark wondered how many years Cookie had been in pain both inwardly and outwardly. He reached out a hand and gently squeezed the cowpoke’s shoulder.
“We needn’t fear.” His voice was almost a whisper. “He’s still doin’ miracles.”
Fourteen
Growing
In the fall Willie returned to the range and the business of ranching. Cattle needed to be rounded up and a few stray dogies branded. The steers for market required cutting and sorting from the herd and then would be driven to the train station for shipping. Sagging and broken fences were repaired and pastures checked out before the coming winter, including the all-important water holes for the cattle. And of course the dreaded rustlers mandated constant vigilance. The warm fall days were busy from dawn till dark at the LaHaye spread.
Missie still tried to spend most of her time with her father. Occasionally her own responsibilities suffered because of the attention she was showering on Clark—reading to him, though Marty thought that was one of the things he could do well on his own, making favorite dishes for him, and talking about this and that so his confinement would not seem too burdensome. But Missie’s two little boys did not seem to fare too badly, because they also were usually hovering closely around their grandfather.
Soon, though, Marty was noticing that Willie, who came back at night exhausted from his day full of hard work and the pressures of running the spread, was getting little consideration from his wife. Missie was so busy fussing over Clark that she scarcely had time to notice. Marty hoped she was exaggerating things and tried to tuck her anxiety into the back of her mind. She attempted to take care of Clark so fully that Missie would not feel this was her duty, but this did not ease the situation. Missie still hovered close by.
Marty then turned some of her own attention toward Willie, hoping to at least make him aware that he was still loved and appreciated. She of course was fully aware that Willie needed the attention of his wife—not his mother-in-law. Even the boys did not run to meet Willie with the same exuberance at the end of the day, for they had spent the day with a grandfather who carved them tops and fashioned whistles and answered their every question with serious attention.
In spite of her determination to put the matter aside, Marty daily felt her concern grow. To her surprise, Clark, who was normally so sensitive to the feelings of others and aware of situations, did not seem to notice it. Perhaps he was just too close to it.
Marty put her worries into fervent prayers for the Lord to intervene as He saw fit.
Henry came to see
Clark. He obviously had something on his mind. After a simple greeting, he came directly to the point.
“Been doin’ a great deal of thinkin’ lately,” Henry said. “We really need us a church.”
Clark nodded his head in agreement and looked up from the crude crutch he was carving, having determined it was time he did something to aid in walking. “Good idea.”
“Seems like now would be as good a time as any to be plannin’ fer it,” Henry went on. “I know thet now ain’t a good time at all fer ranchers. Real busy time of the year, but things will be slowin’ down again ’fore too long. But we shouldn’t wait fer things to slow down ’fore we git started. Thet’s sorta like puttin’ God last. Been thinkin’ thet we really are in need of some preachin’. We read the Bible together, an’ thet’s good, but some of these folks need someone to explain what it’s meanin’. Take thet there new family thet’s been comin’—the Crofts—they need someone to tell them what the Word means, to show them how to accept the truth fer themselves.”
“I was thinkin’ thet when ya said ‘church’ ya was meanin’ a buildin’,” Clark noted.
“Well, I was, an’ I wasn’t,” answered Henry. “Shore, we need a buildin’, an’ I think we could work on thet real soon, too. But I was also thinkin’ of people an’ of those who need to know the truth. I think it’s time to give ’em more’n we been doin’.”
“Sounds good to me,” responded Clark. “Ya got some plans fer this?”
“Yah,” said Henry, “been thinkin’ on you.”
“Me?” Clark couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice.
“Shore. You.” Henry did not waver.
“But I don’t have any Bible trainin’.”
