Love's Long Journey (Love Comes Softly Series #3)

by Janette Oke

  seem to be much room for extras here. An' Willie, put my sewin'

  machine with them too, will you please?"

  Willie started to protest, 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' care fer 'em. Where d'ya want the wagon left?"

  "Jest pull it up beside the house. We have all the things fer this youngun to move in yet."

  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."

  "An' horses?"

  "A fairly good string."

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  "You're 'bout fixed, then, I reckon."

  Willie nodded, pushed his cup back and rubbed his hands wearily over his face. He stood and walked to the window, bending his head so that he could 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 'til I had a decent house built. This ain't no fittin' place fer a woman--an' a baby."

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

  "Oh, Willie," she said reaching her arms up 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 some, but I'll get used to it. Really. Really I will. I'd have never stayed there in Tettsfordnot without you. I was so lonesome for ya. I near 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 close. "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. You'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 was at home! That was 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 only she could keep from looking up at him, she could recover her composure. Nathan fussed, and Missie turned gently from Willie without lifting her face.

  Steadying 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 and forced a smile.

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  Chapter 26

  Winter

  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 slapping 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 her pails.

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

  Missie set down her pails, then scrubbed her hands thoroughly at the basin in the corner. The cold water increased the tingling feeling; she rubbed them vigorously with the rough towel in

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  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 survived the first two long weeks of living in the crowded shanty. Nathan was part of the reason. The wee baby brought life and meaning to Missie's world.

  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 concern. Surely a woman should be able to shoulder the task of keeping the fire going. Still, she didn't know how she would handle it once the snow covered the ground. Worry 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 "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 that the water would boil. Willie might soon be in and he would be chilled to the bone. But it was Henry's voice that 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't a' 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 sensed a grin in Henry's voice. "But I reckon they might think thet they was hired on to punch cows-- not pick up chips."

  "We'll see," Willie said.

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

  The next morning, soon after breakfast, two wagons and five

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  men set out to gather chips for the winter fires. All day long they shuttled back and forth. The cook's supply was heaped beside the cookshack, but Missie was favored. 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 her shanty fill. Gathering chips would have been an increasingly difficult task with the coming of the winter snow. "Thank you, God," her heart whispered, "And thank you, Willie--an' all of you." Missie felt light with her thankfulness. She groped for a way to express her deep gratitude. 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.

  The next day the men also hauled, and even the next--piling the overflow beside the shed. To Missie it looked like the supply would last forever. It did to some of the hands also. But Willie declared that he wanted to be absolutely sure that his wife had plenty on hand for warm fires throughout the coming winter.

  Missie's days became easier after the chips had been gathered. But her time was also more difficult to fill with activity. The little room needed very little attention. Missie swept at the floor, made up the bed, prepared the meals and washed the dishes. Of course, she often had to make a trip to the spring when she ran out of the water, which Willie had hauled before leaving for his daily duties. Beyond that, there wasn't much to fill her hours.

  She decided to knit socks for Henry--then continued to knit a pair for each of the ranch hands. She would have them ready for Christmas. After the socks were finished and Missie's idle hands once again felt useless, she decided to make each of the men heavy woolen mittens for the winter days ahead. She hesitated--not sure if cowboys would scorn such things as woolen mittens, but she proceeded anyway.

  Missie did not
know the men well. The tall, lean, hard-faced one with the hook-nose was Clem. The shorter, tobacco-spitting one was Sandy.

  Missie was a bit more familiar with Cookie--the cook. He was a quiet but pleasant man whose sharp eyes seemingly missed nothing. His face was plain until lit with a smile--which

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  occurred whenever he saw Missie or her small son. Cookie walked with a bad limp--which explained why he was content to cook rather than ride the range with the other men. A bad fall while breaking a horse was his explanation for the faulty hip and leg. Missie was glad that he was around, for though they rarely conversed, his occasional nod and grin brightened her day a bit.

  The baby's laundry was Missie's most trying task. The water had to be hauled from the spring below the house; though Willie filled the two available pails before he left in the morning, it wasn't nearly enough for Missie to do the job. The little stove was too small to hold a tub or a boiler, so Missie had to heat the water kettle by kettle. By the time she had the next kettleful hot, the first one had cooled. Having been schooled to wash clothes in hot water, she found her patience sorely tested.

  The first winter storm attacked with fury. Driving wind whipped cutting sleet, smashing it against the small windows, swirling it round each corner of the sod house. The snow stacked in drifts and buried any obstacle in its pathway. Missie prayed that her little sod shack would be able to stand against the storm's anger.

  Willie insisted on being out when Missie felt it was only sensible for him to be in. All hands rode throughout the day to insure that the three hundred cattle now wearing the Hanging W brand were not lost in the storm.

  They returned late in the afternoon, having hazed the cattle into a boxed canyon which they hoped would offer some protection from the worst of the weather.

  Still, Willie fretted and paced as he watched the driving snow.

  The storm had lost some of its fury by the next afternoon, and Henry and Sandy rode out to check the stock. They reported back that all were accounted for. Willie relaxed again.

  The snow did not melt away, and Missie realized that winter was not about to retreat. The spring soon froze over; Missie was forced to melt snow for their water supply. It was a tedious task, particularly on her washday. She didn't care for the taste of snow water, either, but gradually adjusted to it.

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  Missie's days were uneventful, repetitious. She was bored. The deep drifts all about the little sod house blocked her view of even the empty, frost-painted hills. The tasks of bringing her fuel for her fire and melting enough snow to keep water in the house provided Missie with nothing except work.

  How glad Missie was for tiny Nathan. As he became aware of what was happening around him, and his smile greeted Missie when she looked over at him in his bed, her days took on some meaning and purpose. She talked to him constantly. Without him the dark walls of the tiny sod shanty would have been a prison for Missie during those long, empty, wintry days.

  "Thank You, Father," Missie prayed often. "Thank You for our son."

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  Chapter 27

  Christmas

  One day, as Missie hung the baby's laundry from the lines strung in the one-room house, she suddenly realized to her surprise that only a few days remained until Christmas.

  She ducked under a line of hanging diapers and made her way to another homemade calendar clipped on the wall. It was true. There were only four days 'til Christmas.

  She looked about her. Christmas? Here? She blinked away tears and scolded herself. But the aching feeling within her was not to be shaken so easily. What could she possibly do to make this shanty ready for Christmas?

  That evening as she and Willie sat at their small table to eat their stew and biscuits, Missie brought up the subject.

  "Did you realize that in just four days it's Christmas?"

  "Christmas?" Willie said, looking surprised. "Christmas already? Boy, how time does fly!"

  Missie felt a sharp retort forming on her tongue, but she refused to voice it.

  "Christmas!" Willie repeated. "I can hardly believe it."

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  He finished the biscuit that he was eating. "Guess I can't provide ya with a turkey. Will a roast of venison do?" "I reckon."

  "Be kinda hard havin' Christmas alone, won't it?"

  "I've been thinkin' on that." Missie said. "Why don't we have the hands in?"

  "In here?"

  "Why not?"

  Willie stared at the lines of hanging baby things. "Not much room."

  "I know, but we could make do."

  "They could come two at a time, I guess."

  "That wouldn't be Christmas."

  "How'll ya do it, then?"

  "I'll set the food out on the table an' the stove an' we'll just help ourselves and sit wherever we fit--on the stools, on the bed--wherever. I think there's one more stool in the bunkhouse--an' Cookie has one in the cookhouse."

  Willie laughed. "You've got yer heart set on it, ain't ya?" Missie lowered her head but made no comment.

  "Okay," said Willie, "invite the men."

  "Would you invite them, please, Willie? I--I don't see them much."

  "Sure, I'll invite 'em. Fer what time?"

  "Let's make it one o'clock."

  Willie nodded. "An' I'll git ya thet venison roast."

  "Could Cookie do the roast in his stove? Then I can have mine free for the other things."

  Willie nodded again. "I'll talk to 'im."

  Cookie agreed to do the roast, and when the day arrived Missie went to work on the remainder of the meal. She didn't have much to work with but what she lacked in ingredients, she made up for with ingenuity. She had been hoarding some of her mother's preserves for just such a time as this. She opened them now and used some of the fruit to fill tart shells. She prepared some of the last canned carrots and beans from home to go with the roast venison. The only potatoes left were a few precious ones

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  that she had kept, hoping to plant them in the spring. They looked sorry and neglected, but Missie still prayed that they might have the germ of life left in them. She refused to use any of them now, although the thought of potatoes with the meal made her mouth water. Instead, she baked a big batch of fluffy biscuits and set out her last jar of honey to go with them.

  When the men arrived, Cookie proudly carrying his roast of venison, Missie was ready for them.

  "Before we eat," Willie said, "I have something else to bring in. We don't have much room, iffen ya noticed"--this brought a guffaw from the men--"so I left it in the other shed."

  He soon returned carrying a scrub bush, held upright in a small pail. On its tiny branches hung little bows made from Missie's scraps of yarn.

  "Didn't rightly seem like Christmas without a tree," he said apologetically. The men whooped and Missie cried.

  When the commotion had died down, Willie moved with difficulty to the middle of the room and led them in prayer:

  "Father, we have much to thank You fer. Fer the goodsmellin' food of which we are about to partake; fer the warmth of this little room in which we are to share it; fer friends who are here with us an' those who are far away; fer the memories of other Christmases _spent with those we love; fer Nathan Isaiah, our healthy son; and most of all, God, fer my wife who has blessed us all by givin' us this Christmas. We are reminded thet all of these blessin's are extras. Yer special gift to us on this day was Yer Son. We accept thet Gift with our thanks. Amen."

  As the menfolk devoured the tasty and plentiful food, Missie sat quietly. She tried to keep her thoughts from wandering to her parents' home. What would it be like if she could be there, right now? In a house big enough to serve a whole family in comfort, with fresh butter, mashed potatoes, turkey, baked squash, and apple pie topped with whipped cream.

  She looked at her plate filled with sliced venison and gravy, canned carrots with no garnish, canned yellow beans, and a biscuit with no butter. However, many days during the last year, she ha
d partaken of even simpler fare. She realized that she was

  '

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  eating a rather sumptuous feast, in comparison. The men obviously felt it was such; and when it came time for the tarts and coffee, they licked their lips in anticipation. Missie picked her way across the room to check on Nathan. One could barely move without tripping over feet but the close proximity just made it easier for laughing together.

  "Son," she whispered to the baby, "you're not gonna remember one thing 'bout this, but I want you to get in on it anyway. Your very first Christmas, and I don't even have anything to give you--but a kiss, an' laughter of friends." She took him in her arms.

  After the meal, Missie summoned all of her courage and presented each one of the men with a pair of socks and woolen mittens. She was unprepared for their deep appreciation. She realized that for some of them it may have been their first Christmas gift since they were small boys at home.

  Cookie shifted his position to "git outta the smoke from the blasted fire--it's a makin' my eyes water."

  Clem swallowed over and over, his Adam's apple lurching up and down.

  Missie prayed that none of them would feel embarrassed at having nothing to give in return.

  After the men had expressed their thanks as best as they could, Missie began timidly, "Now I want to say thank you for your gift to me."

  Five pairs of eyes--six, counting Nathan's--swung to her face. There she sat, just a little scrap of a girl-woman, youthful and pretty, her cheeks glowing with health, her eyes sparkling near tears, her trim figure clothed attractively in a bright calico, the tiny, fair-skinned, chubby-cheeked Nathan contentedly in her arms studying her face.

  "I want to thank you," she said shyly, "for workin' so faithfully for my husband, for makin' his load--an' thus mine--easier, for not demandin' things that we can't provide." She hesitated, then smiled, "But most of all, I want to thank you for the good supply of chips that you didn't fuss 'bout haulin'. I've been thankful over an' over for those chips."