by Janette Oke
“Maybe yer right,” she said, “maybe we do need a bigger house. It’s jest thet it seems so quiet like when they’re all off to school. This little house has been a cozy home for us, Clark.” She reached across the table for his hand. “Thank ya again for—” “It’s me doin’ the thankin’, Marty,” Clark said, squeezing her hand. “This was jest a roof over our heads till you came and made us a home.”
Marty’s eyes misted and her smile was a little wobbly at the corners. Then she said, “Yeah, we do need us more room. What’re ya thinkin’?”
“I think I’ll spend me the winter hauling logs,” he answered. “This here new house—I been thinkin’ on it a lot. Not gonna be a log one. Gonna be boards—nice boards.”
“Thet’ll cost a fortune.”
“Not really. There’s a mill over ’cross the crik now. I can trade my logs in on lumber. Been thinkin’ on the style, too. How ya feel ’bout an upstairs—not a loft but a real upstairs? With steps goin’ up—not a ladder. Like them fancy houses back east.”
Marty caught her breath. “Seems to me ya got pretty big dreams,” she said carefully, not wanting to dash them.
“Maybe—maybe I have, but I want you to do a little dreamin’, too. I want this house to have what yer wantin’. More windows, closets fer clothes ’stead of pegs—whatever yer wantin’. Ya do some dreamin’ an’ write yer plans down on paper. We’ll see iffen we can’t make some dreams come true.”
“When, Clark?” Marty finally asked, feeling nearly overwhelmed with the possibility but also worried that it was too much.
“Not next year—I don’t s’pose,” he answered. “Gonna take a long while to git all those logs, but the year after—should be able to do it by then fer sure.”
“Sounds . . . sounds . . . like a fairy tale,” Marty said in wonder, finally accepting the fact that it really could happen.
Clark grinned and stood up. He reached out and touched her hair.
“Did I ever tell ya that I love ya, Mrs. Davis?”
“I’ve heard it afore,” said Marty, wrinkling up her nose, “but it bears repeatin’ now an’ then.” She caught his hand and held it to her cheek.
He tipped her face up to his, then leaned to plant a kiss on her forehead.
“By the way,” he said, “thet’s mighty good coffee.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Livin’ and Learnin’
Missie had arrived at her last year in the local school under the supervision of Clae, and as her school days came to an end, Luke’s would begin. Clae had promised the school one more term, and then it was hoped Missie would take over, for she, too, had decided to pursue teachers’ training.
Clae, living again in the Davis home, clearly was not committed to a life in education, though she certainly made a fine teacher and her students loved her. Marty was sure that Clae would make a fine parson’s wife. Though the Davis household got the lion’s share of the young parson’s calls, he did not neglect the rest of his parishioners. Only Mrs. Watley had any real difficulty with the frequency of his calls at the Davis household.
Marty could hardly bear the thought of Missie going away for further education. Somehow it seemed more difficult to face than when Clae left. Missie was a bit younger than Clae had been when she left, having started school at not quite six—Clae had been older when she began her schooling. But Marty knew she had to get herself mentally and emotionally prepared for the inevitable.
Clark spent the winter months hauling logs to the mill across the creek. He was well pleased with the progress he was making and could see no problem with scheduling and building the new house during the next year.
Nandry’s baby girl arrived, and they named her Tina Martha after her two maternal grandmothers, Nandry said. Marty felt very honored.
“Well, Grandpa,” she said to Clark as she held the soft little one, “we’ve got our feet in two worlds—parents and grandparents both.” The family laughed and joked about it all, and Luke wondered what he should now call his ma and pa.
Fran and Tommie’s baby arrived about the same time—a solid, healthy boy whom they named Ben and who immediately was Little Ben.
Sally Anne gave birth to her third child, but Little Emily lived only three days, and a tiny fresh mound was sorrowfully dug in the cemetery by the church.
Rett Marshall was now handling a team of horses almost as well as a grown man. He loved creatures, tame or wild, and even had a young jackrabbit for a pet. A strange boy, people occasionally noted, but there was admiration in their voices. Several farmers had hired his services when they needed a pair of strong arms and a way with animals.
Marty remembered an overheard conversation from long ago between a neighbor and the doctor. “I often wonder, Doctor,” the woman had said, “do ya ever wish thet maybe ya hadn’t . . . well . . . hadn’t fought quite so hard like at the birthing of the Marshall boy?”
The doctor had looked at her a moment, then said evenly, “Of course not.” He then went on to say, “I didn’t make that life—the Creator did. And when He made it, I expect He had good reasons for doing as He did—and whatever that reason is, it is in His hands.”
Marty thought of this each time she watched the boy whistle a bird down or make friends with a prairie dog. She thought of it, too, when she saw the love in Wanda’s eyes and Cam’s pride in his son.
The LaHaye farmstead no longer resembled anything that had ever belonged to Jedd Larson. Zeke LaHaye was a good farmer who knew land well. Under his care the fields produced and the farm prospered. New buildings and a new well grouped nicely under the trees. Neat rows of fencing encircled the holding. But for all the prosperity of the homestead, Mrs. LaHaye remained in poor health. Their son Nathan married a girl from town and moved her into the big house with the family. She was a pleasant girl and was able to take over much of the running of the household. This was a great source of comfort to the senior Mrs. LaHaye.
Marty sat in her rocker with another pair of Luke’s torn overalls on her lap and thought about all the changes that were happening. New neighbors moved in. Very little farmland in the area now was not in use. New buildings sprang up in town, almost overnight it seemed, as new businesses were added. The town had built a church of its own and had brought in a pastor to care for the people. There was even a sheriff ’s office and a bank. A daily stage now ran between the local towns. All these developments made their small community feel no longer like they lived on the frontier. Why, they were nearly self-sufficient.
They had their church, they had their school, they had a doctor they could call on. Marty certainly didn’t consider herself a pioneer woman anymore.
The next summer saw Clae and the young parson joined together in marriage. Instead of asking the town’s parson to do the honors, the young couple went back east to his hometown. Parson Joe was anxious to introduce Clae to his family and also eager to have his former pastor and dear friend perform the ceremony. The Davises of course were sorry to miss the event, but they made plans for a community potluck supper to honor the couple upon their return.
The school board agreed to rent the teacherage to the pastor and his wife for a modest amount, and this was fine with Missie, since she preferred to live at home upon commencing her duties. She no doubt had realized the restrictions on her social life if she were to live alone.
In spite of a bad accident with an axe, Clark met his log quota the following winter.
He had been cutting logs alone on the hillside when the axe blade glazed off a knot and spun sideways, slicing deeply into his foot. He had bound his foot as best as he could, packing moss against it and tying it tightly with a strip of his shirt. He was trying to make it home on one of his new workhorses, Prince, when Tom Graham crossed paths with him.
Prince was not used to being ridden, and Clark’d had his hands full trying to handle the excited horse in his weakened condition. He had lost a lot of blood and was quite content to be helped from the skittish horse to Tom’s wagon box, where he
could lie down.
Tom pressed the horses forward in an effort to get Clark home as quickly as possible. He threw the harnesses on the fence, helped Clark into the house, and jumped on his own horse to go for the doc.
Marty nearly fainted at the sight of Clark. He tried to assure her that he would be fine, but his face was so white and his hands so shaky she wasn’t convinced. Marty got him to bed, where she fussed and fretted over him, hardly knowing what should be done.
“If ya see no fresh blood,” Tom had admonished over his shoulder as he left, “best ya leave thet foot alone ’til the doc gits here.”
Marty studied the foot for signs of fresh blood, but thankfully none seemed to appear.
“Could ya eat a little broth iffen I fixed it? You’re gonna need strength, ya know.” Being a woman, her thoughts went to nourishment.
At first it didn’t seem to appeal much to Clark, but he nodded his head in the affirmative, then cautioned, “Not too hot—jest warm.”
Marty complied. The time until the doctor got there seemed endless, but at last Marty heard a horse approaching. She stayed out of the room while the doctor cleaned and sutured the cut. A couple of times she heard Clark groan, and her knees nearly buckled beneath her.
“And you,” the doctor caught her by surprise as she tried to busy herself in the kitchen, “you’re almost as white as he is. You best sit you down and have a cup of hot weak tea with some honey in it.” He sat her on a chair and found the items for the tea.
Doc handed her the cup. “It’s going to take him a while, but he’ll be fine. He’s young and tough. He’ll make it. Your big job will be to keep him off the foot until it has a chance to heal properly. I’ve a notion your job won’t be an easy one. Can’t you put him to mending or piecing a quilt?”
There was humor in the doctor’s eyes, and Marty couldn’t help but laugh. The thought of Clark sitting contentedly with a little needle in his big working hand, matching dainty pieces for quilting, was just too much. Doc patted her shoulder and laughed, too.
In spite of the deepness of the cut and the loss of blood, the foot healed neatly and quickly. Clare and Arnie very capably took over the chores, reporting it all to their pa when they came in to supper.
As predicted, Marty’s biggest problem was to keep Clark down as the doctor had ordered. He grumbled and fussed at not being able to be up and busy as he was used to being.
Their new son-in-law, Parson Joe, came as often as he could for a game of checkers. He usually brought Clae along. Other neighbors dropped in now and then. They informed Clark that the logs already felled would be hauled to the mill before spring thaw, just as he had planned. Clark accepted their kindness with deep appreciation. And they, of course, remembered all the times he had put his shoulder to their plows when they were in difficult straits.
Missie brought books from the school for him to read, which helped him pass many hours.
Finally the long ordeal was over and Doc declared the foot healed enough to be stepped on again. Clark hobbled, but at least he was again on his feet—a fact that each member of the household was truly thankful for. Marty noticed that on some days his limp seemed to be a bit worse than others. It must still bother ’im, she said to herself. But when she asked him about it, he brushed off her concerns as of no consequence.
During the day the house was left to just Marty and Clark.
First with Missie’s semester away at teacher’s training and now with Luke in school, rites of passage had been marked in the Davis family.
As soon as Clark was able, he was back at the logging again. The neighbor men, true to their word, had indeed hauled out all the logs he previously had cut, but according to his calculations, he still needed another four wagonloads.
Marty watched him leave every morning with a feeling of anxiety and breathed a silent prayer of thanks when he returned safely at the end of the day.
Marty was thinking about spring and the start on the promised new house. Having the actual construction begun would take on special meaning, for once it was started, it would mark the end of Clark’s daily and solitary trek to the woodlands.
Marty watched as the new clapboard house took shape. It was even bigger than she had dreamed. There were windows in every room. A fieldstone fireplace graced not only the family living room and the parlor but their bedroom, as well.
Clark had obtained the services of two men from town to assist with the building, so that even when he was busy in the fields the work went on. Marty measured the windows and bought material for the curtains so they would be ready to hang when the house was completed.
The house would not quite be ready by fall, but they planned to celebrate their next Christmas in their new home. Nandry and Josh with little Tina, and a second new family member by then, as well as Parson Joe and Clae, would all be home to share the Christmas turkey with them. They could even stay the night if they wished, and no one would be tripping over anybody in unexpected places.
It was something grand to look forward to, and Marty spent many hours planning, sewing, and dreaming.
TWENTY-NINE
Missie’s Callers
Missie closed the exercise book she had been marking and heaved a contented sigh. It was hard to believe she was already into her second year of teaching. She loved it. True, she had some rascals in her classroom, including her own young brother Luke, but all in all she was glad she had chosen to be a teacher.
She piled the books neatly together and got up to clean the chalkboard. Her back to the door, she screamed in alarm when a pair of hands suddenly circled around to cover her eyes.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” a voice said. “I didn’t mean to frighten ya, only surprise ya like.”
Missie turned to look into the face of Willie LaHaye. Through her mind flashed the dead mouse, the grasshopper, and other nasty pranks Willie had played in the past. Her fright turned to anger and she swung away in disgust.
“Willie LaHaye!” she exploded. “When are you ever going to grow up?”
She immediately wanted to bite her tongue, for her eyes assured her that Willie LaHaye had indeed grown up—at least on the outside.
Broad shoulders topped strong muscled arms showing inside his shirt sleeves; bushy sideburns indicated what his beard would be were he not clean-shaven, and Missie had to look up a good way in order to signal her wrath.
Willie only grinned, the same maddening, boyish grin.
Missie again spun around on her heel.
“Well, now that you’ve had your fun, you can just take yourself right on out the door. I’m busy.”
“But I came to see the new schoolmarm,” he said, seemingly not at all perturbed by her anger. “I think thet I could use a little help on my ABC’s.” He moved around to get in front of her.
“A is for apple, B is for bait,” he recited. “C is for coyness—E is for Eve, and thet’s about as far as I can git.”
“You’re not funny—besides, you missed D.”
“D,” said Willie, “D—hmm. ’Bout the only thing I remember thet starts with D is—dear.”
Missie was so angry she considered throwing the chalk brush she discovered was still in her hand.
“Willie LaHaye!” she started in sternly.
“I know, I know,” said Willie comfortably, “I’m not funny.
Actually I stopped by to give ya some good news.”
“Such as—?” prompted Missie.
“Such as, I’m leavin’.”
“Yer what?”
“I’m leavin’. I’m goin’ on further west.” Willie suddenly had turned very serious.
“To where?”
“Not sure. Ya know when Pa settled here, he’d been planning on goin’ on further. Hadn’t been fer Ma gettin’ sick we would have gone on. Well, I always was a mite disappointed. I’d sorta like to see what’s over the next hill. Pa’s all settled in here now, and Nathan’s married and settled in, too, an’ I suddenly got to thinkin’ they don’t need me a
round a’tall.”
Missie had cooled down some and was willing to talk if Willie would be sensible.
“What does your pa think?”
“Haven’t told ’im yet.”
“When would you go?”
Willie shrugged. “Don’ know—that depends on a few things.”
“Like—?”
“Like Ma—she’s still not well, ya know, an’ other things. Thought maybe next summer—maybe.”
“Not soon, then?”
“Depends.”
Missie turned back to her boards and finished erasing the day’s lessons.
“How’s the teachin’ goin’?” Willie asked.
“Good,” said Missie “—only I had to send Luke to a corner today.”
“What’d he do?”
“He dipped Elizabeth Anne’s ribbons in an inkwell.”
“Spoilsport.”
Missie remembered her own ribbons being dipped in an inkwell. And who had done it.
“It’s not funny,” she said, angry again. “Hair ribbons cost money.”
“Reckon they do. I never thought about that.”
“Well, I told Luke he had to save his pennies to buy new ribbons for Elizabeth Anne.”
“You’re a smart teacher.”
“Not smart—just—”
“Pretty?”
“Of course not. Look, if you’re not going to be sensible, I refuse to talk to you.”
Missie walked over to close the open window. It was stuck—as usual.
“Here, let me help.”
Willie stood directly behind her and reached out toward the window. Missie was imprisoned between his arms. Her face flushed. She dared not turn around or she would be face to face with him.
Willie didn’t seem in any hurry to lower the window, though looking at the muscular arms, Missie knew the problem wasn’t his lack of strength.
“Can’t you get it, either?” she asked, her voice surprisingly controlled.
