Love's Enduring Promise

by Janette Oke

  The Davises saw much of Willie LaHaye in the next few months. It seemed to Marty that he might just as well move in his bedroll. They liked Willie and approved of the relationship between him and Missie, but Marty knew their remaining time with Missie in their home would be far too short. After she and Willie were married . . . Marty tried to not even think that far ahead. But with Missie at school all day, it was difficult to be required to share her with Willie almost every evening.

  Missie and Willie were full of plans and dreams. Willie spent much of his time talking to men who had been farther west, inquiring about good range land. He was advised by most to travel toward the mountains and then follow the range southward. The winter snows were not as deep there, was the consensus of opinion, and the range land was excellent. Willie was cautioned to make sure he chose carefully with a year-round source of water supply in mind.

  One evening Missie returned from bidding Willie good night, but this time her eyes sparked and her cheeks were flushed with anger. She took a quick swipe at her cheek with the back of her hand in an effort to hide her tears.

  Clark and Marty both looked at her in surprise but said nothing.

  “That—that—Willie LaHaye!” Missie muttered and headed upstairs to her bedroom.

  She did not tell them what the quarrel had been about, but two evenings later it appeared to be well patched up, forgiven, and forgotten.

  On the tenth of May, Willie would be leaving to seek his new land.

  Missie bade him farewell in private. His excitement carried over to her, filling her heart and imagination. She did want him to go find their land to fulfill their dreams, but, oh, she would miss him. And there was always the slight chance he wouldn’t be coming back. She had heard tales of other men who had gone and, because of sickness or accident, never returned. He assured her, over and over, that he would return. She wanted to believe him and tried to shut out the black thoughts, but they refused to be thoroughly banished.

  She knew that Willie, too, had wrestled with doubts. They had discussed many times the reality that the West was calling to him, but sometimes he wondered if maybe he was doing this all wrong. Maybe they should marry first and go together; then there would be no need for a separation. But then again it might be awfully hard on Missie—trailing him around looking for a place that could be theirs. Land was not as easy to come by now as it had once been—at least not good land. It would mean perhaps living in a covered wagon for many months. No, he had concluded, making her go through all that was selfish. He’d go alone first, then come back for her. Perhaps the months would pass quickly for both of them. He prayed that they would.

  Willie also had talked frankly with Missie about the fact there were other neighborhood young men around—Lou Graham, for one—and Missie was a very pretty and appealing girl. Could a lonely girl, left for months on her own, hold on to the flame for him? Wait for him to return for her? She assured him, over and over, that she could.

  Missie, who now walked beside him, her hand in his one more time before he left, put into words the thoughts of both of them. “It’s going to seem an awfully long time, I’m afraid.”

  Willie stopped walking, turned her to him, and looked deeply into her eyes.

  “For me, too.” He swallowed hard. “I hope an’ pray thet the days and weeks go quickly.”

  “Oh, Willie,” cried Missie, “I’ll pray for you every night . . . that . . . that God will keep you and . . . and speed your way.”

  “An’ I fer you.” Willie traced a finger along Missie’s cheek, and she buried her face against his shoulder and let the tears flow freely. He held her close, and she could feel him stroking her long brown hair. A man wasn’t supposed to cry, but she knew he was and loved him all the more for it.

  It was time for Willie to go. He kissed her several times, whispered his promises to her again and again, then put her gently from him. He did not look back at her once he started for his horse.

  “He’ll be back,” Missie promised herself aloud. “Willie will be back.” And she lifted her face to the stars and whispered, “Please take care of him, Father.”

  Willie’s good-byes were not yet over. Zeke LaHaye accompanied his son into town and puttered around at last-minute fixings and unnecessary purchases. When the time finally came for the group heading west to be off, Zeke stepped forward and gave his son a hearty handshake and some last-minute cautionary advice.

  “Be careful now, son. Like yer ma woulda told ya iffen she still be here, be courteous to those ya meet, but don’t allow yerself to be stepped on. Take care of yerself an’ yer equipment. It’ll only be of use to you iffen ya look after it. Keep away from the seamy side of things—I not be needin’ to spell thet out none. Take care, ya hear?”

  Willie nodded, thanked his pa, and was about to turn and go when Zeke LaHaye suddenly cast aside his usual reserve and stepped forward to engulf his boy in a warm embrace. Willie returned the hug, acknowledging how good it felt to be locked in the arms of his father. The last thing Willie saw as he left was his pa, big and weathered Zeke LaHaye, brushing a tear from his sun-darkened face.

  THIRTY-TWO

  One More Surprise

  It was a Saturday, and Marty was in the kitchen turning out a batch of bread when Luke skipped in.

  Missie sat hemming a tablecloth and didn’t even lift her head toward her young brother until he announced in a teasing, sing-songy voice, “Willie’s comin’.”

  “Oh, Luke, stop it,” said Marty. Missie was lonely and miserable enough without someone playing with her emotions. It had been nearly a year since Willie had left, and letters between them had been far too few. Not that either of them didn’t want to write, but postal delivery to someone on horseback was difficult at best.

  “He is too comin’—jest see fer yerself,” Luke argued and pointed down the road.

  Missie ran to the window. “He is, Ma!” she nearly screamed in her excitement and was out the door on the run.

  “Well, I’ll be.” Marty stood at the window and watched Willie’s galloping horse slide to a stop and the young man leap to the ground, all in one motion.

  “I’ll be,” said Marty again. “The boy’s been all the way west and back and then risks his neck in my yard.” She smiled as she watched the young couple embrace, obviously caring not at all whether they had an audience.

  Marty turned back to her bread. After he first had gone, she had secretly looked forward to having extra time with Missie all to themselves. But the look in Missie’s eyes and the evidence of sleepless nights soon made Marty realize that she, too, would gladly welcome Willie’s return.

  There was a lot of joy at the table that evening. Missie and Willie spent more time feasting their eyes on each other than eating. Marty couldn’t help but hope maybe Willie’s quest had been in vain and that he would settle for a farm in the area.

  Finally Clark posed the question. “Did ya find what you’re lookin’ for out west?”

  “Sure did.”

  Marty’s heart sank, but she held on to her calm and kept a smile on her face.

  “What’s it like?” she made herself ask, surprised her voice sounded normal.

  “Well, ma’am,” Willie’s eyes shone as he talked, “it’s ’bout the nicest thing—landwise,” he quickly amended with a grin toward Missie, “thet a man ever set eyes on.” He turned back to the family as he continued, and Marty rose to replenish the bowl of potatoes.

  “There’s no tall timber in that area—only scrub brush in the draws. The hills are low and rolling with lots of grass. Toward one end is a valley—like a picture—with a perfect spot fer home buildin’. It’s sheltered an’ green, with a spring-fed crik runnin’ down below. Lotsa water on the place, too. Three springs thet I know of—maybe more thet I didn’t spot out yet.”

  The enthusiasm in Willie’s face was contagious.

  “Almost makes me wish I wasn’t old an’ crippled, son,” Clark quipped.

  Marty reached over his shoulder w
ith the refilled bowl, then stood behind his chair and touched his hair affectionately. “I most surely am not married to anybody old and crippled, Clark Davis,” she told him. “Who on earth are ya’ talkin’ about?” The family laughed with her.

  “Were ya able to make the deal?” Clark was a practical man. Searching out good land did not mean ownership.

  “Thet’s what took the time.” Willie nodded. “Man, ya jest wouldn’t believe the hassle—goin’ here, goin’ there, seein’ this man, lookin’ up thet ’un, sendin’ fer government papers. I began to wonder iffen I’d ever git through it all.”

  He grinned and nodded again. “Finally did, though. The papers I hold declare it all to be mine. An’ it’s a lot closer to here than I’d expected it to be.” Marty could tell he was stating this mostly for her benefit. “Won’t take too long at all to travel on out,” Willie told them. “There’s a couple of wagon trains travelin’ through thet way every summer. Takin’ supplies mostly to the towns down south, but they have no objection to travelers followin’ along with ’im. Thet way ya git there safe an’ sound with all yer supplies at hand.”

  So it would be by covered wagon after all that Missie traveled. Marty remembered her own trip west by wagon and its tragic end not far from here. She had secretly hoped that if Missie really had to go, it could have been by train. She crossed to the fire and began adding wood where none was needed but soon checked herself. She’d be driving everyone from her kitchen with the heat.

  No use trying to pretend anymore. Their beloved Missie would be leaving, going west, and in a very short time. Marty had not spoken out against it, but somehow she had pushed the idea aside, hoping that things would change—that the young couple would decide not to go. Now here was the excited young man, in possession of papers that declared him a landowner out west, and an equally excited Missie hanging on his every word as though she could hardly wait to get started. There was no stopping it now.

  Marty decided to slip quietly out for a little walk to the spring.

  As the wedding day drew nearer, the house was caught in the flurry of preparations. Besides the wedding itself, careful consideration needed to be given to each item Missie was collecting in preparation for her frontier home, for each one must be essential, must fit into the wagon, and would need to withstand the long trip.

  Marty had gone to her old trunk and produced a lace tablecloth that had been made by the hands of her own dear grandmother for her wedding gift. Most of the things Marty had brought with her from the East she had long ago put to use, but this was special. Also in the trunk was a spread that Marty’s mother had made. This would be saved for Ellie.

  Besides sewing the linens and the various other household needs, Missie was busy preparing her wardrobe. There was no way she wanted to be caught short no matter how long they should be on the trail. Her dresses had to be light for the hot summer ahead and yet wear well during the rugged travel.

  Missie sewed with enthusiasm. She enjoyed sewing, and with a purpose as exciting as this, the job was a pleasure rather than a chore. Bright bonnets and colorful aprons took shape. She crafted calico gowns, then bundled and packed them into stout wooden boxes that Clark had made. Marty kept thinking of things Missie would need. Things that she herself had not had the foresight to pack when she herself came west. Pans, utensils, kettles, crockery, medical supplies, jars, containers for food—the list seemed endless and often left Missie laughing with an “Oh, Ma.”

  Marty’s anxious mind refused to find rest but continued to go over the same worn-out path again and again—no doctor, no preacher, no schools, maybe no near neighbors—which meant no Ma Graham. Oh, how much she did not want to see Missie go.

  But Missie sang as she worked and packed. The girl fairly danced through the house in her happiness.

  At the sound of an approaching horse, Missie stood quickly from the machine, where she had been busy finishing a gingham dress.

  “There’s Willie. He promised me that he’d help me pick enough strawberries for supper. We won’t be long, Ma.”

  Marty sighed and put aside her own quilting that also would be going into one of the boxes. She would make some shortcake to go with the berries.

  The young people set off, arm in arm, for the far pasture, Missie’s old red lunch pail swinging at Willie’s side.

  On the way to the kitchen Marty stopped and looked at Missie’s sewing. She had become a good seamstress. Marty was proud of her.

  She stood fingering the garment, and then her hand lovingly traveled over the machine. All through the years since she had become Missie’s mama, this machine had sewn the garments for each of her children. Clothing was mended, new towels hemmed, household items for three brides had been made here, young hands had learned the art of sewing. It was a good machine. It had never let her down. True, it didn’t have the same shine that it had when it was first carried through her door, but it had borne the years well.

  Marty was deep in thought, and eventually her tears began to fall unattended. Then Clark was there beside her, and he reached out and took her hand. She looked up at him and shook herself free from her reverie. It was a moment before she felt in control enough to speak.

  “Clark, I been thinkin’. I’d like to give the machine—Ellen’s machine—to Missie. Ya mind?”

  It was silent for a time and then Clark answered. “It’s yours to give. Iffen thet’s what ya want, then it’s fine with me.”

  “I’d like to—she’ll be needin’ it in the years ahead. And Ellen was her mama.”

  “An’ so are you.” His arm circled her waist, and she leaned against him.

  “An’ what will you do?” Clark finally asked.

  “I can go back to hand sewin’. I was used to thet, but Missie—she’s always used the machine. She’d be lost without it. ’Sides, I think thet it be fittin’ like.”

  She brushed away the last trace of the tears, then reached out a hand to run it again over the smooth metal and polished wood of the well-loved machine.

  “Will ya be good enough, Clark, to make it a nice strong crate, an’ then I’ll wrap an old blanket around it so’s it won’t get scratched.”

  Clark nodded his head. “I’ll git right to it tomorra.”

  “Thank ya,” Marty said and went to prepare the shortcake.

  THIRTY-THREE

  A Special Day

  When Missie’s wedding day dawned clear and bright, Marty felt it just suited the girl—their happy, excited, and pretty young daughter.

  Marty paused a moment before leaving her bed to send heavenward a quick but fervent petition. Oh, God. Please, please take care of our little girl . . . an’ . . . an’ make today a day thet she can look back on with joy and good memories. She looked over at Clark still snoring softly and quietly slipped from under the covers.

  There was much to be done. Marty knew she mustn’t dawdle in sentiment or emotion. She dressed quickly and went to the kitchen. Clark soon joined her and built a lively fire in the old cook stove. When they had moved into the new house, Clark had told her she could have a new cook stove, something more up-to-date—but Marty had refused.

  “Why, I’d feel disloyal,” she had explained, “castin’ out a faithful ole friend like thet. Thet old stove and I have boiled coffee fer friends, baked bread fer family, an’ . . . an’ . . . even cooked pancakes,” she finished with a knowing smile, remembering her long-ago menu limitations.

  So the old stove had moved with her. She checked the wood in it now and pushed the kettle forward.

  Missie had decided to be married at home.

  “I want to come down those stairs there on Pa’s arm.

  Really, Ma, if you open up all of the rooms, it’s most as big as the church anyway.”

  Clark and Marty had been happy to agree.

  The morning hours flew by too rapidly. There were last-minute preparations of food for the afternoon meal. Fresh flowers needed to be brought in and arranged. Children needed to be checked to see that th
ey had done their assigned chores.

  Marty felt as though she was on the run most of the morning.

  The wedding was set for three o’clock in the afternoon. It was after two before Marty was able to hurry from the kitchen, do a last-minute check on the rooms, and run to her bedroom for a quick bath. Arnie had filled the tub for her. She then slipped into her new dress. Her long hair tumbled about her shoulders, and as she pinned it up, she noticed her fingers trembled. After a last quick check on her appearance, she went to Missie’s room.

  Marty thought Missie had never looked prettier than at that moment. Standing there in her wedding gown, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with tenderness, she looked so happy Marty’s throat caught in a lump.

  “Oh, Ma,” Missie whispered.

  “Yer beautiful, Missie,” Marty whispered back. “Jest beautiful.” She pulled the girl close to her.

  “Oh, Ma,” sighed Missie. “Ma, I want to tell you something. I’ve never said it before, but I want to thank you—to thank you for coming into our lives, for making us so happy—me and Pa.”

  Marty held her breath. If she tried to speak she’d cry, she knew, so she said nothing, only pulled her little girl closer and kissed the brown curly head.

  Clark came in then and put his arms around both of them. His voice sounded tight with emotion as he spoke. “God bless,” he said. “God bless ya both.” He placed a kiss on the cheek of each of them, and then he placed his hand gently on Missie’s head, tried to clear the hoarseness from his throat, and prayed in a low voice, “The Lord bless ya an’ keep ya, the Lord make His face to shine upon ya and be gracious unto ya; the Lord lift up His countenance upon ya and give ya peace—now an’ always, Missie. Amen.”

  Missie blinked away her tears and moved out into the hall to hear last-minute instructions from Parson Joe.