Love's Abiding Joy

by Janette Oke

  Missie looked dumbfounded at Willie’s announcement, but she nodded mutely and moved toward the boys’ room. Willie ached to hold her for a minute, but his hands were occupied with the basin and dirty towels. He sensed that his wife was probably still in shock.

  “Missie,” he said softly and she turned back, “he’s gonna be all right. He’s tough. As soon as thet little bump on his head …” His voice trailed off. Then he went on. “Tell yer ma not to let him move. Iffen he wakes up an’ thrashes ’round, call fer Scottie. We couldn’t set thet there leg yet, an’ he might hurt himself.”

  Again Missie nodded silent assent. Willie moved on by her with the basin.

  “An’, Missie. Try not to worry. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  He passed through the door and headed for the bunkhouse and cook shack. He tossed the dirty water to the side of the path. When he reached the shack he found Cookie.

  “Could only find three riders,” said Cookie, “an’ even they weren’t hungry. Told ’em to eat or else.”

  “Lane an’ Scottie should be hungry,” said Willie. “They ain’t had anythin’ since—”

  “This sort of thing takes one’s appetite,” answered Cookie. “But they’ll eat. They’ll eat all right, an’ they’ll drink the coffee. They need the coffee.”

  Willie passed Cookie the blood-soaked towels. “Think thet ya can clean ’em up some ’fore the womenfolk see ’em again?”

  “Shore,” said Cookie and tossed them in a corner.

  “Tell Scottie I had to go into town. Tell ’im I want an eye kept on thet house. Iffen those women need help, I want someone to be there.”

  Cookie said nothing, but his eyes assured Willie that the order would be followed.

  Willie strode on down to the corral, where he lifted a rope from a post and snaked out his saddle horse. In a few minutes’ time the sound of pounding hoofbeats was echoing across the yard.

  Marty had had a hard time concentrating on fixing a lunch for the men with Clark lying in the bedroom in his present condition. She couldn’t remember how many scoops of coffee to put into the pot, nor could she remember where to find bread and butter. Missie’s memory didn’t seem much better, even if it was her own kitchen. Wong was down in the garden selecting vegetables for supper, and neither of the women thought to call him.

  Numbly they went about searching out sandwich materials and spreading the bread. Neither talked, although both were aware of anxious thoughts that would not be stilled. They worked on in silence until Marty noticed Missie fighting back the tears. She went to her then and took her in her arms.

  “He’ll be all right. God won’t let anythin’ happen to ’im. He’ll be fine.” Oh, how Marty wanted to believe her own words! They have to be true. They just have to. If anything happens to Clark … Her arms tightened around Missie and she began to pray aloud.

  “God, ya know how we need ya now. Ya know how we love Clark. Ya know how he has served you. He loves ya, Lord. An’ now we’re askin’ thet ya lift him up. Thet ya give ’im back his mind an’ body, iffen it be yer will, Lord. Amen.”

  Missie looked at Marty, her eyes wide and the tears streaming down her face. “Oh, Ma,” she cried, “don’t pray like that! Of course it is His will. Of course it is. He must heal him. He must.”

  Marty, too, was crying now. “Yer pa always prayed, ‘Yer will be done.’ ”

  “You can pray that way if you want to,” said Missie insistently, “but I’m going to tell God exactly what I want. I want Pa. I want him well and strong again. What’s wrong with telling God exactly what you want Him to do?”

  “Yer pa always says thet we don’t be orderin’ God—we ask.”

  Missie pulled away, and Marty could feel frustration, even anger, in the slim body. Brushing at her tears, Missie went back to the sandwiches. Her whole person seemed shut away. Marty remained in silent prayer, for Clark and for Missie, as she began to slice beef and place it on the bread.

  When the sandwiches and coffee were ready, Missie went to check on Nathan. She held the small boy close and let her tears fall. When she was sure she could speak coherently, she talked to him. “Grandpa got the boys out, Nathan. Grandpa is kind of a hero. He hurt himself saving others. Now he needs to be in bed and have a long rest. You and Josiah might have to be very quiet and especially good for the next few days. You can do that for Grandpa, can’t you?”

  She felt Nathan’s head bobbing a yes up against her.

  “We need to pray for Grandpa. God can make him all better again. Will you pray with Mama now, Nathan?”

  Nathan agreed and the two of them knelt by his bed.

  “God,” said Nathan simply, “Grandpa got to be a hero an’ is hurt an’ needs you to help him. He needs me an’ Josiah to be quiet an’ not ’sturb him. Help us to not fight or yell. An’ help Mama an’ Grandma to nurse Grandpa good. Amen.”

  Missie wished to ask the young boy to pray again. She wanted to say, “Nathan, you didn’t ask God to make your grandpa well. You didn’t say it, Nathan.” Instead she held him for a moment and told him if he’d like to go to the kitchen and share the lunch with the ranch hands, he could. Nathan bounded away, glad to be free of his room.

  Missie returned to the kitchen, her heart heavy and her head spinning. How could God answer their prayers if they didn’t pray them? Missie went to pour the coffee with a shaking hand.

  When Missie had returned to the kitchen, Marty slipped quietly into Clark’s room and knelt by his bed. She took one of his hands in hers and caressed it, careful not to bring further hurt to the already damaged hand. It did look better now that it had been cleaned up. She pressed it to her lips and let her tears wash it again.

  “Oh, Clark,” she whispered, “I couldn’t bear it iffen somethin’ should happen to you. Oh, God, I jest couldn’t stand it. Please, dear God, make ’im better again. Please leave ’im with me. I need ’im so much.” There, she was praying the very way she had warned Missie against. Well, she simply couldn’t help it! She needed Clark so much. She loved him more than life itself. She couldn’t bear to lose him. She just couldn’t! “Oh, please, God—please, please, God,” she pled.

  She stayed beside his bed, crying and praying, until all her energy and her tears were spent. Clark still did not stir. Would he ever regain consciousness?

  At length Marty was aware of a hand on her shoulder. “Mama,” asked Missie, “do you want a cup of coffee?”

  Marty shook her head.

  “You should, you know. It might be a long night. Wong made supper for the boys. I didn’t think anyone else would be hungry.”

  Marty looked up. “Yer right,” she said wearily. “I couldn’t eat a bite.”

  “Coffee, then,” said Missie, holding out the cup.

  Marty lifted herself to her feet and took it. She was surprised at how stiff she had become and she wondered how long she had been there beside Clark. Missie pushed a chair toward her and she sat down.

  “The boys are already in bed,” Missie ventured. “Willie still isn’t back. Don’t know why he—”

  “Maybe he went fer a doctor. He said thet yer pa’s leg—”

  “I’m afraid there’s no doctor anywhere around,” Missie offered sadly. “He might have heard of someone good at setting breaks, though.”

  Marty sipped at the coffee and watched Missie’s face.

  “Didn’t Willie say where he was goin’?”

  “Just said he would be gone for a while and if we needed anything to call the men. He also said not to let Pa stir around none. Might hurt his leg.”

  Marty looked at the motionless Clark. “Looks like we needn’t worry none ’bout thet. Wish he would stir some. It would make me feel some better iffen I could jest talk to him.”

  “Willie says that moving might injure his leg even more.”

  “Maybe it’s a blessin’ thet he has thet bump on his head. At least he doesn’t suffer as much. By the time he comes to again, maybe the pain will be cared fer some.”
r />   Marty hadn’t thought of the unconsciousness as a blessing, but perhaps it was. She just hoped it wouldn’t last too long.

  They sat together in silence. Scottie came for a few minutes and asked if there was anything he could do. They assured him they would call if there was any change.

  Cookie poked his head around the door, then hobbled in.

  “Are you all right?” Missie asked him.

  “Whatcha meanin’?” asked Cookie.

  “You’re lookin’ sorta down.”

  Cookie shook his head. How could he tell her that seeing Clark’s injury had reminded him of the injury in his past and the pain that had accompanied it? Clark was truly fortunate right now. He was unaware of pain. But if consciousness returned, would he be able to keep from screaming with the intensity of the agony he would feel? And how would those earth-rending screams affect the rest of the household?

  “Guess it bothers me to see a good man hurt” was all Cookie said.

  The evening crawled on. The sun disappeared and the stars came out. Soon a silvery moon was shining down on a familiar world. The horses stomped and fought in the corrals, Max barked at some distant coyotes, the crickets chirped, and the night-winged insects beat against the windowpane in an effort to get to the light. Still Clark did not stir, and Willie did not come.

  Marty and Missie sat together, talking in low tones and praying in turn. At length Missie stood and moved toward the door.

  “I think I’ll fix something to drink. Do you want tea or coffee?”

  “Tea, I think,” responded Marty wearily. She, too, stood and walked about the room. Missie left for the kitchen, and Marty moved to pick up Clark’s ragged clothes from the floor. She looked at them. They were dirty and torn and the trousers were minus one leg. Clark’s leg? She kept forgetting the broken leg in her anxiety over Clark’s unconsciousness. But she was not overly concerned about the leg. Many people had suffered broken legs. Usually, with a little skill on the part of some attendant, the leg was soon whole and workable again.

  Marty pulled back the bedcover and looked at the leg swathed in bulky bandages. Actually, the men did a rather poor job of it, she thought. She began to unwind the white material, determined to fix the bandage up a bit. To her surprise there was blood on the cloth. Broken legs did not bleed, unless of course the injury was more extensive. Marty unwound the bandage more hurriedly, and the little cry that escaped her lips was like the sound of a small wounded animal. Clark’s leg was not just broken—it was destroyed! Marty felt a sickness sweeping all through her and rushed to the small basin on the stand in the corner. Her whole body shook as she retched. Faint and weak, she grasped the edge of the stand and fought to stand on her feet. At length she regained enough strength and presence of mind to be concerned for the evidence of her sickness before Missie returned. She gathered up the basin and the small pitcher Missie had used for the cold water and headed for the backyard, disposed of the basin’s contents and washed it out, and then returned quickly to the room. The cool night air had helped to revive her some, and she hastily attempted to put things back in order. Hurriedly she rewrapped the broken limb, trying to copy the men’s original bandaging as closely as she could. Then she chided herself. It was not a time for secrets. She knew Willie had tried to spare her—her and Missie—but the truth needed to be known.

  She unwrapped the wound and began to methodically and carefully clean and bind it up, doing the best job possible for her to do. She finished just as Missie returned with the tea.

  Marty was glad for the strong, hot tea. She sipped it slowly until she felt some of its strength gradually making its way through her body.

  “I took a look at yer pa’s leg,” she stated as matter-of-factly as she could.

  “The broken one?”

  “The broken one.”

  “I hope you didn’t move—” “Yer father did not stir.”

  A minute of silence followed.

  “It’s bad, Missie, really bad.”

  “How bad?”

  “A heavy timber or rock must have fallen on it.”

  “You mean—?”

  “I mean it’s crushed. It’ll need a real doctor, one with special skills an’ tools—”

  “Then we’ll find one. Willie probably went for one. That’s what he did. He went to find a doctor.”

  “But ya said—”

  “What do I know? Just bcause I don’t know of a doc doesn’t mean there isn’t one. Willie hears far more—” “I hope an’ pray he knows of one.”

  “He will. He will. Just you wait and see. When he gets back here, he’ll have—”

  The sound of horses came faintly through the window. Missie ran to the door and looked out through the darkness into the yard. No, not horses—a horse. Willie was back, but Willie was alone.

  “The doc must be following,” Missie called over her shoulder to Marty. “Willie is home now.”

  Missie ran to meet him. When they returned to the house together, Missie’s cheeks bore fresh tears. Marty guessed the meaning.

  “Willie had them telegraph every town he knew. Nowhere around do they have a doctor,” she confessed. Willie, standing with slumped shoulders and an ashen face, could not speak.

  Marty crossed to him. “You’ve done all thet ya could,” she comforted, putting her hand on his shoulder. “Thanks, Willie.” She coaxed forth a smile that she did not feel. “We’ll jest have to pray even harder,” she said.

  Three people now sat in silence or moved slowly about the room or spoke in hushed tones. Clark did not stir through the long night.

  When dawn came, Willie insisted that Missie get some rest. The children would be needing her. Missie left to lie down for a brief time. Still no change in Clark. The day moved on, from forenoon to noonday, afternoon to evening. Marty left Clark’s side only for a few minutes at a time. She was not interested in eating, could not think of sleeping. Her mind was totally focused on her husband lying silently in the bed.

  Just as the long day ended and the sun was leaving the sky, Clark stirred and a groan came from his lips. Marty rushed to him. He opened his eyes, seemed to recognize her, and groaned again. He slipped back into unconsciousness, but to Marty it was a blessed sign. Just to see him move and look at her was something to be thankful for. She allowed the tears to stream down her face as she buried it against him.

  ELEVEN

  Struggles

  Clark remained unconscious the entire next day. Marty stayed by his bed, longing to be able to talk with him. Missie came as often as her duties would allow. In the late afternoon Willie returned to the house and insisted that both of the women take a rest. After a bit of an argument, they went, realizing they could not carry on longer without some sleep. Willie had Wong bring him coffee, and he settled himself beside Clark’s bedside. He had slept very little himself in the last two days. His eyelids felt heavy and his eyes scratchy. He rubbed a callused hand over his face.

  Why did this have to happen? Why? The time they had looked forward to for so long—had dreamed of as a time of joyous reunion—had turned into a nightmare. Why? Surely God hadn’t brought Clark and Marty way out here to take Clark’s life and possibly damage Marty’s faith. It was all an enormous puzzle to Willie.

  And the boys? He worried about his sons. They had been so excited about meeting their grandparents. Missie had made it a great adventure for them. They had counted the weeks, the days. And then, when they had met their grandparents, they had loved them so quickly, so deeply—and now this tragedy. Poor little Nathan. Not only had his grandfather been taken from him in the last few days but even his grandmother and, thought Willie, his own ma, too. Missie’s mind was far too unsettled and troubled by her father’s condition to do more than respond to her children’s basic needs.

  Willie got up and moved to the boys’ room. Josiah slept soundly, mostly unconscious of the burden the household was presently bearing, though he probably felt the emotional undercurrents. Nathan was not there; perhaps he w
as in the kitchen with Wong or visiting Cookie or playing with Max. The poor little fellow. He was trying so hard to be good.

  Willie crossed to his own room and looked in on Missie. Though she was sleeping, her face was still pale and drawn. Willie’s heart ached for her. He gently smoothed back her long hair and left her.

  He looked in on Marty. She, too, slept soundly. She looked exhausted—as well she might. She had hardly left Clark’s side since the accident.

  Willie went back to Clark’s room. He should check the leg. He pulled back the covers and looked at the neat, fresh bandage. This was not the bandage he had hurriedly wrapped. Someone else had been caring for Clark. Someone else knew of the leg’s condition. Willie wiped his hand over his face again. Did the women know? If so, he hated the thought of their suffering this additional burden. At the same time, he felt some of the tension leave him. It would be far better if they did know. It would help prepare them for what likely was ahead.

  Willie pulled the light cover up over Clark and sat down heavily in the chair. The house was quiet. Most of its occupants were asleep. Willie, too, dozed occasionally, only to waken to chide himself and determine not to let it happen again.

  Josiah must have awakened from his hap and left his bed in search of another family member. Willie, hearing him in the hall, went to get him. He picked up the small boy and held him close, walking back and forth in the hallway and murmuring words of love to him. Josiah cuddled closely against his father, his pudgy hands around his neck and his fingers intertwined in Willie’s thick hair. He liked to be held. He liked to be loved. As far as Josiah was concerned, the world had no sorrows.