Love's unfolding dream (Love Comes Softly Series #6)

by Janette Oke

  "Did we surprise you? Did you guess?" Amy Jo kept asking.

  "I had no idea," Marty assured her. She didn't add that she'd been a mite worried that her family had forgotten her. "Ya did it all? Yerselves?"

  The girls laughed merrily, pleased that their plan had worked so well, and pleased, too, that Marty seemed so surprised at their achievement.

  "We all shared in the cooking," Melissa explained. "Even Amy Jo. She did the potatoes and the cole slaw"

  "An' Melissa did the chicken an' the biscuits, an' Belinda the vegetables," Amy Jo quickly put in, wanting to give proper credit where credit was due. "And Belinda made the cake, too," she added as an afterthought.

  "It's yer favorite. Spice," Belinda told her.

  After the meal was over, the children were called in from the porch and the whole family joined together in the singing of

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  "Happy Birthday" the little ones anxious for the fun of handing out the gifts. Marty exclaimed over and over as the lovingly chosen and handmade gifts were presented to her.

  The three girls saved their gifts until the other members of the family had all presented theirs.

  "I wanted you to have this, Grandma," said Melissa, passing to Marty a carefully wrapped gift in light-blue paper.

  Marty unwrapped it to find a beautifully bound edition of The Pilgrim's Progress. Marty knew it was selected from Melissa's private library making it all the more meaningful to her.

  Amy Jo came next. Her gift was not as carefully wrapped, but the colorful paper was festive. Marty began to unwrap the present, noticing that her hands trembled from excitement.

  She lifted away the paper and found herself looking straight into the eyes of Melissa--from Amy Jo's first attempt at a portrait. There really was a likeness, and though Amy Jo's art would need years of polishing and perfecting, Marty was amazed that the girl had done so well. "Oh my, Amy Jo! You did good--real good on this picture," Marty exclaimed, and other family members began to crowd around to see Amy Jo's art. There were many congratulations and enthusiastic comments, and Amy Jo beamed her pleasure.

  When the excitement died down, Belinda pressed forward. She handed Marty a small package. "Remember the lace collar ya saw and liked?" she murmured. "Well, I couldn't afford to buy it, but I found a pattern almost like it, an' I crocheted ya one myself. It's not as nice but--"

  Marty slipped the lace collar out of the paper. Belinda had done a beautiful job. Marty traced the delicate floral pattern with a tip of her finger.

  "Why, it's even prettier," she said softly, her eyes thanking Belinda even more than her voice did. "Thank ya, Belinda.

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  Thank ya, everyone. I do believe this is the nicest birthday I ever had."

  Clare began to laugh. "Ma," he said, "seems to me ya say thet every year."

  "An' every year I mean it, too," insisted Marty.

  Then all eyes turned to Clark. The family knew well the tradition of Clark presenting the final birthday gift.

  "My turn, is it?" said Clark, rising to his feet.

  Clark's hands were empty.

  "Well, this year," he said slowly, "I have nothin' to give." He hesitated. All eyes were on his face. No one spoke. Clark cleared his throat. None of his children believed for a minute that he had nothing to present to Marty.

  "Leastways," he continued, "nothing here at hand. My gift is outside. In the garden. Anyone who wants to see it has to follow me out there."

  No one remained behind. Clark led the way, taking Marty by the hand and leading her to the end of the garden. All the other family members trailed along behind, several of them making guesses as to what the gift might be. Marty heard the laughing and the teasing voices all around her, but her mind was busy trying to guess, too, what Clark had gotten for her.

  "There it is," Clark said, halting before a small, waist-high tree. It was not magnificent in appearance, but Marty knew it must be "special." She reached out a hand and turned the tag that hung from a small branch, fluttering in the soft evening breezes.

  "Jonathan Apple," she read aloud and then, with a little cry she threw her arms around Clark's neck. "Oh, Clark, where did ya find it? Where did ya get it from? I been a wantin' one but no one round here--"

  "I sent away fer it," said Clark as he held her. "Sneaked it in here an' planted it yesterday. Was scared half to death thet you'd catch me at it."

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  Marty looked around at her family. She reached out to try to pull all three of the young girls into her arms at one time. Each one of her gifts was so personal, so special. Her family knew her well. Her family showered her with love. She felt blessed beyond expression. Her eyes brimmed over with tears.

  "Go ahead," she challenged them with a smile, "laugh iffen ya want to, but this truly--truly has been my best birthday ever!"

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  TWENTY-FOUR

  A Caller

  All through the spring and summer Drew struggled with his bitterness. Why had he lost his arm? If there was a God who cared about him, why had it been allowed to happen? Why hadn't the doctor just let him die? He would rather be dead. At least he thought he'd rather be dead. Yet, at times, even Drew breathed deeply of the fresh spring air or exulted over the brightness of the summer sky, or tilted his head to catch the song of a bird.

  Almost daily he thought of Belinda. And always his thoughts were troubled. He did not know how to sort out his feelings toward the young girl. Why was she so interested in nursing? How could she stand to see her brother cut people up? Didn't she have any kind of feeling? At the same time that he questioned her interest in nursing, he admired her in a strange sort of way. He was quite sure he wouldn't have been able to face some of the situations that Belinda did.

  How does she do it? WHY does she do it? The whole thing puzzled him. He couldn't understand her. He couldn't understand this whole strange family. And Drew certainly could not understand his inner conflict.

  In some way, Drew took pleasure in his self-pity. And yet there was something else that kept fighting to be free of the bitterness. He seemed to be at war with himself. He wondered why he didn't just give in to his bitter feelings.

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  But just as he felt ready to give up his anger, his stump of an arm would catch his attention and a new wave of pain would sear, seemingly from fingertip to shoulder. Sobs of pain and anguish would cause Drew to bury his head in his pillow or flee the house in renewed bitterness.

  And so Drew struggled with himself. One minute he was content to wrap himself securely in his shell of bitterness and pain, and the next minute almost responding to the urge to try to find some other way to live with what "fate" had handed him.

  Another thing puzzled Drew. He felt there was something different about his mother, subtle changes he couldn't put into words. Was it just his imagination or was it really there?

  For the past several years, Drew's mother had been shut away in silence and self-pity.She had not wanted to go west, had resisted with all her being. Oh, not in so many words. That was not her way. But they all knew how she felt. It showed in the tightness of her lips, in the stiffness of her stance, in the darkening of her eyes. Though she had never been one to laugh and chat easily, she became a woman living in a shell. It was as if the real person did not even share the dampness of the crowded soddy with the rest of the family. She became cold and withdrawn, even from her children.

  There had been one thing that had seemed to bring life and fire to Drew's mother, and that was lesson time. How her dark eyes flashed if the boys were reluctant to study Her chin thrust forward stubbornly when she declared that she did not intend to rear unlearned children--west or no west. Their father, too, made sure time was found each day for books and learning.

  At the beginning of the new school term, Drew had watched his younger brother Sidney being ushered off to school. Now that Sid was dressed in proper garments, their mother had insisted he should be in a real classroom where he belonged. Drew watched her holdi
ng her breath that first morning. How would he fare among

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  the other students? Drew knew this was her worry. Would the youngster have years of catching up to do? But the first report of Mrs. Brown was filled with incredulous praise. The boy was unbelievably ahead of his age group, she stated, and she commended the Simpsons heartily for their excellent job in supervising the boy's education.

  Drew knew his mother had been tempted to send him, too, off to the local school. She undoubtedly would have insisted, had it not been for his age and his missing arm. She did not say so, but Drew knew that her mother-heart, though shriveled and broken by her hard life, ached for him. She knew it would be difficult for him to face the world.

  Drew's father did not seem to feel comfortable in Drew's presence. He did not discuss the accident or Drew's handicap. In fact, he seldom talked to Drew at all. But he did make it quite clear that he did not wish to have Drew back in the woods felling trees.

  Even Sidney let his eyes skim quickly over the empty sleeve and then directed his gaze elsewhere. Drew began to feel he would go through all of life with people conveniently overlooking him.

  So Drew was left to his gun and his wandering. He probably would not have been able to make it through those first difficult months had he not known that the family needed meat, and that he, even though missing a limb, was still able to supply it.

  But in recent weeks Drew had been sensing a newness of life and hope in his mother. Oh, true, she still had very little to say, and she still never laughed, but her eyes looked different somehow She seemed. . . she seemed warmer, less chilled and cut off from the rest of the family. Could it be that something was changing on the inside? And if so, why? Drew wondered. Was it simply because she was winning the struggle for survival? Oh, they were still in need--that was for sure--but they were not in debt to any man. They had lost nearly everything they'd owned, so there was

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  really nothing more for anyone else to claim. But they were dressing better now--were eating more than rabbit stew.His mother even had her own garden, and come fall she would not be beholden to the neighbors.

  But was that the whole reason for the hope in her eyes? Or did it have something to do with that Davis family? She shared the house with Mrs. Davis three times and even up to five times a week. Was some of that other woman's optimistic spirit rubbing off on her?

  Drew watched his mother closely, hoping with all his heart that the change might continue and that she would begin talking to him, chatting as mother to son, perhaps even allowing him a chance to talk about his missing arm. He studied his mother carefully each day when she returned from the Davis farm.

  Drew did not understand the Davis family. But he could sense that they were different in some way. He had never seen a woman who seemed to be as sensitive--as caring--as Mrs. Davis. Drew longed to see that look of love and caring in the eyes of his own mother. If only. . . if only . . . his heart kept crying. If only we could talk. If only Mother felt free to speak what she feels. If only she would ask me how I felt.

  And what about the Davis father? The guy with just one leg? How had it happened and how come he could accept it. . . even joke about it? Why did he seem to have such a warm and generous spirit? His little schemes of the year before had not been missed by Drew. He knew Clark had "invented" ways to help the family through their first winter. He had seen the Davis' woodpile. He had seen the farm. Drew knew Clark wasn't the type of man to need outside help to keep things in order. What makes the fellow tick, anyway? he asked himself.

  The whole thing was beyond Drew. He couldn't figure out any of it. He stayed as far away from the Davises as he could get.

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  One fall day when the wind was rattling the red and gold leaves and the geese were crying overhead, Drew found himself walking toward the Davis farm. The gun was tucked in the crook of his missing arm. He always carried it that way. It made him feel that his arm--such as it was--was still good for something. But today the gun was forgotten. He would not have thought to shoot even if a rabbit or a grouse had crossed his path. Drew, deep in thought, decided he had to find some answers. With sudden resolve he quickened his step toward the only person who might be able to help.

  Drew was relieved to find Clark clearing fallen leaves out of the spring. Drew did not wish to go near the house. He did not want to risk a chance meeting with Belinda.

  "Drew!" Clark greeted him warmly. "Out huntin' again I see. No luck?"

  Drew laid the gun aside, his cheeks flushing a bit. He hadn't really been looking for game.

  "Not yet" was all he answered.

  "I'll jest be a minute here," Clark told him, "and then we'll go on up to the house an' see what Marty might have to munch

  on."

  Drew leaned over the gurgling water and swept more leaves out into the current with his right hand.

  "Were ya left- or right-handed?" Clark surprised him by asking.

  "Right," answered Drew.

  "Thet's one thing about losin' a leg," Clark stated matter-of- factly, "don't make much difference." When Clark chuckled, Drew smiled to join him.

  "How's yer pa doin' with his loggin'?" Clark asked further. "Good," said Drew. "He found himself a mule somewhere. He's real pleased with himself."

  "Thet'll help him a lot," said Clark. "Don't know how he

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  managed last winter without one."

  "Oh, he and Ma just hooked on ropes and hauled them out. I'm after Pa to let me get back to helpin' him," Drew went on.

  Clark looked directly at the boy. He commented, "He don't want ya in the woods?"

  Drew shook his head. "Won't let me go near--ever since the accident. Thinks it's his fault, I guess. That's just silly. Wasn't anybody's fault--just one of those things."

  Clark was silent for a few moments while he scooped out soggy leaves and tossed them aside. "Guess I can understand his feelin's," he said.

  Drew nodded. He guessed he could understand his pa's feelings, too, but it did seem foolish when his pa needed all the help he could get.

  "Well," said Clark, straightening up, "guess thet'll be good enough fer now. I'll need to clean it once or twice yet 'fore winter freezes it in."

  A flock of Canada geese passed overhead, calling out their forlorn cries. Clark and Drew both looked skyward.

  "Always did think thet the cry of a goose is one of the saddest sounds I know," Clark observed. "Does it hit ya thet way?"

  Drew nodded solemnly. It did. He wasn't sure why.

  "I don't know what there is about it," Clark went on, "but it 'most makes me shiver." And his shiver was obvious to Drew.

  "Let's go git somethin' to warm us up," he suggested. "Marty'll have somethin' hot fer sure."

  Drew sucked in his breath. If he went now he might never find the courage to talk to Mr. Davis again.

  "I was kinda wonderin' if I might talk to you some?"

  Clark's face softened. He lowered himself to a soft bed of leaves and nodded to the boy to go on.

  "I . . . I hate to take your time like this but. . . but. . ."

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  "I've got me more time than anythin' else," Clark assured him.

  "Well, I . . . I . . . noticed . . . truth is, I've been wondering. You see, I figured if anyone should know what someone goes through in losing a limb, then it should be you."

  Clark broke a small twig and cast it into the spring water. The current swirled it around a few times and then carried it off downstream.

  "I only lost a leg, boy," Clark said softly. "Ya lost an arm. Now I ain't even pretendin' thet there ain't a big difference there." The boy swallowed hard. Clark was making light of his own

  loss.

  He looked at Clark evenly. "I happen to know myself well enough to know that I wouldn't take kindly to losing a leg, either," Drew said.

  Clark nodded.

  "How long ago?" Drew asked.

  "Long time now," said Clark, leaning back against a tree
trunk. "Long, long time. Before Belinda was even born." "How'd it happen?"

  A shadow passed briefly over Clark's face, telling Drew even more than his words did.

  "Couple a kids were messin' around in an old mine shaft," Clark began. "It caved in on 'em. I went in to get 'em out. They were 'most buried in it. 'Fore I got the second one out, it caved in again. The heavy timbers got me."

  "How'd you get out?" asked Drew.

  "Men--friends from our son's ranch--dug fer me."

  "Did you . . . did you give yer permission to the doc? To take yer leg, I mean?"

  "Nope!" said Clark. "Didn't know a thing 'bout it. Actually, I didn't lose my leg right away. An' there weren't a doc within miles, far as anyone knew It was Marty thet tried to clean it up

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  an' disinfect it. It was crushed, too. An awful mess, they tell me. Then gangrene set in. I shoulda died, I guess, but God had other plans. Sent along a doctor--right from among the neighbors-- and he took care of the leg while I was wild with fever."

  Drew felt himself go weak as Clark told the story simply, without drama. He could picture too well the scenes that Clark briefly described.

  They sat silently for many minutes.

  "What did you think when you . . . when. . ."

  "When I came to my senses and knew what'd happened?" Clark finished for him.

  The boy swallowed hard and nodded. He could not speak.

  "Well, at first. . . at first I thought my whole world had fallen apart. I wondered how I would ever be a man again. . . how I'd care fer my family . . . what I'd think about myself. Fer a while . . . fer a little while . . . I wished I had died . . . at least thet's what I thought I wished. But not fer long. God soon reminded me thet I had a lot to live fer. That my family loved me and would keep right on lovin' me--one leg or two--an' thet God hadn't forgotten me. Thet He was still with me, still in charge of my life. It took a while, but God helped me to accept it. Don't miss it too much anymore at all."