The Road to Love (13 page)

“He'll be on his way now that I know who he is.”

Her anger seemed to know no bounds. It clawed at every muscle. Her legs vibrated as she spun around to face Doyle.

“And where does that leave me? Having to find someone else to help? Is that what you want?” She watched a play of emotions across Doyle's face. Triumph. Caution. And then his beguiling smile.

She did not smile back. “You're hoping I can't manage on my own. You think I'll be forced to give up my farm.” She stared at him. “You did this for the sole reason of trying to make me marry you. Even knowing how much the farm means to me…” She couldn't look at him anymore. Couldn't believe his treachery. If Hatcher left…

Please God, make him stay. I need him
.

She added,
For the farm.

H
atcher's breath scalded in and out as he consumed the distance to the little shack. Tension grabbed his shoulders as if the skin had grown five sizes too small.

He wasn't surprised at Doyle's revelation, knew it was inevitable. He was angry at himself. He'd forgotten who he was, what he'd done. For a few days, he'd allowed himself to pretend he could belong, if only for a short time.

He threw back the door and reached for his knapsack. His elbows had a wooden quality about them, reluctantly doing his will as he rolled his trousers and shirt and stuffed them in the bag. He pulled other items from the nails, startled to see the evidence of how much he'd let himself feel at home here. Not often he left anything out of his pack except to use it.

The Bible went on top as always. “‘I will set my face against you, and ye shall be slain before your enemies, they that hate you shall reign over you; and ye shall flee when none pursueth you.' Leviticus twenty-six, verses sixteen and seventeen. Lord,” he groaned. “It's nothing more than I deserve. I know the sin that filled my heart.” Even if a jury had dismissed the charge, it did not take away his guilt.

He slung the pack over his shoulder and headed for the door. He could make a mile or two even in the dark.

He paused for one last glance around the small, meager cabin that had been the closest thing to a home in years, thanks to Kate's generosity.

Suddenly, he pictured Kate as she met Doyle's confrontation so fearlessly. Spunky little lady. So determined to keep her farm. Seems Doyle was equally determined she should give it up to marry him. He couldn't imagine what kind of life she'd have if she did. Doyle would always want Kate to do his bidding.

He laughed out loud, the sound as unexpected as nightfall at noon.

Maybe he should feel sorry for Doyle if he tried to order her about. You'd think the man would have figured out Kate was his equal. More than his equal.

Hatcher rubbed his chin. Why hadn't she ordered him off her place once she heard the sordid story? She sounded like she believed his innocence.

Even his own father hadn't.

“Son,” the older man had said after Hatcher had been arrested. “This here's been a long time coming. You got yourself a wicked temper and it seems you're always looking for a reason to vent it. Don't seem to matter on who or where.” Course his words were so slurred Hatcher had to guess at much he said.

Hatcher, still young and volatile, had risen to the accusations. “Maybe you should ask me why I got this problem. And when? Or better yet, ask yourself.”

Muttering about his son's rebellious ways, his father left Hatcher to stew in the sordid jail cell.

He never visited again, though he sat in the very back row of the courtroom during the trial. Sat like a curious spectator come for the entertainment. Never once did the man offer a word in Hatcher's defense.

And his reaction when Hatcher had been declared not guilty? Just a few words that burned themselves into Hatcher's brain.

“Son, I think it's best for everyone if you leave.”

Hatcher finally found something he and his father agreed on. And he'd never turned back.

But Kate had called after him. Reminded him of his promise to put in the crop. As if she expected him to stay. Even wanted him to stay.

She was the first person in an uncountable length of time who acted like she trusted him.

He thought of the times she'd confided in him. She told him she worried how she'd be able to keep the farm if this drought continued.

He'd wanted to offer her reassurances. Instead he'd quoted scriptures, his way of avoiding saying what he really thought—that no one knew how long the drought would last nor how much it would cost her before it ended.

One time she'd confessed she didn't love her husband, but was grateful for his protection and for the children he'd given her. He didn't want to think about her in a loveless relationship, though she didn't seem to have any regrets and spoke of Jeremiah with real affection.

And just before Doyle had shown up trying to order her about, she'd stated she wouldn't give up the farm to marry Doyle. He wondered if she'd meant to say more before they'd been interrupted.

For certain, she'd need help if she intended to keep the farm. A woman like her deserved a helping hand. He'd given her his assurance he'd put the crop in. She'd been counting on it no doubt. He dumped the contents of his pack onto his bed. He'd fulfill his promise. She already knew the truth. And no doubt so would everyone in town before another day passed but another few days wouldn't change things. Then he'd be on his way to where no one knew him or his wretched past.

 

Kate smiled when he showed up for breakfast. “Thought you might have left.”

He let her smile ease the tension that built as he walked across. All night he wondered if she'd come to her senses, or been convinced by Doyle, yet here she was smiling a welcome and here he was, ready to fulfill his promise. “Thought I might have, too.”

“So what made you stay?”

His heart near exploded with the truth.
You, Kate. You with your trust and stubbornness. You made me stay.
But he stilled his emotions, smoothed his face and replied. “I said I'd put the crop in and I will.”

“Then you'll be gone?”

The words cut like a thorn. He didn't want to leave. But he must. He had to spare her the censure and shunning that came with knowing him. He nodded.

“Hatcher, what really happened?”

He took the plate of food from her hand and ate it hurriedly without answering. “I'll get right at the seeding,” he said, handing back the empty plate.

“Fine. Don't tell me. But…”

He slid her a glance, saw her eyes gleaming like earth warmed by the hot sun, felt the same warmth wrap around his heart. He envied the man who'd enjoy that glance day after day. He only hoped it wouldn't be Doyle. She deserved better.

“Someday, you'll tell me the truth, Hatcher Jones.”

He laughed mirthlessly. “Someday will never come.” He grabbed the milk pails. “It's best not to know everything.” He headed for the barn.

He sat with his head against the warm flank of the Jersey cow when he heard her approach. He should have known she wouldn't let the whole thing rest. She'd work at it like a farmer preparing the soil.

She poured some oats into the trough for the cows, wondered aloud whether or not the supply would last the summer but Hatcher wasn't fooled. She vibrated with curiosity.

“Hatcher, do you have parents?”

Her question, coming out of left field like that, startled him. It did him no good to think of his parents. Any more than it served any purpose to remember what had happened. “Nope.”

“They're both dead?”

He couldn't lie. Knew she'd guess it if he did. “Why do you want to know?”

She stood beside him, her presence crowding his body and his thoughts. “When was the last time you saw them?”

“You planning to write a book?”

She chuckled. “Are you saying there's a story here?”

“Nope.” There'd been far too much written about it already. He wanted only to erase it from his mind.

“I just keep thinking what it would be like for me if it was Dougie or Mary. You know I have two brothers. Ted is eighteen now and he's working on a ranch in Montana. He came to visit two years ago, before he started work there. Ray's older. He's like Dad. Always on the move. I haven't seen him in four years. Got a letter last Christmas. He was in California then. Don't expect he still is.”

Hatcher wondered where she was going with this tale. He finished the Jersey cow and moved on to the big Holstein.

Kate turned the Jersey out and returned to his side. He could only dream she'd feel the need to go bake cookies, or whitewash the walls or something. Anything but push at his memories with her talk of parents and brothers.

“Do you think it's fair to my children to keep them on the farm?”

He blinked, grateful he was bent over the cow's flank and she couldn't see how her question surprised him. Talk about a sudden switch. Before he could figure out where she was going with this, she hurried on.

“Maybe they'd be better off in town. After all, they have so many responsibilities here. I need them to work, especially when I don't have help. Seems I never have time for them.” She backed away. He hoped she'd give him room but she only lounged against the rough wood panel, settling down for a long, intimate talk.

Not far enough away he could breathe without inhaling her presence.

“Mary would almost certainly be happier in town,” she mused. “She's afraid of the chickens, the cows, almost everything.”

Hatcher sprang to the child's defense. “Best thing is she faces her fears, realizes what's real danger. She'll be stronger for it.”

“Never thought of it that way. I suppose you're right. But Dougie worries me. He's reckless.”

“He's a boy. Just needs to learn to measure things. You wouldn't want him to be afraid of risks.” Not that it was any of his concern what she did with her two kids. “Don't see how moving them into town will change who they were or how they need to grow.”

“But I'm so busy. If I lived in town I'd have more time to spend with them.”

The woman was more persistent than a newspaper reporter. He finished milking and jerked to his feet. “Ma'am, if you want to spend more time with your kids, you'll just do it. Whether you're on the farm or in town.”

She stared at him as if he'd announced the cow had gone dry.

He continued. “Sure, life in town might be easier. Or just different. It's got nothing to do with what you're talking about. Seems you've just forgotten how to have fun.”

He headed for the house with the milk, not surprised when she wasn't on his heels. Couldn't expect a woman to be happy about having a few truths thrown in her face.

But he'd only set the pails inside when she bounced up and down at his back apparently ready to overlook his interference.

“I need to take some milk to the Sandstrum baby.”

He'd left most of the bags of corn in the back of the truck. Made it easier to get it to the field. “I'll fill the drills.”

A little while later, he watched her drive away and prayed the baby would be stronger today. Then he lost himself in the roar of the tractor, the need to concentrate on following the previous track and the wind alternately at his face, his back, on one cheek or the other.

Only his thoughts wouldn't be lulled. Thanks to Kate and her persistent questions, he kept thinking of his father, wondering how he was, missed his mother, wished he could see Lowell just one more time. He didn't need such thoughts or their accompanying memories. They only made his stomach ache the way it had when he was a child. He rubbed at the chicken pox scar on his wrist.

“Hatch, honey, don't scratch, you'll get infection.” His mother caught his wrist and examined the sore. “I'll put on some more chamomile lotion.”

Her eyes had the special look that made him feel loved and important.

“How come I gotta be so sick when Lowell wasn't?” His brother had four chicken pox and spent the time at home reading and playing. Hatch had spent his days feeling miserable and wanting to scratch every inch of his skin.

His mother rubbed his hair. He didn't mind that she made a couple spots itch. “Would you feel better if your brother felt as bad as you do?”

“Yes.” At her saddened expression, he'd instantly repented.

“I guess not. No use both of us wishing we were dead.”

His mother's hands stilled.

He knew he'd disappointed her. “I didn't mean it, Ma.” At ten, he thought talking tough proved he was grown-up.

His mother took both his hands, gently avoiding the sores. “Hatcher William Jones, I pray you will never feel desperate enough to mean those words. No matter what happens there is something about life that makes it worth living. Promise me you'll always remember that. Promise me you'll never say those words again or contemplate such a thing.”

“I promise.” But there'd been times he'd wondered if she'd been wrong in saying there was always something about life that made it worthwhile. Sometimes all that kept him going was the promise he'd given her.

Until Kate.

He groaned. He'd be leaving in another day or two. It would be the hardest thing he ever had to do.

Kate returned at noon. He waited until she waved from the kitchen door before he stopped and headed for the pump where he stuck his head under the gush of water to wash off the dirt. He used the time to deny the strong feelings growing toward this woman. Years of hiding his emotions enabled him to push them away.

He shook the water from his head, scrubbed his hair back and wondered if Kate could lend him scissors so he could cut it then sauntered to the step where Kate waited with sandwiches and cookies.