The Road to Love (4 page)

“I didn't.”

He glanced over his shoulder, a puzzled look on his face.

“When I came through town there were at least a dozen men hanging about looking for work.”

She shrugged, noting that today Hatcher wore a clean, unpressed shirt in washed-out gray. “I started to put up the ad.” Her skin had tingled, her face grown hot at the men watching her, waiting to read the notice. “I changed my mind.” She didn't need help that badly—to invite a stranger into her life. “I decided I can manage on my own.”

He turned his attention back to his tea. “Hope all your tractor needs is an adjustment to the carburetor.”

A sigh came from her depths. “My tractor has seen its best days.”

“No horses?”

“I had to trade the last one in the fall for feed to see the cows through the winter.”

“Been tough all over.”

She murmured agreement. “I'm not complaining.”

“Me, either.” He downed the rest of his tea, got to his feet and handed her the cup. “You give me the milk buckets and I'll take care of the cows.”

“No need.”

“I never accept a meal without doing a job.”

“It was my thanks.”

He made no move toward leaving. “I 'spect the young ones need you.” He nodded toward the interior of the house.

As she hesitated, torn between the truth of his statement and her reluctance to accept any more help from him, Dougie hurried out with the pails solving her need to make a choice.

“I'll help you, Hatcher.”

The hobo patted Dougie on the head. “Good man.”

Kate choked back a snort at the way her son preened and said, “Very well.” But they didn't wait for her permission. She watched the man and boy saunter to the barn, smiling as Dougie tried to imitate Hatcher's easy rolling gait then she hurried inside. There seemed no end of work to be done. She needed to make farmer's cheese. The ironing had yet to be done and couldn't be put off any longer. Mary needed a dress for tomorrow and it had to be ironed. And most importantly, she had to have a look at the tractor and see what it needed to get it running. “More than a prayer,” she mumbled.

“Momma?”

“Nothing, Mary. Just talking to myself. Now help me with the dishes then run and shut in the chickens.”

“Momma. I hate the chickens.”

“I know you do but what would we eat if we didn't have eggs and the occasional chicken?”

“I don't like eating chicken.”

“I can never figure out why you object to eating an animal you'd just as soon see dead.”

“I keep seeing the way they gobble up grasshoppers.” Mary shuddered.

“But you hate grasshoppers.”

“I don't want to eat anything that eats them.” Mary shuddered again.

Kate shook her head. This child left her puzzled.

Hatcher returned with the milk, his presence heralded by Dougie's excited chatter.

“Your milk, ma'am.”

“Thank you. Seems I'm saying that a lot.”

“Won't be any longer. I'll be gone in the morning. My prayers for you and the family.”

And he strode away.

Kate stared after him a moment, wondering about the man. But not for long. She had milk to strain and separate. She had to try and persuade Mary to actually enter the chicken yard and shut the henhouse door and then she needed to supervise the children's homework.

 

Next morning, as soon as the chores were done, Kate pulled on the overalls she wore for field work, dusted her hands together as if to say she was ready for whatever lay ahead, and pulled an old felt hat tightly over her head. It took her several minutes to adjust it satisfactorily. She recognized her fussing for what it was—delaying the inevitable. But the sooner she got at it, the sooner she'd conquer it. She gave her trousers a hitch, thought of the words from the Bible,
She girdeth her loins with strength,
and smiled.

“Here I go in the strength of the Lord. With His help I can conquer this,” she murmured, and hurried out to the lean-to on the side of the barn where the beast waited to challenge her. Abby Oliver had parked it there last fall with dire warnings about its reliability.

Kate confronted the rusty red machine, her feet fighting width apart, her hands on her hips and in her best mother-must-be-obeyed voice, the voice she reserved for Dougie's naughtiest moments, said, “Could you not do the charitable thing and run? How else am I going to get the crop in the ground?” No need to think about getting it off in the fall. That was later. She shifted. Crossed her arms over her middle and took a more relaxed stance. “After all,” she cajoled. “I'm a woman alone. Trying to run this farm and take care of my children. And I simply can't do it without your help.” She took a deep breath, rubbed the painful spot in her jaw.
God, it's Your help I need. Please, make this beast run one more season
. She'd asked the same thing last spring. And again in the fall.

She waited. For what? Inspiration? Assurance? Determination? Yes. All of them.

My God shall supply all your need according to his riches in glory
.

Well, she needed a tractor that ran. God knew that. He'd promised to provide it.

She marched around the tractor once. And then again. And giggled. She felt like one of the children of Israel marching around the walls of Jericho. If only she had a pitcher to break and a trumpet to sound…

She made a tooting noise and laughed at her foolishness.

She retrieved a rag from the supplies in the corner and faced the beast. “I will get you running somehow.” She checked the oil. Scrubbed the winter's accumulation of dust off the motor, poured in some fuel and cranked it over. Or at least tried. After sitting several months, the motor was stiff, uncooperative.

She took a deep breath, braced herself and tried again. All she got was a sore shoulder. She groaned. Loudly.

“Maybe Doyle is right,” she told the stubborn beast.

“Maybe I should sell everything and move into town. Live a life of pampered luxury.”

“Ma'am.”

Her heart leaped to her throat. Her arms jerked like a scarecrow in the wind. She jolted back several inches.

“You scared me.” Embarrassed and annoyed, she scowled at Hatcher. “My name is Kate. Kate Bradshaw. Not ma'am.” She spoke slowly making sure he didn't miss a syllable.

“Yes, ma'am. Perfectly good name.”

“So you said. What do you want?”

He circled the tractor, apparently deep in thought, came to halt at the radiator. “Want me to start her up for you?”

She restrained an urge to hug him. “I'd feed you for a month if you did, though I have to warn you, I've been babying it along for the better part of three years now.”

Hatcher already had his hands in the internal mysteries of the machine.

“Do you need some hay wire?” she asked.

He didn't turn. “Going to take more than hay wire to fix this.”

“I thought you could fix anything with a hunk of wire or wad of bubblegum.”

“Hand me that wrench, would you?” He nodded toward the tool on the ground, and she got it for him, her gratefulness mixed with frustration that she couldn't do this on her own. And yes, a certain amount of fear. If she failed, they would all starve. She wasn't about to let that happen so some Godly intervention on her behalf would be welcome.

He tightened this, adjusted that, tinkered here and there. Went to the other side of the tractor and did more of the same. Finally, he wiped his hands on a rag Kate handed him, then cranked the motor. And blessing of blessings, it reluctantly fired up.

“I'll take it out for you,” Hatcher hollered.

She nodded, so grateful to hear the rumbling sound she couldn't stop grinning. She pointed toward the discer and he guided the tractor over and hitched it up. The engine coughed. Kate's jaw clenched of its own accord. She rubbed at it and sighed relief when the tractor settled into a steady roar.

The discer ready to go, Hatcher stood back.

“Thank you so much. If you're still around come dinnertime, I'll make you a meal.”

He nodded, touched the brim of his hat. “Ma'am.”

Kate spared him one roll of her eyes at the way he continued to call her ma'am then climbed up behind the steering wheel, pushed in the clutch, pulled the beast into gear—

It stalled.

The silence rang.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I'll crank it.” He did his slow dance at the front of the tractor. Again, it growled to life but as soon as she tried to move it, it stalled.

They did it twice more. Twice more the tractor stalled for her.

“Let me.” Hatcher indicated she get down which she gladly did, resisting an urge to kick the beast as she stepped back. He got up, put the tractor into gear and drove toward the field without so much as a cough.

He got down, she got up and the tractor promptly stalled.

Her gut twisted painfully like a rope tested by the wind. She curled her fingers into the rough fabric of her overalls. “It doesn't like me,” she wailed.

“I'm sure it's nothing personal,” he murmured, and again started the engine and showed her how to clutch. She followed his instructions perfectly but each time the beast stalled on her.

Her frustration gave way to burning humiliation. What kind of farmer could she hope to be if she couldn't run the stupid tractor? How could she prove she could manage on her own when her fields were destined to lie fallow and weed infested unless she could do this one simple little job. Hatcher made it look easy. She favored him with a glance carrying the full brunt of her resentment, which, thankfully, as she sorely needed his help, he didn't seem to notice.

“I'll see what I can do.” Hatcher changed places with her. The tractor ran begrudgingly but it ran, as she knew it would.
He
didn't seem to have a problem with it.

He started down the side of the field, took it out of gear, jumped down and she got back up. She did everything he had. She was cautious, gentle, silently begging the beast to run.

It stalled.

Tears stung the corners of her eyes. She blinked them away. She would not cry. Somehow she'd conquer this beast. “I have to
make
it run or I'll never get my crop in, but this thing has become my thorn in the flesh.”

“A gift then.”

She snorted. “Not the sort of gift I'd ask for.”

“Two Corinthians twelve verse nine, ‘My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.' And verse ten, ‘When I am weak, then I am strong.' Guess it's when you can't manage on your own and need God's help, you find it best.”

She stared, her jaw slack, not knowing which surprised her more, the challenge of his words or the fact of such a long speech from the man who seemed to measure his words with a thimble.

He met her startled gaze, his eyes bottomless, his expression bland.

She pulled away, looking at nothing in particular as the words of the Bible sifted through her anger, her frustration and fear, and settled solidly in her heart. She needed God's help. And He had promised it. When she needed it most, she got it best. She liked that idea.

In the heavy silence, she heard the trill of a meadowlark. The sound always gave her hope, heralding the return of spring. She located the bird with its yellow breast on a nearby fence post and pointed it out to Hatcher. “Can you hear what the bird is saying? ‘I left my pretty sister at home.'” She chuckled. “Jeremiah told me that.” He'd also told her to keep the farm no matter what. That way she'd always have a home.

Hatcher nodded. “Never heard that before. Jeremiah your husband?”

She listened to the bird sing his song twice more before she answered. Jeremiah taught her everything she knew about farming. But somehow she hadn't learned the mysteries of mechanical monstrosities. “He's been dead three years.”

“Sorry.”

“Me, too.” She turned back to the tractor. “Would you mind cranking it again? I have to get this field worked.”

He did so. The engine started up easily but as soon as Kate tried to make the tractor move, it quit.

“Maybe it just needs babying along. I'll run it awhile.”

Kate stubbornly clung to her seat behind the steering wheel. “You were in a hurry to leave until you heard my husband is dead.”

“I'm still leaving.”

She stared ahead. She wanted to refuse Hatcher's offer. She didn't need pity. She wouldn't accept a man's sudden interest in the fact she was alone. Widowed. An easy mark. Desperate.