“Who’s driving your tractor?” Sally asked, her nose practically pressed to the window as she watched the boys hand Hatcher the container of water.
Kate stood at her friend’s side. Her worry about the crop had been like a heavy necklace—a thing supposedly of adornment and pleasure, grown to be, if not resented then something first cousin to it, and now it’d been removed. She felt airy; her feet could barely stay still. “A hobo I hired to put in the crop.”
Sally spun around. “He’s one of those filthy, shiftless men?” She turned back to the window, straining for a better look. “Look how dirty he is. His hair sticks out around his hat. He needs a haircut. I don’t know how you can stand there so calm about having a man like him just a few feet away. And to think you invited him to stay here? You might as well invite a rabid dog into your home. Kate, have you taken leave of your senses?”
Sally’s reaction stole Kate’s smile, killed thoughts of a happy dance. “Of course he’s dirty. He’s working in the field and I haven’t invited him into my house. He’s staying in the shanty. Besides, don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?”
Sally shook her head. “I think you’re being stubborn. Acting unwisely just to prove a point.”
Kate spared her a warning glance that Sally missed as she concentrated on the activity in the field. There was nothing to see except the cloud of dust. “And what would that point be?”
“That you can manage on your own. I don’t understand why you want to keep this farm. It’s way too much work for you. You could live in the best house in town and have a maid to help with the housework yet you stubbornly hang on to this dried-out piece of land. Kate, give it up. Let it go.”
Kate turned from the window, all pleasure in seeing her land being tilled lost by her friend’s comments. Sally could not now or ever understand Kate’s need for permanency and security. She’d always had a solid home, first with her parents and now with Frank. “You don’t know what it’s like. You’ve never been without a home.”
Sally rolled her eyes. “Kate, what are you thinking? Doyle will give you a house.”
The same question twisted through Kate’s thoughts often. Why didn’t she accept Doyle’s offer of marriage? Why did it scare her to think of letting the farm go? “This is mine. I own it. No one can take it from me.”
“What? You think Doyle wouldn’t give you whatever you want. If his house isn’t good enough, he’ll buy another. What’s the point in hanging on to the farm especially when you have to resort to hiring men like that?” She nodded toward the window where Hatcher worked.
Dougie and Tommy disappeared into the barn where they could play for hours. Mary sat under the spreading cottonwood tree Jeremiah had planted years ago, probably before Kate was born. It was one of Mary’s favorite spots. She liked to read there or play with her dolls. Right now her two dolls sat on the ground facing her and Mary leaned forward, talking seriously to them. Such an intent child.
“Sally, let’s have tea.” She poured boiling water over the tea leaves and as it steeped set out a plate of cookies. She longed for her friend to understand her need for a home she actually owned, or if unable to understand, at least to support her. She waited until they both had full cups and each held a cookie before she broached the subject again. “You’ve been my best friend since my family showed up in town, probably as dirty and suspicious looking as you think Hatcher is but...”
“Hatcher? That his first or last name?”
“Hatcher Jones.”
“What else do you know about him?”
“He knows how to keep the tractor running and how to milk a cow so she won’t go dry.”
Sally shook her head. “Who cares about that?”
Kate refrained from saying she did.
Sally continued. “Where’s he from? Why is he on the road? Does he have family? What sort of man is he? How can you be sure he can be trusted? What about the children? Are they safe with him?”
Kate had asked many of the same questions but only because she was curious about the man, not because she felt he needed references. He hadn’t answered her, yet she wasn’t afraid of him. She’d seen something in the man’s eyes when they laughed together, felt something solid when they’d worked side by side. But Sally’s suspicions scratched the surface of Kate’s confidence making her wonder if she’d been too eager to have him stay. She didn’t thank Sally for filling her with doubts about the safety of herself and the children. “Would you feel better if I asked him? Or perhaps you’d like to.”
“One of us should do it.”
Suddenly exasperated by Sally’s interference, Kate put down her half-eaten cookie and looked hard at her friend. Her pretty blond hair hung loose around her face, her hazel eyes had a hard glint to them. “Sally, I prayed long and hard for someone to help me. Hatcher is an answer to my prayer. He’s only staying long enough to put in the crop. That’s all I need to know.”
Sally’s look probed. “You’re willing to do anything to keep this place, aren’t you?”
Kate nodded. “So long as it isn’t foolish, yes.”
Sally grunted and shifted so she could look out the window watching Hatcher.
Kate thought of introducing her friend to the man. But if she did, he’d have to stop the tractor. The sooner he finished, the sooner he’d be on his way and the better Sally would like it. It was her sole reason for not introducing them. Not her petty anger at Sally’s refusal to rejoice over Kate’s blessing.
“I’ve potatoes to peel.” Kate pushed away from the table and went to the basin Dougie had filled for her. She gripped the paring knife in her tight fist, ignoring the pain in her jaw she knew wouldn’t go away until she relaxed. And she couldn’t relax with resentment simmering inside her. Why couldn’t Sally understand? “I remember when we came into town that night a dozen years ago. We’d been on the train three days and three nights. We hadn’t been able to do more than wash our hands and face. The little boys had been sick all over Mother’s dress. We were dirty, bedraggled and I’m sure most people looked at us with disgust and suspicion even though we were just good people looking for a kind word. Your mother took us in and cared for us. Have you forgotten? Did you feel the same about us as you do about that man out there?”
Sally jerked away from the window. “Of course not. But that was different.”
Kate refused to look at her, anger making every muscle in her body tighten. Her hand slipped. She barely managed to stop the knife before she sliced her finger. She stared at the blade. “How was it different?” She glared at Sally. They’d been friends since Sally’s mother had taken care of them. They’d all been sick, one after another but the woman had never flinched at cleaning up after them, washing the bedding, making nourishing broth. She’d nursed them ten days before Father found a job and a little house for them all. During that time, she and Sally had become best friends.
She ploughed on with a whole lot more energy than she got from the old tractor. “Did we become friends just because your mother thrust us into your life? If she hadn’t, would you have seen us a dirty, no-goods to shun?”
Sally gasped. “Katie, how can you even ask? You’ve been my dearest friend all these years.” Her voice broke. “I could never have survived losing my baby without your help. Just think, I might have had a child the same age as Mary.” She rushed to Kate’s side and hugged her. “It’s only because I care about you that I wonder about the man out there.”
Kate received her hug reluctantly, her anger still not spent. “If you care then you know I have to do what I have to do.”
Sally stepped back six inches and studied Kate. “Doyle has been more than patient with your putting him off. One of these days he’s going to stop courting you. Then where would you be?”
“If Doyle isn’t prepared to wait then he doesn’t love me enough. And if he stops asking, I’ll still have my farm. I’ll still have my home.”
Sally shook her head. “There is absolutely no point in arguing with you, is there?”
Kate smiled past the pain in her jaw. “So why do you try?” She squeezed Sally’s hand. “I don’t expect you to understand what it’s like not to have a place you can call home. But it’s a feeling I will never again have as long as I have my farm.” Her resolve deepened. “My children will never know what it’s like to be cold and dirty with no place to spend the night.”
Sally didn’t respond for a moment. “Does Doyle know he’s here?”
Kate knew she meant Hatcher. “Not yet.” Kate returned to the window to watch her land being prepared for planting.
“What will he say?”
For a moment she didn’t answer then she smiled sheepishly at Sally. “Strange as it might seem, I never gave it a thought. But I suppose he’ll be glad I have help.”
Sally sighed. “I hope so.”
Suddenly Kate had to get outside, touch the land that meant so much to her. “Come on.” She grabbed Sally’s hand and dragged her outside. She didn’t stop until she got to the edge of the field. “Take a deep breath.”
Sally did. “Now what?”
“Don’t you smell it? The rich aroma of freshly worked soil? The heat rising from the ground, carrying with it all sorts of delicious scents—new grass, tiny flowers.”
“You sound like Frank. He can’t stop telling me how good things will be once the drought ends. If it ever does.”
Kate laughed. “It will and the land will always be here no matter what.” She tipped her nose toward the trees. “Smell the leaves as they burst forth. All the signs and scents of spring. I love it.” She swung her arms wide. “I love my farm. It’s mine, mine, mine.”
Sally laughed. “The smell of an overheated brain. The signs of rampant overimagination.”
Kate laughed, too. “At least you didn’t say rampant insanity.”
“Doesn’t mean I didn’t think it.”
“You didn’t.”
Sally looked away as if hiding her thoughts. “I’m not saying.”
Kate chuckled, unable to stay upset with this dear friend for more than two minutes at a time. “I’ll show you my garden.”
“You’ve already got it planted?”
“No, but it’s ready. I’ll do it next week.” When Hatcher had seen her turning the soil last night, he’d reached for the shovel.
“I’ll do that.”
She’d resisted. “I don’t expect you to do everything around here.”
He kept his hand on the handle waiting for her to release it. “I’m sure you have other things to do.” His glance slid past her to the house.
Kate followed his gaze. Mary sat forlornly on the step. She’d asked Kate to help her with learning the names of the presidents. Kate explained she didn’t have time but if she let Hatcher dig the garden she could help Mary. Yet she hesitated, found it hard to let go.
“I think someone needs her mother,” Hatcher said softly.
If he’d sounded critical or condemning, Kate would have refused his help. But he sounded sad and Kate suddenly ached for Mary’s loneliness. She’d neglected the child so often since Jeremiah’s death. At first, Kate couldn’t cope with anything but survival, then Dougie had been sick all one winter, and always, forever the demands of the farm.
“Thank you.” She dropped her hands from the shovel and gave him a smile that quavered at the corners.
“My pleasure.” The late-afternoon sun slanted across his face, making her notice for the first time the solidness of his jaw. He smiled and something soft and gentle filled his eyes.
She hurried back to the house, feeling slightly off balance from his look. It was only her imagination but somehow she felt he’d seen and acknowledged the loneliness she never allowed herself to admit.
As she helped Mary recite names she watched Hatcher make quick work of digging the garden. Finished, he put the shovel away and without lifting his arm, raised his fingers in a quick goodbye. She waved once, feeling suddenly very alone.
She wouldn’t tell Sally about that. No need to start up her worries again.
Sally left two hours later. Caught up visiting with her friend, Kate had neglected meal preparations and hurried to complete them. Sally’s husband, Frank, sent over some fresh pork so they would have meat for supper.
The potatoes had just come to a boil when she heard Mary’s thin screech. Now what? A grasshopper? The wind? The child overreacted to everything. When was she going to learn to ignore the little discomforts of farm life? At least Sally hadn’t pointed out the benefits of town life for Mary. It was the one thing capable of making Kate feel guilty. Her daughter would be much happier in Doyle’s big house.
When Mary let out another yell, Kate hurried to the window to check on her and sighed. Chickens pecked around the child. Dougie and Tommy must have carelessly left the gate open when she’d sent them to get the eggs.
“Dougie,” Kate called out the open window. No answer. And now he’d done a disappearing act, probably hoping to avoid a scolding. They had to get the chickens back in the pen before they wandered too far or laid their eggs in hiding spots. Kate needed every egg she could get.
She hurried to the stove, pushed the pots to the back, and grabbed the bucket of peelings.
Mary, wailing like the killing winds of summer, stood in the doorway.
“Help me get the chickens in,” Kate said, heading outside.
Mary shrank against the wall, her eyes consuming her face.
Kate captured her hand and dragged her after her, ignoring the gulping sobs. “Mary, stop crying. I need your help.” She struggled against Mary’s resistance all the way to the pen before she released the child. “I’ll go inside and toss out the peelings. Maybe they’ll come on their own. If they don’t you’ll have to chase them this direction.” She tossed out a few scraps as she called, “Here chick, chick, chick.”
Mary hadn’t moved. “Mary, do as I ask.”
“Momma,” Mary wailed. “What if they chase me?”
Kate sighed. “Chickens don’t chase you. They run from you. You know that. Now go.”
Mary stared at her, her mouth tight, her eyes so wide Kate feared they might explode from their sockets. She snorted. Now she was getting as fanciful as her daughter. “Mary, go.”
Sobbing so hard her whole body quacked, Mary ran toward the cottonwood where most of the chickens clustered.
“And stop crying,” Kate called after her. She had no time and little sympathy to spare over such silliness.
In the end, all Mary had to do was walk around the birds while Kate tossed out scraps. The chickens dashed for the food. Some, intelligent creatures that they were, ran full bore into the fence, squawking and shedding a flurry of feathers. “Mary, chase them around to the gate.”
The child hesitated, gave Kate a look fit to boil turpentine then obeyed.
A few minutes later, the chickens all safely inside, Kate latched the gate securely. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“I hate chickens,” Mary muttered, and stomped off.
Dougie sauntered out of the barn. He would have enjoyed chasing the chickens in, although he tended to overdo it and have them running in frantic circles. “Where have you been, young man?” For some reason she couldn’t keep the sharpness from her voice. It seemed she always had too many things to do, too little time for it, and a mountain of needs. And now she had a man to feed. She took a deep breath. Now she didn’t have to try and do it all, at least for a few days. Hatcher would put the seed in. She could relax and think about other things. Like supper, which was probably burning.
Half listening to Dougie describe the little farm he and Tommy had constructed in the back of the barn, she dashed for the house to rescue the meal.
As she and Dougie hurried into the house together, she saw the huge tear in his overalls and skidded to a stop. “Douglas Bradshaw, what have you done to your overalls?”
He sidled away, trying to cover the hole with his hand.
“Now I have to mend them. I repeat, what were you doing?”
“Nothin’, Momma.”
“Nothin’ doesn’t tear your clothes.”
“Me and Tommy were playing. That’s all.” He continued to back away.
Kate felt anger boiling inside her, felt it flush her cheeks, saw wariness in Dougie’s face, knew he heard it, sensed it and feared it. She took a deep breath. She would not explode. She fled to the kitchen. Her hand shaking, she grabbed a pot holder and lifted the pot lids without noting if the contents boiled or not. She turned away from the stove. Shaken, she leaned on the table. For weeks she’d felt ready to explode. Too much to do. A sense of the world caving in on her. But not until now had she lost control. She hated that her child had been on the receiving end. Oh God, she cried silently. Help me. I do not want to feel this burning frustration. I do not want to punish my children for it. They don’t deserve it.
A verse came to mind. Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee.
She sucked in air and the power of God’s promise. I trust You, God. You sent me a man to put in the crop. I know You will meet my other needs, too.
The panic subsided. She would manage with God’s help and Hatcher to put in the crop. She would hold on to her farm and home.
She returned to the stove. A few minutes later she called the children and waved at Hatcher to come in for supper. Thanks to Sally, she wondered about him. She’d already asked questions he’d left unanswered, but whoever he was, wherever he was from, he’d promised to put the crop in. What did anything else matter?
She put out hot water for him to wash in and handed him a plate of food. She ate with the children then carried a cup of tea and a handful of cookies out to him.
He drained his tea and set the cup on the step beside him. “A couple hours yet until dark. I’ll get back to work.” He got to his feet and plunked his dirty hat on his head. He touched the brim and nodded. “Ma’am.”
While she did the chores she listened to the rumble of the tractor and counted her blessings.
He worked until the light was gone then filled a pail from the well and strode off into the dark toward the shanty.
Kate relaxed when she could no longer hear his footsteps. The children were already asleep, bathed and ready for church the next day. She bowed her head to pray for safety for them all. Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee; because he trusteth in thee.
She trusted God. She had nothing to fear. Besides, Sally promised to pray for their safety. Kate would turn her energy to a different matter. Lord, God, You have promised to meet all my needs. I needed someone to help with the farmwork. Thank You for sending someone to put in the crop. Please bless the land with rain this year.
* * *
Preparing to head for the barn, Kate glanced up at the sound of boots on the step and saw Hatcher. She’d invited him to join them for breakfast but he’d refused, saying he had biscuits. Yet there he stood waiting.
Supposing he must have changed his mind, she opened the door. “Breakfast will be ready shortly.”
“Didn’t come for breakfast, ma’am. Came to milk the cows.”
“I’m just on my way.”
He reached for the buckets. “You have the children to care for. And you need extra time to prepare for church.”
She chuckled. “Time is not something I’m used to having much of.” Usually she rushed to pull off her cotton housedress or the old coveralls she often wore and hurried into her Sunday dress with minutes to spare. Not enough time to do anything more with her hair than slip in a couple of nice combs.
“Than maybe you’ll let yourself enjoy it.”
His choice of words startled her and he took the buckets from her as she stared after him. Let yourself enjoy it. Did she even know how anymore? Work seemed to be the shape of her life. What would she do with spare time? She thought of the neglected mending, the unwritten letters, the unpolished stove and laughed.
“Will you come to church with us?” she asked when he returned with the buckets full of milk and a pocket full of eggs.
He shook his head.
Disappointment like a sharp pin pricked her thoughts. For some reason she’d imagined him accompanying them, proving to Sally she could trust Kate’s judgment. “But surely you want to worship with God’s people.”
“It’s not a place for hobos.”
She wanted to argue but after Sally’s comments... “I could let you have some of Jeremiah’s clothes.”
“It’s not just the clothes.”
“I’m sure you’d be welcome.”
“It’s not the place for me. I’ll worship God in His outdoor cathedral.” He nodded and strode away.
Kate stared after him. Poor man, used to being an outsider. Perhaps she could help him realize he fit in so next Sunday he’d feel he could show his face inside a church building.
She had extra time to prepare for church and took pains with her hair, pinning it into a soft roll around her face. She wished, momentarily, her hair could be a rich brown instead of being streaked with a rust color. She dismissed the useless thought and pulled on white gloves.
She put Mary’s blond curls into dangling ringlets and smoothed Dougie’s brown thatch. She’d have to cut it soon.
The three of them climbed into the truck and headed for town and church. Doyle met them at the church steps.
“You look very nice this morning.” He smiled his approval and Kate was glad she’d been able to spruce up more than usual.
Doyle pulled her hand through his arm and led her inside, the children following them.
She sighed. The familiar routine filled her with contentment.
He led her to the front pew, his customary place, and waited for the children to go in first so he could sit beside her. As always, attentive but circumspect, he limited his touches to a brushing of their fingers under the hymnal and a quick squeeze of her hand when the preacher announced Doyle had donated money for a bell in the belfry.
After the service, grateful parishioners surrounded Doyle thanking him for his generosity.
Kate stood proudly at his side, watching the way he accepted their praise—a kind man and handsome with his neatly groomed blond hair, his blue eyes and decked out in his dark, spotless suit. He noticed her studying him and reached out to pull her to his side. “Are you ready to go?” he asked.
She nodded. Dougie had raced away to play with Tommy and a couple other boys. Mary waited in one of the pews humming and swinging her feet. They collected the children and headed for the restaurant where they were given the best table, next to the wide windows looking out on Main Street. Mary sat beside Kate, as quiet as a mouse. Dougie fidgeted beside Doyle.
“Sit still, child,” Doyle said and Dougie did his best to settle down.
Doyle ordered for them all—roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, mashed potatoes and gravy, carrots and turnips. It always seemed a bit extravagant to Kate to spend as much money on one meal as she spent on groceries in several weeks but she knew if she mentioned it, Doyle would say the same thing he said every time they were together—he could afford it and she deserved it. Besides the beef was excellent.
After ice cream they headed outside. Dougie raced ahead, loving the thunder of his boots on the wooden sidewalks, Mary skipped along in his wake. Doyle waited until they were out of earshot before he asked the inevitable question.
“When are you going to sell the farm and marry me?”
She laughed. “You know the answer.”
“Be practical, Kate. You can’t stay out there by yourself.”
“I’m not by myself. I have the children.”
“And too much work. Jeremiah had help when he was alive and here you are trying to do it all yourself. You deserve better. Let me give it to you.”
“Doyle, you’re sweet. And I appreciate it. I do.” His attention made her feel like a woman. Made her feel cherished. “But I have help.”
He slowed his pace and looked down at her. “Help? What do you mean?”
“I have someone to put in the crop for me.” She hoped he wouldn’t ask about the rest of the work and how she planned to get the crop off in the fall. One day at a time. That’s all she needed.
“You hired someone?”
“Doyle, don’t sound so surprised. It’s what I’ve done the last three years.”
“You hired the Oliver lad, but he’s gone.”
She smiled up at him. “He’s not the only man in the country.”
He didn’t return her smile. “So who did you hire?”
She hesitated, sensing his disapproval. If she said a hobo, she knew he’d react even more strong than Sally. “What’s the matter? You should be glad I have help. You just finished saying it was too much for me.”
“When are you going to give up and marry me?”
He annoyed her, insinuating she would eagerly accept his will for her. “I’ve never said I was.”
“You’re just being stubborn. You’re a fine woman except for that.”
She jerked her hand away from where it rested in his arm. “I am not stubborn. I am determined. And marrying you will not change that.” She took two steps away. “Children, it’s time to go home.”
Doyle reached for her but she moved farther away. “Kate, be reasonable.”
“How can I be? I’m stubborn, remember?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Forgive me.”
He had the sweetest smile but this time she wouldn’t be affected by it. However, she couldn’t refuse to grant him forgiveness. “Very well.”
“Someday,” he murmured. “You’ll admit I’m right. You don’t belong on the farm, struggling to survive. You and the children deserve better.”
Consideration for the children always caused her hesitation. Maybe they would be better in town where they didn’t have so much work helping her keep the farm going, where they’d surely get more of her time and attention. It bothered her how often they had to manage on their own while she did chores, or chased cows or tried to get the tractor to run, though with Hatcher’s help the past few days, she’d been less rushed, less demanding of the children.
“Tell Mr. Grey thank you,” she told her children. She added her thanks to theirs and climbed into her truck.
Doyle leaned toward the window. “When are you coming to town again?”
“I’m awfully busy right now.”
He gave her a knowing look, which she ignored.
“Be sure and drop in at the office.”
“Of course.” She always did unless she had too many things to take care of. Which was often.
“Maybe I’ll visit you. Make sure everything is what it should be.”
“You’re welcome anytime, of course. You know that.” Though he had no right to judge how things were. Not that he could. He didn’t know oats from wheat from pigweed. And a cow was a smelly bulk of animal flesh, not the source of milk, cream, butter and meat.
She fumed as far as the end of the street then her attention turned to the fields along the road, several already planted. Soon hers would be, as well. And she again prayed for rain.
* * *
Monday, Hatcher ate a hurried breakfast at the house then headed out to start the next field. After the children left for school, Kate gathered up seeds and went to the garden. With little cash to purchase groceries, they depended on what they could raise.
She seeded the peas and turnips and carrots, paused to wonder if there would be another frost then decided to put in the beans. It was time-consuming, tiring work moving the string to mark each row, digging a trench for the seed with the hoe, measuring it out judicially then carefully covering it with soil, praying all the while for rain at the right time.
She had started tomatoes in early March but she wouldn’t put them out for a week or two yet.
She paused long enough to make sandwiches to take out to Hatcher.
For weeks, she’d saved the eyes from peeling the potatoes. As soon as the children were home to help, she’d plant them. Then carry water to the many rows that would soon be green potato plants.
She didn’t finish until suppertime. For once she didn’t argue when Hatcher offered to milk the cows. As soon as the dishes were done she asked the children to help her carry water to the garden.
The three of them carried pail after pail, soon soaked to their knees despite efforts to be careful.
When Hatcher grabbed two pails and started to help, she didn’t complain. She could see the children were worn-out. “You two go get ready for bed. I’ll be in as soon as we finish this.”
At first she kept up with Hatcher, but soon he hauled four pails to her two and then six.
“I’ll finish,” he said. “The kids are waiting for you to tuck them in.”
She protested weakly. “This is my job.”
“Nothing wrong with needing help.”
“I have to learn to manage on my own.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Kate,” she said. “My name is Kate.”
“Yes, ma’am. Mine’s Hatcher. Hatcher Jones.”
“I know.” About to say something more, the thought fled her brain as a slick gray automobile purred up the driveway. Doyle. What was he doing here? He never visited during the week. He was always too busy. But then, so was she.
She waved as he climbed from his car, half expected him to head to the garden but he waited for her in front of the house.
Wearily she headed his direction, acutely aware of her muddy state. Why did he pick a day to visit when she looked her worst? “What brings you out here?” she asked, as she drew near.
He let his gaze take in every detail of her state, managed to look pained, then smiled. “Maybe I miss you.”
“I’ve been here for a long time and you’ve never before missed me enough to drive out during the week.”
He didn’t answer. His gaze went to Hatcher and stayed there. “That the hobo?”
“That’s my hired man.”
“Maybe I should introduce myself.”
Before she could ask why, he headed toward the garden.