Love's Long Journey (Love Comes Softly Series #3) (21 page)

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Chapter 32

Willie's Return

Missie had struck off the twenty-first day of Willie's trip, on her calendar, but still he had not come. There was no sight of dust or wagon on the northern hills, no sound of grinding wagon wheels. She kept his supper hot on the back of the stove, but the fresh biscuits cooled in spite of her efforts. She lit the lamp and tried to read. Her thoughts returned to the verse that she had for so many months been clinging to; she turned in the Bible to read it again. She would not have needed to look it up--she knew it by heart. But right then she needed the assurance of the printed page. "Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God; I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness."

Missie read the verse several times. Eventually she felt quieted enough to blow out the lamp and go to bed.

Again the next day, she searched the distant hills for small dots that might mean riders, or small clouds that could mean dust from churning wheels and tramping hoofs--but only the angry glare of the sun met her tired eyes. Dusk came and she was

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forced to give up her vigil. Again that night she read by lamplight. Again she embraced the words of Isaiah 41:10. At length she crawled into bed by her small son, softly repeating the words to herself in an effort to drive the uneasiness from her heart.

The third day dawned and Missie again paced back and forth, scanning the hills for anything that moved. She prepared a third supper for an absent husband and tried to silence the uneasiness within her. What if Willie didn't come back? Her thoughts went to her mother and the ordeal that she had faced when her Clem did not return.

Who was she, Missie, to think that such a thing could not happen to her? Her heart seemed to flutter and then stand still, flutter again and remain silent. Missie threw herself on the bed.

"Oh, God," she cried, "I know that I've been readin' an' clingin' to Your Word, but I guess I haven't been believin' it, God--not really, not down deep in my heart. Help me, Lord. Help me to believe it, to really believe it, that no matter--no matter what happens, it's in Your hands and for my
good.
God, I turn it all over to You--my life--my Willie--everything, God. Help me to trust You with all that is mine."

Missie continued to sob softly until a deep sense of peace stole into her heart and gently stilled its wild beating.

She awakened much later to the thumping of hooves in the yard. She pulled herself up quickly and rushed to the window, expecting to see Willie's wagons. Instead, it was strange horsemen milling about in the bright moonlight. Cookie was approaching them.

"It's happened," Missie whispered. "Something's happened to Willie." Her weak knees buckled beneath her and she sank onto a stool. "O God, help me now--help me to trust You."

She laid her head on her arms on the table and steeled herself for the news that Cookie would bring. No tears came--only a dull, empty feeling.

It was Cookie's footsteps at her door. He called softly and she bid him enter. He stepped inside, with the moonlight washing over him. Missie knew that he could not see her where she sat in the darkness.

"Mrs. LaHaye?"

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"Jest thought thet ya might hear an' wonder 'bout all the ruckus in the yard. The new hands thet yer husband hired have jest arrived. The wagons will be in tomorra."

Missie's pounding heart caught in her throat. The new hands! The wagons were a short distance behind them! Willie would be home tomorrow!

It took a moment for it all to sink in. She wanted to shout. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to just throw herself on her bed and cry in pure thankfulness. Instead she said in a choked voice, "Thank you, Cookie. I
was
wonderin'."

When the door was closed and Cookie was gone, she put her head back down on her arms and sobbed out her pent-up feelings in great bursts of joy. "Thank You, God, thank You. Oh, thank You."

Missie never told Willie of her anxious days of waiting or of her traumatic nighttime experience. She was sure that he could not possibly understand. When the wagons had pulled into the yard in the heat and the dust the following day, a calm and smiling Missie greeted her man. He had brought supplies, letters, news that could hardly keep--and he even brought her chickens.

Willie turned from Missie to give orders to the ranch hands, then followed her into their small house.

He held her close. "Oh, I've missed ya. I thought thet trail would
never
end. It jest seemed forever." He kissed her. "Did ya miss me--a little bit?" he teased.

"A little bit," Missie said, smiling to herself. "Yeah, a
little
bit."

Willie produced the letters, but even before Missie could read them, Willie had to give some news.

The preacher's wife had fallen and was laid up with a broken hip. Missie's heart went out to the poor woman.

Kathy Weiss had found herself a young man.

"Poor Henry!" cried Missie.

Willie smiled. "Poor Henry, nothin'. Do ya know, thet young rascal had us all fooled? He wasn't ever after Kathy--not a'tall. It was Melinda Emory, the young widow, right from the start.

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Only Henry had to wait fer a proper time before lettin' her know his feelin's."

"Yer joshin'!" Missie spoke incredulously. "Melinda? Well, I'll be!"

"And," Willie went on, "Henry has gone so far as to get some land of his own right next to ours--and in a short while, we will have neighbors."

Missie could hardly contain herself. Melinda for a neighbor! What a joy that would be. Another woman she could see often, and enjoy her company. She could scarcely wait.

But Willie also had some other big news. "And guess what? They're gonna build a railroad. An' they have it figured to put the main cattle shippin' station jest eighteen or twenty miles southwest of us--maybe even a little closer--who knows fer sure? Ya know what thet means? A railroad, a town, people movin' in, connection with the East--before we know it, we'll have so many neighbors we'll be trippin' over each other."

Missie exclaimed, "Oh--oh," over and over, while the tears trickled down her face in amazement and happiness. "Willie, when? When?"

Willie spoke calmly. "Well, I'm sure it won't be tomorra-like. But they're workin' on the railroad fer sure--from the other end. It should git here within a couple years, fer sure--maybe even next year, some say. An' as soon as the line is in, the people will follow for certain. Always happens thet way. Jest think! A railroad an' shipping station. What thet will mean to the ranchers! No more long cattle drives with heavy losses. Every beef thet gits safely to market means a lot of dollars in a cattleman's pocket.

"We've come at jest the right time, Missie. Things have never looked better. From now on, every available acre of land will be snapped up at a big price, an' the price of cattle is bound to go up, too." Willie picked Missie up and attempted to swing her around in their small cramped quarters. He bumped into the table and bed.

"Silly small shack," he said. "We're gonna git us thet house just as soon as we sell some of thet herd next spring. Place ain't fit to live in."

"Oh, Willie," Missie chided--though secretly and silently she

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agreed with Willie's statement--"it's a home. We can eat, sleep an' keep dry here. That's not bad for starters."

Willie laughed as he hugged her.

"How's the boy?"

"He's been good."

"No more onions?"

"Only little snatches."

Willie gazed at his sleeping son.

"Look at 'im," he said softly. "He's gone an' growed by inches."

Willie couldn't resist; he gently lifted the baby into his arms. Nathan awoke. Surprise, then joy, made him squirm and wave his arms at the sight of his father.

Willie cuddled him close and kissed the soft head of hair. Missie blinked away happy tears.

"Got somethin' fer ya, Boy," Willie said to his son. "An' it weren't near the trouble of yer mama's confounded chickens." "My chickens!" Missie squealed. "Where are they?" "Well, I hope by now the boys have 'em corralled inside thet

wire fence. What a squawkin', complainin' lot!"

"How many?"

"Couple roosters an' eleven hens--an' I had me one awful time to gather up thet many. Folks out here seem to know better than to bother with chickens."

Missie accepted the teasing and hurried out to see her flock. Willie followed behind her with the still-sleepy Nathan.

The men had just finished tacking up the wire mesh to poles that they had pounded into the ground. As Henry finished hanging the gate that he had quickly built for the enclosure, the other two men turned and left; let someone else do the fussing with the chickens; they had done more than their share in building the pen.

Willie passed Nathan to Missie and went to lift down the large crate. The chickens squawked and flapped as they were released, not appearing the least bit grateful to be set free. They were a sorry-looking lot, not at all like Marty's proud-strutting chickens back home. Missie wondered if she would ever be able to coax them to produce any eggs for her family. One of the hens

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did not leave the crate. She had succumbed to the heat of the trail or the lice that inflicted her, or perhaps some other malady. Willie said he would bury it later so it wouldn't draw any unwanted flies.

"Seems to me," he observed, "another good dose of louse powder might not hurt
'em
any. I think we'll jest leave them outside--shut them out of their coop until I treat 'em again. I gave 'em all one good dustin' before I loaded 'em. Left a trail of dead lice from Tettsford Junction to home."

Missie laughed, but agreed. They did look like they could stand another good treatment of
something.

"I'll do the dusting," Willie said, "but from then on, they're all yers. Never was overfond of chickens."

Poor Willie. To bring the chickens had been a real ordeal, Missie realized. She looked at him and love filled her heart. Before she could stop herself it bubbled forth.

"Willie," she said, "I love you--so much."

Willie dropped a chicken and turned to her. His eyes took on a shine.

"In thet case, Mrs. LaHaye, yer welcome to yer chickens."

Willie's surprise for his young son was a smart-looking, half- grown pup.

"He'll be a big fella when he's full-grown, an' I thought him a good idea. He'll help to keep the coyotes away from yer chickens. An' ya never know," he said with a grin, "with thet railroad a-comin; an' all those folks a-pourin in, ya never know jest who might come a-callin'. I'd feel safer iffen ya had a good watch dog."

Missie looked at the empty miles stretching before her and laughed at Willie's prediction of the crowded countryside. Suddenly she remembered that she had not told Willie of the visit from Maria.

"Willie, I
did
have a visitor--honest! A real live
woman--
though sometimes I feel thet I must have dreamed it. Oh, I wish that she'd come back. We had the best visit, an' we prayed together--"

"Where was she from?"

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"I don't know."

"Ya didn't ask?"

Missie laughed.

"I asked her lots of things thet she didn't answer--or maybe
did
answer--I don't know--an' then we just gave up an' enjoyed one another."

Willie frowned.

"She couldn't understand English--an' I couldn't understand whatever it was that she spoke."

"Yet ya had ya a good visit?"

"Oh, yes."

"An' ya prayed together?"

Missie nodded in agreement.

"Yet ya couldn't understand a word thet the other spoke?"

"Not the words--but the
meanin'.
She was really nice, Willie. An' young too. An', oh, I wish so often that she'd come back-- that we could have tea, an' play with Nathan, an' laugh an' pray together."

Willie put a finger under her chin and gently lifted her face until he could look into her eyes.

"I didn't realize that you were so lonesome," he said huskily. "Here I been so busy an' so taken up with the spread an' the cows an' all. I never noticed or gave thought to jest how lonesome it's been fer a woman all alone, without another female nowhere near.

"I shoulda taken ya into town, Missie. Gave ya a chance to see the outside world again, to visit an' chat. I missed yer need, Missie, an'--an' ya never complain--jest let me go on, makin' dumb mistakes right an' left. A sorry-looking bunch of cowpokes, a work-crazy husband an' a baby who can't say more than 'goo' ain't much fer company. Yet ya never, never say a thing 'bout it. I love you, too, Missie--so very much."