The Road to Love ; Hearts in the Highlands

by Linda Ford

  She hurried inside, ate with the children then carried a cup of tea out to the man. He wrapped his hands around the white china cup, rubbing his thumbs slowly along the surface as if taking pleasure in its smoothness, causing her to wonder how long it’d been since he’d been offered a simple cup of tea.

  He sipped the contents and sighed. “Good.”

  “It’s just tea.” She remained on the step, knowing she should return to the kitchen and get at her evening chores, yet feeling comfort in adult company. Not that she suffered for want of such. She’d stopped at Doyle’s office while in town this afternoon and as always he seemed pleased to see her.

  He’d smiled as she entered the office. “What a pleasant surprise.” He closed a folder and shoved it aside. “I could use some fresh tea as could you, I’m certain, before you head back to the farm. If you truly must return.” His pale blue eyes brimmed with adoration. “Have you considered how convenient it would be for both of us if you lived in town. In the best house, need I remind you?”

  She nodded, a teasing smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “I’ve seen the house. I know how lovely it is.”

  “I decorated it and bought every piece of furniture for you, my dear. All for you.”

  “So you’ve told me many times.” His generosity filled her with guilt. “Need I remind you that I didn’t ask for it?”

  He rose and came around the desk to stand close to her, lifted her chin so he could see her face as he smiled down at her. “I know you didn’t but everything is evidence of my devotion to you.”

  Again the uncomfortable twinges of guilt. She openly admitted her fondness for Doyle. But one thing stood irresolutely in the way of her agreeing to marry him—the farm. But he must have seen her argument building and tucked her arm through his.

  “Some day I’ll convince you but enough for now. Let’s have tea.” He covered her hand with his protective palm as he led her past his secretary, Gertie, a woman with blue-gray hair and steely eyes that always made Kate wonder what she’d done wrong. He left instructions as to where he could be found. They went to the Regal Hotel, the best in town. Only and always the best for Doyle.

  Of course, it wasn’t hard to be the best when, one by one, the other establishments had hung Closed signs on their doors.

  Kate wondered again why he’d chosen her and why he continued to wait for her when other women would have been happy to be cared for by him.

  He led her into the stately dining room, glistening with pure white linen and light-arresting crystal. As he ordered, Kate tried not to compare her simple farm life with the way Doyle lived—luxury, plenty of everything—a stark contrast to her current struggles. Even his clothes spoke of his tastes, a starched white shirt that the housekeeper must have labored over for hours, a perfectly centered tie, an immaculate black suit. She knew without looking that his fine leather shoes shone with a mirrorlike gleam.

  He waited until the waitress in her black dress and crisp white apron had served them tea and scones with strawberry jam at the side then leaned forward. “I can offer you so much, Kate—you and the children. My holdings are growing daily. You would never want for anything.”

  She sipped her tea and watched him, fascinated with the way his eyes sparkled like the diamonds in the rings in Adam’s Jewelers down the street where Doyle had taken her a few months ago, practically insisting she allow him to purchase a ring for her. She’d had a difficult time convincing him she wasn’t ready to make such a decision.

  She brought her attention back to what he was saying.

  “This is a perfect time to invest in real estate. Land prices are sure to go up once this depression ends. Just this morning I bought up another mortgage which will soon make me the owner of the feed store.” He pointed across the street. “Give me a year and I’ll own the mercantile, the hotel—” He indicated the other businesses.

  Kate was no financial genius but she understood what his good fortune meant. “Doyle,” she said softly. “Doesn’t it bother you that it means tremendous loss to the current owners? They’ll walk away broke and defeated.”

  He shrugged. “I’m sorry for them, certainly. But I’m able to take advantage of the situation and if I don’t, someone else will.” His gaze grew intense. “It’s all for you and the children.” He leaned forward. She almost gave in when he stroked the back of her hand. “Doesn’t it seem a waste for me to be alone in my house? You should be living there rather than me paying a housekeeper.”

  Kate studied their joined hands. She missed Jeremiah. Missed being a wife. Missed sharing all the challenges and rewards of her life with someone equally invested in the farm and the children.

  He pressed his point and told her again of the lovely things in his house. “It’s all ready and waiting for you to move in. Surely you can see how your children would benefit from the move.”

  That argument always made her wonder if she was doing the right thing. In town, Dougie and Mary would be close to school. They’d be able to play with their friends. They could enjoy a few conveniences. Even luxuries.

  “What would I do with the farm?” she asked. They’d discussed this before and he always had the same answer.

  “Sell it, of course. Maybe not right away. Not unless we can get a decent price for it.”

  “Doyle, if only you could understand what the farm means to me.” She’d tried so often to explain it.

  “You won’t need the farm to have a home. You’ll have my home. A far better home. You won’t have to struggle and work so hard anymore. I will take care of you. You can enjoy life.”

  “I need more than a fine home.”

  “You’ll have much more. You’ll have the best of everything.”

  She put on a gentle expression as she hid her disappointment. She’d have to accept her loneliness a bit longer because she couldn’t let the farm go. Not yet. Maybe never. If he’d ever suggested she keep it...

  But he was unwavering in his opinion of what should happen. He folded his napkin and placed it neatly beside his cup. “Besides, you can’t manage on your own.”

  It was the final clincher. Little did he know this insistence convinced her to dig in her heels and hang on. She’d find a way to survive, manage on her own.

  It was too bad because she liked Doyle. He was attentive and kind, accompanied her to church, and indeed, offered her a fine life. She was genuinely fond of him. Did she love him? She wasn’t sure. She wasn’t even sure she wanted that.

  What did she want? Consider the lilies how they grow: they toil not, they spin not; yet I say unto you that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. If then God so clothe the grass, which is to day in the field, and to morrow is cast into the oven; how much more will he clothe you, O ye of little faith?

  Yes, God would take care of her. She believed it with every breath she took. But she couldn’t be content like the lilies with only the fields for her home. She wanted four solid walls and a roof. She wanted to be warm and dry, have food in her cellar or—thinking of the chickens and the meat and eggs they provided—on two squawking legs.

  Certainly Doyle would generously provide for her, but it didn’t feel the same as the security of her own piece of land and ownership of her own house.

  She sighed from the bottom of her heart.

  “Problems?” Hatcher asked.

  His question brought her back from thoughts of her visit with Doyle. She realized what she longed for was someone with whom she could discuss her farming problems. To Doyle there was no problem. Or at least, a simple solution. Sell. She laughed a little to hide her embarrassment at being caught spending her time in wishing for things that might never be.

  “You found a hired man today?” Hatcher asked.

  “I didn’t.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, a puzzled look on his face. “When I came through town there were at le
ast 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 it’s 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.