The Road to Love ; Hearts in the Highlands

by Linda Ford

Why had Hatcher left her? She’d told him she loved him. Begged him to return. Offered her home and her heart. Wasn’t it enough for him? What else did he want? If he would tell her, she’d do her best to give it. If only he would stay. Or—she’d seen him head for the train station—come back.

  “Lord,” she wailed. “Why did You send him here and then take him away? I was happy enough before he came. But now I don’t know if I can live without him.” She sat motionless, breathed in the heated dust, heard the chirping of the sparrows, smelled the hot oily smell of the tractor.

  She still had the farm.

  Sending steel into her spine, she vowed she would finish this seeding if it took her the rest of the day and all night. She cranked the tractor again, broke her record and completed one round before it stalled.

  She saw the children returning from school, climbed down and abandoned the whole business. Tomorrow she’d finish if she had to plant the rest with a hoe.

  Realizing how she must look, she veered off toward the trough. “I’ll be right there,” she called. She washed off the evidence of her frustration and prepared to face her children.

  They both raced toward her as she dried her face on the bib of her overalls. Dougie shouted before they had half crossed the yard.

  “Where’s Hatcher? Mary said he’s gone. She’s fibbing, isn’t she?”

  She grabbed him, held him close. “Mary doesn’t fib.”

  Dougie jerked away from her, his expression fierce. “Why didn’t he come back?”

  Mary said nothing, simply wrapped her arms around Kate’s waist and hung on tightly.

  Kate patted her daughter’s back as she tried to explain to Dougie. But how could she explain something she didn’t understand herself? “He had to leave.”

  “Why?” Dougie shouted. “Why couldn’t he stay here?”

  “I don’t know but he must have his reasons.”

  She reached for her son, wanting to hold him close, as much for her sake as his. She needed the comfort of her children’s small bodies. The remembrance of their tiny fists as she held them as babies.

  But Dougie jerked away. “He didn’t even say goodbye.”

  “No, he didn’t.” She shared her son’s pain over that neglect.

  Screaming, Dougie raced to the barn.

  Kate let him go knowing he would crawl into the warm manger where he often played and cry until he was cried out.

  “He said goodbye to me,” Mary whispered.

  Kate turned her daughter’s face upward. “When?”

  Mary told how Hatcher had stopped at the schoolyard.

  Kate imagined the scene and felt a tightening in her stomach at her daughter’s plight—being teased by the big boys.

  “He was angry,” Mary said.

  His anger—the problem that drove him away from others. “What did he do?”

  “Nothing. Just told the boys they shouldn’t be bullies.”

  Kate looked toward town. Hatcher, admittedly angry had responded in a calm, patient manner. Just as always, but did Hatcher even pause to admit the evidence? She prayed he would realize how he’d changed.

  “He said he was going to visit his father.”

  “I’m glad. Maybe he’ll find what he needs there.” And then return to them. “What else did he say?”

  Mary smiled, blue eyes like a fine summer sky. “He said you’d need my help. Momma, I’ll help you lots.”

  Kate hugged the child. “You are a great help.” She smiled, feeling as if Hatcher had sent her a message, had indeed said goodbye in his own way.

  Mary changed her clothes and went to gather eggs without being asked then went to the barn. A few minutes later both children emerged. Kate wondered what her little daughter had said to Dougie. Whatever it was, he seemed reconciled to Hatcher’s departure.

  Kate finished seeding the field the next day. Grateful to be done with the uncooperative beast, she limped it into the shed and dusted her hands as she walked away.

  She sauntered over to the hay field, decided there might be enough to cut for winter feed if it didn’t burn up before she got to it. She tried not to think of how much work lay ahead—the endless cycle of haying, harvesting, animals to care for. She couldn’t manage on her own. She alternated between anger at Hatcher for abandoning her and sadness at missing him.

  But she was more determined than ever to keep her farm. So what if part of her reason was so Hatcher could find them if he ever felt the need to return?

  However, she needed help and swallowing her pride and fear, she posted a notice in the store, arranging to interview the applicants in the back of Mr. Anderson’s store.

  Lots of men arranged to meet her. But after two days she wondered if anyone would suit her. None of the men she interviewed measured up to Hatcher. Not that she hoped to replace him, knew she couldn’t. She would carry him in her heart the rest of her life.

  She’d look in the faces of every hobo she saw hoping for his familiar features.

  At one point the farm had been what mattered most but no longer. She still wanted it. That hadn’t changed but her attitude had. She needed less work, more sharing. She didn’t expect the latter because there was only one person she wanted to share with, but she needed the former and so continued to talk to men about working for her.

  After several more disappointing interviews, she decided her hay didn’t need cutting for a few more days.

  One fine Saturday, she turned to the children. “Let’s do the chores as quickly as we can and then do something fun this afternoon.”

  They both begged to go back to the coulee.

  “We never got to pick any violets,” Mary reminded her.

  Kate didn’t want to go back to a place full of happy memories shared with Hatcher but she couldn’t disappoint her children.

  They hiked across the dry, dusty prairie so badly needing rain.

  Dougie raced for the coulee again to check out the nest. “Look, two baby hawks.”

  “Stay back from the edge. Remember what Hatcher said—”

  “I remember. ‘A man always keeps his eye on what’s ahead making sure he won’t step into something dangerous.’”

  “Very good.” If only Hatcher didn’t apply the same caution to his emotions. Would he ever let the past go?

  While the children ran about, turning over rocks to watch bugs scurry away, chasing along the edge of the coulee, squatting to watch a deer tiptoe through the brush far below them, Kate sat and stared out at the landscape. And she prayed. God, help me find someone to help on the farm. Help me be a good mother and substitute father to my children. And most of all wherever Hatcher goes, let him have a roof over his head, a warm place to escape the elements. And please, God, help him see he is not the man he once was and fears he still is.

  She laughed with her children and played tag again, though she had to make an effort not to let tears flow at how much she missed Hatcher.

  As they returned home, Mary took her hand. “Momma, you’re different.”

  Kate wondered what she meant. Perhaps her sadness showed, though she’d done her best to hide it from the children and remain positive and patient. “How so?”

  “You don’t yell so much. And you help us do our chores instead of just telling us to do them. I like it when you do that.”

  Kate hugged the child. “Mary, what a nice thing to say.” She couldn’t have asked for a better way to end the day.

  The sun grew hotter with each day. Her crops struggled to survive. They endured several dust storms. Afterward, she tried to shovel the dirt away from her fences. And when she straightened to rest her back, she stared down the road.

  “What are you looking for, Momma?” Mary asked.

  “Nobody.” Her head knew it was futile to hope. Her heart accepted no such verdict. Please, bring him back to me, she prayed, kno
wing Hatcher had much to learn about himself before he would even think about returning.

  She could not put off cutting the hay any longer. She couldn’t do it without help so she returned to Mr. Anderson’s store and interviewed three more men. The first two she hoped to never see again. One was so dirty she wanted to take a bath by the time she ended the short interview. The second leered at her. It was all she could do not to rub his presence off her skin. The third man was older. Probably in his fifties. Although he could use a shave and haircut, he didn’t smell and had a neat appearance. He told her he’d been a schoolteacher at one time but had worked on any number of farms over the years.

  “Why aren’t you teaching? Seems to be a need for teachers.”

  “My wife died...” He shrugged. “After that I couldn’t see the point in having a home.”

  “I’m sorry.” Like Hatcher said, every man had his own reasons for being on the move.

  She asked a few questions about his farming experience. “I have some hay to cut.”

  He nodded. “I’ve done that many times before. I can help you.”

  “Mr. Cyrus, can you come tomorrow morning?” When he agreed, she gave him directions.

  He showed up bright and early, worked without break until she stopped for supper. He insisted he preferred to stay with men like himself and returned to town.

  He didn’t work quite so diligently the second day. She guessed he’d worked off the initial enthusiasm.

  The third day she worked two hours before he showed up. She stopped to talk to him, smelled the alcohol on his breath and wondered where he found the stuff. He mumbled an excuse for being late and she let it go.

  Haying meant mowing the grass, waiting for it to dry then raking it into bunches so it could be forked it into a wagon and taken to the barn to be hoisted into the loft. When the loft was full, she would stack it behind the barn. It was important to get the dry hay up before the wind tossed it around and much of it was lost.

  She was mowing. The tractor thankfully cooperating for a change. She was doing three times the work he was and grew tired, hot, discouraged and cranky but she decided it would be wise to keep her frustration to herself. Mr. Cyrus had to finish the job. She couldn’t do it on her own.

  His job was to load the wagon and take the hay to the barn. She circled the field, passed the wagon. But she didn’t see the man working. She stopped the tractor and headed across the field. Nothing smelled as good as freshly cut hay.

  She found Mr. Cyrus asleep in the shade of the wagon. Nudged his boots. “Wake up.”

  The man struggled to a sitting position, holding his head with both hands. “Mr. Cyrus, the hay won’t get from the ground to the wagon this way.”

  “Sorry, miss.” He staggered to his feet and slouched back to work.

  Before noon she had to waken him twice more. She’d let him go but then what would she do for help? She needed someone stronger than she to fork the hay into the wagon.

  They worked until suppertime. Kate drooped when Mr. Cyrus left. She’d spent most of her time trying to keep him from napping. She wondered if he’d return in the morning. She almost wished he wouldn’t but his help was slightly better than nothing.

  But he did not return.

  With no help she alternated between raking and forking the hay into the wagon. By evening, she’d made little headway and she ached so bad she could hardly move. At this rate the cows would have to be sold. How would she feed her children?

  She prepared a simple supper then dragged herself out to the barn to milk the cows. Stifling her moans, she separated and cleaned up. She forced a smile as she helped the children with their chores and homework. As soon as they were tucked in she fell into bed.

  She couldn’t run the farm without help.

  And she couldn’t find decent help.

  Perhaps she’d been foolish in not accepting Doyle’s offer. He would have taken care of her in relative ease. The lap of luxury as Sally often said.

  But even as her muscles and body protested she knew she couldn’t marry Doyle. Not even to escape this backbreaking labor.

  There had to be another way to keep the farm and manage on her own.

  “God, show me what to do.” She fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Mary shook her awake next morning. “Momma, it’s time to get up.”

  Kate moaned. Every inch of her body hurt.

  “What’s wrong, Momma?” Mary demanded.

  “I’m just sore. Where’s your brother?”

  “Feeding Mr. Rabbit.”

  “I’ll be right out.” She waited for Mary to leave the room before she inched her way out of bed. She managed to get both feet to the floor but when she tried to stand, her back knotted and a sharp pain grabbed her. She gingerly pulled on her clothes and shuffled from the room, bent over like an old woman.

  “Momma.” Mary rushed to her, jittered from foot to foot. “Are you okay?”

  “My back is sore. I’ll be better as soon as I get moving.”

  She bit her lip and eased a breath in. Even breathing hurt.

  “I’ll be fine in a few minutes,” she assured both children as she waved them away to school. Dougie had eagerly volunteered to stay home and help.

  But she wasn’t fine. The pain did not ease up. By the time she suffered through the agony of milking the cows, she was in tears. She looked out at the hay field knowing she would not be moving a single blade today.

  “God. Help me. How am I going to manage?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Loggieville had changed in ten years. Two more rows of houses backed Main Street, which was a block longer in either direction. A new church with a tall steeple stood to the right of the rail station. Some things remained familiar—the schoolhouse still had the big old tree where he had played as a child. Some of the store names were familiar.

  Hatcher’s gaze went unbidden toward the river. From the station he could see only the line of trees. But his mind filled in the details. The level bank that provided a perfect spot for restless young men to congregate, far enough from town so they could be rowdy without bringing down the wrath of the older, quieter townspeople and where they could challenge each other in jest. Or in anger. Tree roots knotted the ground, making it difficult to stay upright as they jostled each other. Rocks of various sizes lay scattered along the shoreline. A deadly combination, as he’d learned.

  He shook himself and pushed the thought deep into forgetfulness.

  Johnny grasped his hand in a bone-crushing grip and shook it hard. “Good traveling with you.”

  Hatcher grinned. “You slept the entire trip.”

  Johnny nodded, his eyes twinkling. “Didn’t have to worry about having my pockets lightened with you wide-awake, now, did I? You’ll find your father back at the farm.”

  Hatcher jerked his chin in, startled at the announcement. He’d thought, assumed, his father would still be in town, working just enough to provide his needs, finding a bottle somewhere so he could try and drown his sorrows. “What’s he doing there?”

  “Working. Has been for three years now. You’ll find many things changed.”

  “’Spect so.” It was the unchanged things that concerned him. Like himself. The way people looked at him. His father.

  “Allow yourself to be a little open-minded,” the lawyer counseled. “You might be surprised what you’ll discover.”

  With a final goodbye, Hatcher, used to long treks, headed down the road toward the farm he’d once known and loved. Who were the current owners? What changes had been made? It no longer represented home, yet he searched the horizon for his first glimpse of it. Finally he saw it in the distance and pulled to a halt to stare at his past.

  Emotions he wouldn’t acknowledge pinpricked the surface of his thoughts. Not old. Not new. Yet deeply familiar. Or perhaps the familiarity cam
e from his constant denial.

  He shouldn’t have come back. His return could only serve to stir up trouble again. Best thing he could do was head on down the road. Continue the journey he’d started ten years ago. The journey to nowhere. He half turned.

  He’d promised Johnny. He owed the lawyer a huge debt. And something stronger than fear and caution tugged at him. He wanted to see his father. He wanted to see the farm.

  His chest felt too full of air as he resumed his homeward journey. He came to the last little rise in the road and detoured off the road, found a grassy knoll, sat down and pulled his Bible out. He opened to Luke fifteen and read the story of the prodigal son. He’d read it many times in the past. Knew it by heart. Knew also, it didn’t apply to him. He’d never be welcomed like that. Didn’t expect to. It was a spiritual lesson about what it would be like to arrive in heaven. Yet he lingered over each word.

  He looked up from the page, watched a tractor dusting along a field. The new owner, Johnny said, took over three years ago and had been generous enough to let Hatcher’s father return to his old home.

  Hatcher lurched to his feet and returned to the dusty road. His steps lagged as he drew closer to the farm.

  Memories roared into him like a flash flood swirling through a gully, washing rocks, tearing things up by their roots.

  All summer his mother sat outside the back door he could now see, shelling peas or stringing beans, peeling potatoes or mending. She loved to be where she could hear and see her boys. She included Hatcher’s father in that description.

  He shifted his gaze to the newly painted barn, the raw, new fences angling out, the two fawn-colored cows in a pen similar to one where he and Lowell played cowboy, riding steers, being tossed to the ground more than once. One time Lowell thought he’d broken his arm and made Hatcher promise not to tell. “Mother will make us stop if she thinks we’re getting hurt.” Hatcher insisted on a similar promise the time he cut his hand carving a tiny propeller.

  He chuckled, the sound making him blink.

  It took him a long time to figure out how to balance the blades on a propeller so it turned smoothly. He laughed. The experience had been invaluable when he and Lowell decided to build a propeller-driven snow machine. What fun they’d had going to town that winter.