by Janette Oke
“Just a little.”
“Where?”
“My stomach’s a mite upset.”
“Taken any of yer ma’s medicine? There’s stuff there fer—”
“It’ll pass.”
Willie looked unconvinced. Missie was beginning to feel unconvinced, as well. She lay down on the bed, almost groaning as she did so. Willie covered her gently. Then he lifted the box of medical supplies onto the table, sorting through bottles and tins, carefully reading each label.
“Describe what yer feelin’,” he said, “an’ I’ll know better what to look fer.”
Missie answered with a loud belch and then a helpless giggle. Willie wheeled around, probably wondering if the loneliness of the western prairies had finally gotten to her, or if maybe she had somehow gotten into some of Cookie’s “painkiller.” Missie couldn’t help herself—she was laughing, not hysterical laughter but controlled mirth.
“I doubt if you’ll be finding anything,” she said between embarrassed chuckles, “to counteract onions!”
“Onions?”
“My onions. They’re big enough to eat . . . and I just went right at them and made a pig of myself.” She finished her confession with a weak grin.
“Oh, Willie, they tasted so good . . . at first. But,” she added seriously, “they’re getting so they don’t taste nearly so good now.”
“Ya mean . . . ya ate onions until . . . ?” Willie asked incredulously.
Missie nodded—and burped again.
The concern was now gone from Willie’s face. He lowered himself onto a stool and howled with his own laughter. “Ya little goose,” he finally said when he could speak, and they laughed together. He came over to her bed, reached down to kiss her, then backed away.
“Ma’am, you did eat onions,” he said, wrinkling his nose.
“Put away the medicines. I’ll be fine in the morning.”
Willie still insisted that she take something for indigestion, then tucked Missie in so she could sleep.
Missie was fine again the next morning—but poor Baby Nathan was not. He fussed and fretted all day. Missie scolded herself over and over for not considering him before she attacked the onion patch. But when Missie’s stomach had remedied itself and Baby Nathan again slept quietly, Missie smiled to herself. Every mouthful of the fresh, crisp onions had been worth it. They had tasted that good—like spring itself.
Twenty
Summer
Summer was well established, and Missie’s garden was daily supplying their table with a variety of tasty fresh produce. Willie had purchased cattle to bolster his herd, and he had decided that his next task would be to hire more riders before the cattle were brought to the Hanging W. This would insure proper protection day and night, once they were wearing his brand. He and Henry spent several days constructing another sod bunkhouse so the hired men would have a place to bed down. After the new dwelling was completed, Willie prepared for a trip to Tettsford Junction to pick up the necessary supplies and also scout out some new ranch hands. He and Henry would each drive a wagon. They left on a Thursday.
Missie looked at her homemade calendar and mentally prepared herself for Willie’s three weeks’ absence. Oh, how she wished she could have gone, too. She longed so much for a chat with a woman, for a browse through a shop, for tea and cake. But she knew the journey would be long and the weather hot, so she had forced herself to keep from asking Willie if she could go, too. Even if she could have borne the discomfort, she didn’t think Nathan would do too well on such a trip.
She wrote notes for Willie to deliver—to Melinda, Kathy, and the preacher and his wife. She then wrote a longer letter to Mrs. Taylorson, bringing her up-to-date on all the things Nathan could now do—or was attempting to do.
She and Willie worked carefully on the supply list. Missie tried to think of all the things she might need over the next year. And could afford.
It was difficult for Missie to predict everything her growing child would need. Nathan had developed and changed so much already that it was hard to keep up with him even day by day. How could she possibly know what Nathan would need in a year’s time? He would be walking and playing outside—needing shoes and shirts and pants. How did one shop for the needs of a fast-growing son? Missie decided that Willie would need some help. She composed a separate list that Willie was to give to Melinda. It was for yarns, sewing fabrics, and two special gifts for Willie—one for his fast-approaching birthday and one for Christmas. She also asked Melinda to choose a small toy for Nathan’s first birthday.
Willie tucked away Missie’s list for Melinda, then checked and rechecked their supply sheet. He finally turned to Missie.
“Is there anythin’ special thet ya be wantin’?”
Missie did not hesitate. “Some chickens,” she said. “About a dozen hens and a couple of roosters.”
Willie’s mouth dropped open. “Chickens?”
“Yeah, chickens. Do you realize what it would mean for us to have chickens? We could have eggs—fried, boiled, and scrambled—and roast chicken, fried chicken, chicken and dumplings—”
“Whoa,” Willie said. “I’m not doubtin’ none the merits of chickens—but here?”
“And why not?”
“We don’t have the feed.”
“They can scrounge for themselves.”
“They’d starve!”
“Then we’ll just have to buy feed.”
“An’ they’d need a hen house.”
“They could live in a sod hut just as well as I can,” said Missie, lifting her chin stubbornly.
Willie must have seen that her mind was made up. “Okay,” he laughed. “I’ll see what I can do ’bout chickens—but I won’t make any promises.”
“That’s all I’m askin’,” Missie said, satisfied that Willie would indeed try.
If Missie had been bored and lonely before, she was doubly so now with Willie gone. Each day she took Nathan out for a short walk or horseback ride. She did not dare go far and could only go out in the morning before the sun got too hot. While Nathan slept she often went to the spring or to her garden. She was pleased her garden was doing well. Each time she went down there she took the time to pull some weeds and pour water on her thirsty plants.
Once in a while she stopped to chat briefly with Cookie. With Willie gone, he seemed to feel responsible for her. Missie was touched by his trips to the spring on her behalf, hobbling along with her buckets of water.
She was careful to stay inside her small hut during the heat of the day and was often surprised that the cozy little soddy of the winter was also cool in the summer. It got awfully still, though, and Missie often yearned for a fresh, cooling breath of summer air, such as she had enjoyed beneath the tall shade trees back home.
The days managed to progress forward, one by one. Soon Missie was down to day eighteen. Her eyes kept searching the distant hills. She hoped that by some miracle Willie would complete his tasks in less time than anticipated and be home early.
One afternoon as Missie’s eyes again swept over the hills visible through her window, she was surprised to see a lone rider heading directly toward the house.
Who could that be? she puzzled. It’s sure not Clem or Sandy. As the rider neared the house, Missie couldn’t hold back a gasp of unbelief.
“It’s a woman!” she exclaimed aloud, bursting through the door and unexpectedly waking small Nathan with her sharp cry and rush of activity. Tears filled Missie’s eyes as she ran toward the rider. She hadn’t realized just how starved she was for the company of a woman. Oh, to talk, to laugh, to visit, to sip tea—oh, the joy of it!
Missie brushed away the tears and forced herself to a walk as the woman dismounted—the visitor might be frightened away, thinking she was crazy. They stood and gazed at each other, a smile spreading over their faces. Missie wondered if she detected loneliness in the woman’s eyes.
Missie’s visitor was hardly more than a girl, with dusky skin, long, loose-flowing dark
hair, and black eyes. Her full lips suggested that they liked to laugh. Missie felt drawn to her new friend immediately.
“Oh,” she cried, “I’m so glad to see you.” She moved forward and threw her arms around the girl, laughing and crying at the same time. The stranger responded, and Missie received a warm hug in return.
They stepped back and studied each other.
“Where did you come from?” Missie asked. To her amazement the girl answered with words she could not comprehend.
Missie frowned.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t understand you. You’ll have to speak English.”
A smooth flow of words followed, but again they meant nothing to Missie.
“You mean, you don’t speak English?”
The girl just shrugged. Missie wanted to cry but checked herself and took the girl’s arm.
“Well, come in anyway,” she said. “At least we can have some tea.”
She led the young woman to her tiny sod house and pointed to a stool. She then began to build a fire in her little stove for tea. Upon hearing an exclamation of joy, Missie turned to see the girl bending over Nathan. He had gotten over his fright with Missie’s startled exclamation and was lying on the bed playing with his fingers. She looked back at Missie and spoke. From the look in her eyes, Missie took the question to be concerning Nathan and she nodded her head in approval.
The young woman gathered the baby to her, her face full of pleasure. She crooned to him and spoke softly. Nathan could not have understood the words, but he seemed to grasp the meaning, smiling and cooing in return.
The fire caught quickly, and Missie pushed the kettle to the center, then joined the girl.
“Nathan,” she said, indicating the baby.
“Na-tan,” the girl repeated.
Missie pointed to herself.
“Missie,” she said.
“Mis-see.” The girl smiled, then added, “Maria,” pointing to herself.
“Maria.”
There was so much Missie wanted to talk about, so much she wanted to ask. But all they could do was play with Nathan, smile at each other, and sip tea.
At last Maria indicated that she must go. Missie could hardly bear the thought of losing her. She needed her so much—the friendship of another woman. It made her think of her home, of her mother—and the thoughts of her mama made her think of all the precious times they had shared together.
“Wait,” she said, “before you go, would it be all right for us to . . . to pray together?”
Maria shrugged, obviously not comprehending.
“Pray,” Missie said, pointing to herself and to Maria and then folding her hands for prayer.
“Sí,” said Maria, her face lighting up. “Sí.” She knelt down beside her stool on the hard-packed earth of the soddy floor. Missie, too, knelt down.
“Dear God,” Missie began, “thank you so much for sending Maria to me. Thank you that even though I can’t talk with her, I can feel a friendship and warmth. May she be able to come again—soon—and may I be able to learn some of her words so that I can tell her how glad I am to have her. Thank you that we can pray together, and bless her now as she goes home—wherever home is for her. Amen.”
Missie prepared to rise, but Maria’s soft voice stopped her. Missie opened her eyes and saw her new friend with face upturned in prayer. Her folded hands grasped the beads that hung from her neck.
Maria’s voice rose and fell, much like the gentle waters of the creek that ran by Missie’s old home. Missie caught “Mis-see” and “Na-tan” in the flow of words and also recognized the “amen.”
They rose together and smiled at each other. Missie’s cheeks were wet. She had never shared prayer with someone of another language before, of another faith tradition. She only knew that this young woman, Maria, seemed to know Missie’s God, and that by sharing these moments together in prayer, their spirits were uplifted and refreshed. Surely God himself had sent Maria. Missie stepped forward and gave her another warm embrace.
Twenty-One
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 she had for so many months been clinging to with all her might. She turned in the Bible to read it again. She would not have had to look it up—she knew it by heart. But right then she needed the assurance she could find on 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 quiet enough in her spirit to blow out the lamp and go to bed.
As soon as she got out of bed 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 glare of the rising sun met her anxious eyes. When dusk came, she was once more forced to give up her vigil. Again that night she read by lamplight and embraced the words of Isaiah 41:10. At length she crawled into bed beside her small son, softly repeating the words to herself in an effort to drive the disquiet from her heart.
The third day dawned, and Missie paced back and forth, scanning the hills for anything that moved. She prepared a third supper for an absent husband and tried to push away the uneasiness within her. What if Willie doesn’t come back? The question finally demanded her attention, and her thoughts once more went to her mother and the ordeal she had faced when her Clem did not return.
Who was she to think 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 wept as she spoke the words aloud, “you know I’ve been reading and clinging to your Word, but I guess I haven’t been believing it, God . . . not really, not down deep in my heart. Help me, Lord. Help me to believe it, to really believe, 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, dear Father. Help me to trust you with all that is mine.”
Missie continued to sob softly until finally 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 several strange horsemen milling about in the bright moonlight. Cookie was approaching them.
“It’s happened,” Missie whispered, her heart feeling as though it were being squeezed. “Something’s happened to Willie.” Her weak knees buckled beneath her and she sank onto a stool. “Oh, 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 just as softly bid him enter. He stepped inside, with the moonlight washing over him. Missie knew he could not see her where she sat in the darkness.
“Mrs. LaHaye?”
“Yes.”
“Jest thought ya might hear and 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 throw herself on her bed and cry in pure thankfulness. Instead she said in a choked voice, “Thank you, Cookie. I was wondering.”
When the door was clos
ed 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 he would not understand. When the wagons 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.
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,” she repeated and returned his kiss.
Willie produced the letters, but even before Missie could read them, Willie had 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 Henry had us all fooled? He wasn’t ever after Kathy—not a’tall. It was Melinda Emory, the young widow, right from the start. Only Henry had to wait fer a proper length of time before lettin’ her know his feelin’s.”
“You’re not fooling!” 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’ll have neighbors.”
Missie could hardly contain herself for joy. Melinda for a neighbor! 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.”