Love's Long Journey

by Janette Oke

  “It’s just no use,” she muttered, grabbing up some knitting.

  “I just can’t think clearly!”

  She had added only a few stitches to the sock she was making when Mrs. Taylorson called up the stairs, “Ya have a caller, miss.”

  Missie so wished Mrs. Taylorson wouldn’t call her “miss,” as though she were still a young girl instead of a grown married woman. She smoothed her hair back and made her way down the steps.

  Kathy Weiss was waiting for her in the parlor. Missie almost cried with relief at seeing her friend so soon after the men had left.

  “Did you come to sew the curtains?” she asked after greeting Kathy.

  “Goodness, no! I don’t think I could concentrate on sewin’ anything today. I jest had to go out fer a while, an’ I thought maybe you’d be needin’ it, as well.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Missie said emphatically. “Just let me get my bonnet.”

  The two young women strolled through the streets of the dusty town, chatting as they browsed along the storefronts. Occasionally they wandered inside to peruse the merchandise. Neither of them purchased a thing, but Missie returned home in better spirits, and Kathy promised to return that very evening for her first sewing lesson.

  That afternoon Missie sat down and made herself a calendar, one page for each of the three months ahead of her. She marked each day’s date in big numbers, wrote Willie’s name beside the first one—August second—then circled October twenty-fifth. It was as close as she could figure the baby’s arrival date to be. In between the two dates stretched many weeks and days and hours. But Missie intended to strike them off, one by one, in hopes they would move quickly to the next one.

  It was awfully warm in the room, and Missie was feeling emotionally and physically exhausted, so she took off her shoes and stretched out on the bed to rest.

  “It all will be worth it,” she told herself aloud. “By the time Willie comes for me and the baby, he’ll have our house ready. I’ll be able to move right in, instead of living cramped in that old wagon. Just think—our own home! I’ll hang up the curtains Mama helped me sew, spread out the cozy rugs, make up the bed with all those warm quilts. I’ll put my dishes in the cupboards, set up the sewing machine, put all the crocks and barrels in my pantry—all those things I’ll be needing in my very own home.”

  She let the happy thoughts drive away the loneliness and drifted off to sleep.

  Kathy came that evening as promised. Having never used a sewing machine before, she had a bit of difficulty in catching on to the rhythm of the foot treadle, but eventually she had a good start on her curtains.

  Day one was finally over. With relief Missie crossed it off her new calendar and knelt beside her bed. Somewhere out there, in the dark, distant night, she knew Willie would be remembering her in prayer, as well. It helped to ease her loneliness.

  At the end of each slow-moving day, Missie struck the numbers from the calendar in the manner of a general triumphant after battle. She had survived her first Sunday alone, her first hair washing, and her first washday. She was working on her third day at the piano when Mrs. Taylorson called, “Miss, ya have a feller here with a telygram.”

  Missie fairly flew to the door. What news could be so important that it needed to reach her by telegram? Her heart thumped wildly within her, every beat crying, “Willie! Willie!” She quickly took the telegram with a shaking hand and scanned the small sheet.

  “RECEIVED MESSAGE STOP PRAISE GOD STOP HAPPY AND CONCERNED ABOUT BABY STOP ISAIAH,” she read.

  “Mama and Pa!” she exclaimed. To the waiting Mrs. Taylorson, she said, “It’s from my folks—they’ve just acknowledged our message.” The woman smiled and nodded in an understanding way, and Missie smiled back and hurried up the stairs to her room. Once inside, with the door closed behind her, she crushed the blessed message to her breast and fell to her knees beside her bed, tears falling unchecked.

  “Oh, Mama... Pa... I miss you both so much, and I love you so. Oh... if only...”

  Missie posted the telegram beneath Willie’s rule number twelve. Many times a day she would read it and think of the dear ones who had sent it to her.

  As the days were gradually crossed off on Missie’s calendar, her pile of sewn articles and knitted things increased. Kathy had come often, and soon she had progressed to sewing dresses when the curtains and some aprons were finished.

  Melinda also had spent evenings with Missie. Her job in the hotel kitchen had taxed her limited strength, so she never dared to stay very late. But eventually she had managed with her small income to buy yard goods for three attractive dresses and sew them up for use in the schoolroom. When September came, her days as restaurant cook and dishwasher were over at last, and she was happily employed as the town’s new schoolmarm.

  Missie twice had called on the preacher and his wife. She not only found their company delightfully refreshing, but they loaned her several books from their own library. They also returned each call, and Mrs. Taylorson was quite beside herself to have a real parson in her parlor.

  After Missie had put on her nightgown and brushed her hair before bed one night, she stood studying her calendar. It was now September eighth.

  “September eighth is a long way from August second,” she whispered to herself. “Not halfway yet, but almost... almost.” She made a long black mark through the number and went to kneel beside her bed. As she was praying, she heard a gentle rap on her door. Missie looked up in surprise. She hadn’t heard any footsteps on the stairs.

  Then the door opened, and there stood Willie. Paralyzed with shock, Missie remained on her knees and just stared.

  Not one to wait for her bidding, he quickly was at her side and whisked her to her feet.

  “It’s really you!” Missie gasped. “It’s really you!” And then she was in his arms, clinging to him, sobbing into his jacket while he showered kisses on her face, stroked her hair, and rocked her gently back and forth.

  “I jest couldn’t stand it anymore,” he said huskily.

  “You came for me?”

  “Oh no,” Willie corrected hurriedly. “Just to see you, thet’s all. I was jest so lonesome thet Henry finally said, ‘Why don’t ya make yerself a little trip? Ya ain’t rightly of much use here anyway.’ So I did.”

  “Where’s Henry?”

  “I left him workin’ on the corrals.”

  Missie laughed. “Don’t know how you ever got away without Henry. Why, he must be near as lonesome as you.”

  “He did send a couple of letters with me—three, in fact. He sent you one, too.”

  Missie laughed again. “Dear old Henry—and he sent two others?”

  “Yep. One to the Weisses and one to Melinda.”

  “He’s just writing to all his friends.”

  “But I want to hear ’bout you,” Willie said firmly, swinging her around. “How ya been?”

  “Lonesome!” Missie said fervently.

  “Me too,” Willie replied. “Me too.” And he kissed her again.

  “How long can you stay?”

  “Just till day after tomorrow.”

  “Only one day?” Missie’s lips started to tremble.

  Willie nodded. “I gotta git back, Missie. I shouldn’ta come, really. We’ve got so much to do ’fore winter sets in, but... well, I jest couldn’t stay away. I’ve gotta leave mornin’ after next.”

  “Do you have a place to live out there?”

  “A temporary one—that’s the way most folks do. Then they build later—as they can.”

  “And the cattle?”

  “Only a few head. We can’t really take on too many until we’re ready for ’em, an’ then ya need men to care for ’em, too. After that ya need a bunkhouse to bed the men.”

  “How many men?”

  “Four or five at first.”

  “Ya mean I’m going to be cooking for six or seven men?” Missie’s shock caused her to step back.

  “No, silly,” Willie said a
s he pulled her back against him. “The cook does thet in the cook shack.”

  “You must have a cook shack, too?”

  “Yeah, an’ we hafta git all thet ready this fall.”

  Missie took his hand, and they sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “Didn’t realize it took that many men to run a ranch,” she said thoughtfully.

  “Should rightly have more than thet, but I’m gonna try to make do fer the time bein’.”

  “What on earth do they all do?”

  “Need shifts, fer one thing. Always should be some of ’em out there ridin’ herd on things—watchin’ the cattle an’ keepin’ an eye out fer trouble.”

  “Trouble—you mean like wild animals and things?”

  “I s’pose wild animals enter into it, but they’re not the greatest danger.”

  “What then?”

  Willie grinned. “Accordin’ to what I hear, a rancher’s biggest threat comes from tame animals.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Rustlers.”

  “Rustlers?”

  “Yep. More than one rancher has been driven from the land—forced to give up an’ move on out—because of rustlers.”

  “That’s horrible!” Missie exclaimed. “Do they carry guns?”

  “Reckon they do,” Willie said calmly.

  “But what do we do?” Missie could not let the matter drop. “Will you order your men to carry guns?”

  “My men won’t need those orders. They’ll be used to havin’ a gun hangin’ from their saddle.”

  “But... but, would they kill someone?” Missie could hardly force the word out.

  “My men will have orders never to shoot to kill another human bein’,” Willie said firmly, “even iffen it means losin’ the whole herd.”

  “Might they do that—the rustlers, I mean? Might they take the whole herd?”

  “Not usually. They normally just drive off a few at a time. Pickin’ on stragglers, gradually workin’ at a herd—especially one that isn’t carefully watched. Sometimes their need—or their greed—drives ’em to make a bold move and try fer the entire lot.”

  “Oh, Willie, what will we do if—”

  “Now, let’s not borrow trouble,” Willie said soothingly. “We’ll hire the men we can and protect the herd the best we can. Thet’s all we can do.”

  “But how can you afford to pay all those men?”

  “’Fraid a cowboy don’t make all thet much. Works out nice fer the ranchers, but not so great fer the cowboys. They do git their bed and board and enough money to buy the tobacco and few supplies they be needin’. Some even manage to lay a little aside. As to the payin’ of ’em, I figured thet cost into my accounts when I was workin’ out what we’d be needin’. When we start sellin’ cattle of our own, their wages will come from the sales.”

  Missie was relieved to know Willie had things well under control.

  “What else do they do?” she asked, getting back to the cowboys.

  “Break horses, build and fix fences, watch fer sickness an’ snakes an’ varmints. They care for the critters during bad storms an’ keep an eye on the pasture and water holes to make sure the cows are well cared for. Their main job, though, is to keep the cows grazin’ well together so thet there ain’t a lot of stragglers scattered through the hills—easy victims of prowlin’ animals an’ them rustlers.”

  “Sounds like a big job to me.”

  “Yup, it’s a big job. But most cowboys wouldn’t trade it fer any other job in the world.”

  “Let’s forget cowboys, cook shacks, and bunkhouses,” Missie interrupted. “Let’s think ’bout us for a while.”

  Willie agreed as his arm tightened around her. “Yer lookin’ good. Feelin’ okay?”

  “Oh, Willie!” Missie suddenly burst out. “I forgot to show you. Look!” She jumped up and pointed to the telegram on her wall. “Mama and Pa got our message,” she reported enthusiastically, “and they sent one of their own!”

  Willie grinned as he stood to read the telegram. “Makes ’em seem a lot closer like, don’t it?”

  Missie nodded.

  “This trip made you seem closer, too,” said Willie. “Took six days to make it down there by wagon—but I made it back in’bout half the time on horseback.”

  “You did? Then it’s really not so awfully far, is it?” Missie was comforted.

  Willie climbed on his horse as the sun edged over the horizon. He had spent two nights and a day with Missie. She had wondered if she could face the dreadful agonies of parting again—but it was not as difficult as she had feared. She struck two more days from her calendar as she went to bed that night. She had completely forgotten it during Willie’s visit.

  Missie felt awfully restless. The book she was attempting to read now lay discarded on her pillow. Her sewing projects had all been completed days ago. She wasn’t about to buy more fabric for things she really could do without. She had run out of yarn but had no wish to make a trip to the store for more—though that was one item she was certain she could put to good use. Willie always needed a new pair of socks. But, no, she’d wait till she had another reason to shop. Maybe a visit to Kathy’s... no, her heart just wasn’t in it.

  Listless, edgy, and out of sorts, she paced her room—back and forth. Maybe she was just tired. When it was twelve-thirty, sharp—and time for the noon meal—she knew she wasn’t hungry. She called downstairs to Mrs. Taylorson that she didn’t feel like eating—could she please be excused? She’d just lie down awhile.

  She hadn’t been on her bed for long when a sudden contraction tightened her abdomen. To her relief, it soon subsided. Missie closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but before she could drop off, another one shuddered through her.

  When this passed, Missie sat up and squinted at her homemade calendar on the wall. “It can’t be,” she exclaimed aloud, her emotions swinging between delight and dismay. “This is only October tenth. You can’t come yet, baby. It just isn’t time! It can’t be!” But Missie soon realized that it was indeed time.

  She climbed out of bed and paced for a while, then lay down, only to get up and pace some more.

  What will Willie think? she asked herself. I told him October twenty-fifth—and he said he’d be here on the twenty-second, just to be sure. Maybe I’m just imagining things, or maybe it’s a false alarm.

  But it was not a false alarm. Missie’s landlady came up the stairs to check on her, and Mrs. Taylorson soon recognized it for what it really was, even though she had never had children of her own. She suggested sending immediately for the doctor, but Missie insisted on waiting. She wanted to be absolutely sure the baby was indeed on its way. At last Mrs. Taylorson could stand the wait no more. She sent poor Mr. Taylorson over for the doctor before the good man could even enjoy his aftersupper pipe. To Missie’s relief, the doctor was not off tending a gunshot wound or setting a broken bone as she had earlier predicted to Willie, and the doctor came almost at once.

  That night, about ten o’clock, a son was born to Missie—two weeks early by her calculations. He was not very big, but he was healthy and strong. His young mother, who had been repeating over and over throughout the delivery, “Fear thou not; for I am with thee,” cried tears of joy at her first sight of him.

  After the doctor had gone and Missie and the baby were bedded for the night, Mrs. Taylorson still scurried about the room, clucking and fussing like a mother hen.

  “He’s a dandy little wee’un, ain’t he? Whatcha gonna call ’im?”

  “I don’t know,” Missie replied sleepily. “I tried to talk about names with Willie—but he said he’d be here when the baby arrived and we’d pick a name then. After we’d seen the baby.”

  “But he ain’t comin’ fer two weeks yet,” said the practical Mrs. Taylorson. “Don’t seem fittin’ thet a child should go fer two whole weeks without a name.”

  “I know,” Missie said, smiling at her son, who lay snuggled up against her. “I guess I’ll have to name him.”r />
  “Ya got a name picked?”

  “One I like. I just happened to marry a man with the same middle name as my pa. Now, doesn’t it seem fitting that our son should bear that name?”

  “’Deed it do!” Mrs. Taylorson exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Yer Willie could hardly fault ya on thet choice. What’s the name?”

  “Nathan,” said Missie. “Nathan.” She said it again, savoring the sound of it.

  “Nathan?” Mrs. Taylorson repeated and nodded thoughtfully. “Rather nice. I like it. I think it even suits the wee package. Nathan... jest Nathan?”

  “No, Nathan Isaiah.”

  “Isaiah?” Mrs. Taylorson looked a bit doubtful on this one, but she made no further comment except to ask, “Is Isaiah somethin’ special, too?”

  “It certainly is,” Missie said with a catch in her voice. “Very special.”

  Missie pulled the covers about herself and her small son. She was so happy—and so tired. She kissed the fuzzy top of Nathan’s head and let her body relax. She had nearly dozed off when a sudden idea hit her.

  “Mrs. Taylorson,” she asked sleepily, “would you be so kind as to have a telegram sent to my folks tomorrow?”

  “Certainly, miss,” the woman replied. “What would ya be wantin’ it to say?” She took a paper and pencil from the desk and handed it to Missie. “Better write it down, in case I forget.”

  Missie thought for a few moments, then began to write slowly: “Nathan Isaiah arrived safely October 10 Stop Love from Missie and Baby.” She handed the sheet to Mrs. Taylorson.

  “It would pleasure me to be the bearer of such good news,” she said with a warm pat on Missie’s shoulder.

  Missie smiled ruefully at the small bundle snuggled beside her. “If only there was some way to let his pa know. I’m going to have an awfully hard time waiting for the twenty-second. Why, Willie’s son will be nigh grown-up by the time his pa gets to hold him!”

  Mrs. Taylorson looked down at the tiny bundle on Missie’s arm. “Seems to me,” she smiled, “a little growin’ time ain’t gonna hurt the wee fella much. I don’t reckon he’s gonna outgrow thet little nightie he’s a swimmin’ in, in jest two weeks’ time.”