Love's Long Journey

by Janette Oke

  Nathan awoke and Missie reached for him. She talked to him, encouraging him to behold and enjoy what she saw, to feel the things that she felt, to breathe as deeply as she breathed. But all the baby seemed aware of was the face and arms of the mother who held him close and cooed words of love to him. At length Missie gathered everything together, bundled up her baby, and headed back to her sod house. Nathan was hungry, she knew, and would soon be demanding his own dinner. She would nurse him before preparing their noon meal.

  That very night it snowed. When Missie looked out the next morning, hoping to see another fair and sunny day, she saw instead a thin layer of white over the entire world. Willie saw her face and heard her sharp gasp. He joined her at the window, ducking his head so he could look out.

  “Moisture!” he said quickly. “Be mighty good fer those seeds of yers. Soon’s the sun’s up to work on it, it’ll soak in real good.”

  Missie changed her mind about crying and gave Willie a rueful smile instead. She didn’t know if Willie was right, but she wanted him to know that she loved him for his concern for her and her disappointment.

  The sun did melt the snow, almost as soon as its warm fingers began to reach out over the brown earth, sending up to heaven little shimmering mists, like dancing vapors.

  There were other mornings when Missie awoke to scattered snow or frost on the ground. On such mornings she prayed that none of her brave little plants had as yet lifted their heads from the protective soil bed. Though Missie knew her seedlings were safe as long as they were not exposed, she still longed for their appearance. Daily she watched for signs of life in her garden. Eventually it came—a green blade here and there, a suggestion of a green spray down a row, a pair of tiny leaves breaking forth, gradually joined by others until a row could be defined. At length Missie was able to recognize onions, radishes, beans, peas, and carrots. Her garden was growing.

  And then one night—the dreaded frost. Some of the hardier vegetables were seemingly untouched, but the more tender things wilted and curled up tightly against the ground.

  “Still plenty of time fer replantin’,” Willie assured her. “Ya want me to turn those rows with the spade?”

  Missie shook her head. “The exercise will be good for me—and I know how busy you are.”

  She replanted and again watched for new growth. It came—but it seemed oh so slow this time.

  One day as Missie checked on her garden, she was surprised to find an onion plant that looked as if it might be close to being ready. It wasn’t that big, really, but when she pulled it up, it truly did smell like an onion. She pulled off its outer skin and popped it into her mouth. Oh, it tasted good! She had almost forgotten how good an onion tasted. Or anything fresh, for that matter. She reached for another and devoured it, too. Down the row she went, searching, pulling, and eating, until at length she turned and looked at the trail of discarded tops she had left behind. She was shocked at how many she had eaten. As she bent to pick up the top nearest to her, she felt the results of a lunch of onions. Missie burped—then giggled. “Oh my,” she said to herself. “If Willie could see what a pig I’ve been!”

  Guiltily Missie retraced her steps, picking up onion tops so that her gluttony would not be so obvious. She pulled a few more onions to season a stew, then, gathering Nathan up, returned to the house.

  The onions did not sit well, and Missie felt an uneasiness in her stomach for the remainder of the day. By the time Willie came for his supper, she wished she didn’t have to join him at the table. Even the savory smell of the onions in the stew could not tempt her.

  Willie must have observed her white face and instantly showed concern. “Ya sick?”

  “Just off my food a little.”

  “Yer sure?”

  “Yeah—I’m sure.”

  “Ya’d best lie down—I’ll look after myself.” He led her to their bed. “Where’s the problem? Ya got a pain somewhere?”

  “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 ev
en 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.

  “S,” 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 twe
nty-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.”