by Janette Oke
Lane did not know whether to make his presence known or to
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walk home, leaving his horse. At that moment Ellie raised her head. She gasped slightly and rose to her feet.
"I ... I ... just came to bring 'im his supper," she explained quickly.
Lane cleared his throat. He didn't know what to say. "He's really growin', ain't he?" he finally stammered.
Ellie brushed self-consciously at her tears. "Sure is." She tried a chuckle, pushing back the tail-wagging Rex.
There was silence.
"Ya goin' home?" Ellie finally asked.
"Yeah. I was. I ... I ... thanks fer thet good supper. Sure beats my batchin' meals."
"Yer welcome. Anytime. Guess ya won't need to batch much longer, huh?"
"Guess not." A pause. "Sure beats Cookie's meals, too, though."
They both laughed half-heartedly.
Ellie reached and scooped up the dish in which she had brought Rex's supper. "When will ya be wantin' Rex?" she asked, "or will ya be able to take 'im?"
"Oh, I'll take 'im," Lane hurried to answer. He didn't add that he wasn't sure how he was going to get a dog out west on the train. There must be some way, he thought.
"I wasn't sure what a rancher would do with a cattle dog," Ellie said. "Rex is gonna be real good with cattle. He already can bring them in from the pasture. Watches their heels real good, too. He'd be great as a farm dog."
"Wish I could be a farmer," Lane said slowly.
Ellie showed surprise. "Thought ya loved the West an' ranchin' an'--"
"Oh, I do. I do, but I'd ..." Lane stopped. "Look, Ellie," he said, "we gotta talk an' we can't talk here. Can we go back to the kitchen or ... or somethin'?"
"We can walk."
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"Ya won't be too cold?"
"This is a warm coat."
Ellie put down the dish again and reached for the lantern. Lane thought she was going to take it with her, but instead she carried it to the open door, blew it out, and set it up against the barn.
"Don't want to chance a fire," she explained. "Pa lost a barn once."
They turned toward the lane. Overhead the winter sky was clear. Stars--multitudes of stars--twinkled above them. A pale yellowy moon showed its last quarter. The wind lightly rustled the frosted branches of the trees. They walked in silence.
But the silence didn't last too long.
"I still have thet locket," Lane said.
"Oh?"
"I'd still like ya to have it ... even though ... even though ..." He decided to change his approach. "I said back there thet I'd like to be a farmer. Well, what I meant was thet ... thet iffen there was any way so's I could stay in the area so thet ... well, so thet ... but try as I might, I can't think of any way to come up with the money it would take fer a farm."
"Ya found thet ya like farmin' better than ranchin'?"
Lane wanted to be truthful. "No," he said. "No, I reckon I still like ranchin' the best."
"Then why would ya want to farm?"
"I ... I thought you would know thet."
Ellie stopped and leaned her arms on the corral fence. Lane stopped beside her.
"Ellie," he said, taking a deep breath. "Ellie, I love ya. I know I have little to offer. Not near what a man should be offerin' a woman. I know ya said thet ya can't go out west 'cause it would break yer mama's heart. I'd stay here an' farm or work in town iffen only there was some way ... some way to ... to make a decent livin' fer ya. I've laid awake nights tryin' to sort it all out, but--"
Ellie laid a hand on his arm and Lane stopped in midsentence.
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"Lane," she said softly, "ya said ya still have thet locket."
He was puzzled at her interruption but nodded his agreement. "Do ya have it here?"
Lane lifted a hand to his inside breast pocket.
"Right here," he said.
"I think I'd like it now," whispered Ellie.
Lane pulled forth the locket with trembling hands.
"Would ya fasten it, please?" asked Ellie.
Ellie pulled aside her hair and turned around so Lane could fasten the locket around her neck. His fingers felt clumsy, and he wondered if he'd ever get the tiny clasp fastened. By some miracle he did. Ellie turned back around and, standing on tiptoe, placed a kiss on Lane's cheek. "Thank ya," she whispered.
Lane felt like he was going to come apart--hope and fear colliding in his chest.
"Ellie, please. Don't tease," he pleaded.
"I'm not teasin'."
"But--"
"A moment ago, ya said thet ya loved me."
"I ... I ... do--"
"An' I accepted yer gift, given with yer love."
"But the kiss--"
"Lane," interrupted Ellie, "I would never kiss a man I didn't love."
"But what about yer mama? Ya said--"
"I had a talk with my mama ... after my pa had a talk with me. Both of 'em say I have to make my own life ... thet they want my happiness wherever it leads me. Iffen it's the West, then--"
But Lane stopped her. "Oh, Ellie," he said, his voice sounding choked. He drew her close to him.
They walked and talked a long time in the crisp moonlight. At last they heard the door slam and voices over the frosty night air, and they knew Clare and Kate were on their way home.
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"It must be gittin' late," sighed Ellie.
"Too late fer a chat with yer pa?"
Ellie smiled at him. "Don't s'pose it's thet late," she assured him, and they walked hand in hand toward the house.
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TWENTY-TWO Ma Comes Calling
The time for Marty's confinement was drawing near. Thinking about Ma Graham, she was concerned she had not seen her for such a long time. She knew that Ma had her family, but Marty felt maybe Ma needed her, too.
Their previous plans for Ellie to go and pick up Ma for a nice, long visit had not materialized. The unexpected birth and then the loss of Kate's baby had wiped away all thoughts of the visit from their minds. Now Marty was ready to try again. She wasn't sure if it was because she thought Ma needed her or because she knew she needed Ma.
Marty was happy to see Ellie bloom again, now that she and Lane had worked things through. She felt that, if anyone deserved to be happy, it was her Ellie. She even felt a bit of satisfaction that, in the near future, the two sisters might again have each other. But Marty was also aware of just how difficult it was going to be for her to actually give up Ellie as she had done with Missie. She needed to talk to Ma. Ma would understand exactly how she felt.
So Marty laid out her plan before Clark.
"Been thinkin' a lot 'bout Ma Graham," she began. "Wonderin' how she's doin'."
"I been thinkin' on her, too," Clark responded.
"Sure would be good to sorta check on her," continued Marty. "I'm goin' to town day after tomorra. I can do thet. Thought I should stop by an' see iffen there's any way I could help."
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For a moment Marty was silenced.
"Wasn't really thinkin 'bout what she might be needin' from town or such," she eventually continued. "Thinkin' more along the ... the fellowship lines."
"I see," nodded Clark. "Lou's wife is right there. An' I expect thet the rest of her girls git over to see her, too."
"Sometimes one needs neighbors as well as family." Marty persisted.
"I just don't think it would be wise right now."
"What wouldn't be wise?" asked Marty innocently.
"You makin' a trip out in the cold to go see Ma."
"Did I suggest thet?"
"Not in words, ya didn't, but it's what ya were aimin' at, ain't it?"
"Well, sorta ... but not exactly. What I was really wonderin' was iffen ya would mind goin' on over an' pickin' up Ma fer a mornin' an' then takin' her on home again."
Clark laughed. "Well, why didn't ya just come out an' say so?" "I wasn't sure what you'd think of the idea," said Marty truthfully.
&nbs
p; "What I think 'bout it an' what I agree to do 'bout it are often two different things," said Clark wryly, "an' well ya know it."
Marty reached a hand to Clark's cheek. "I know," she said, "an' I love ya fer it."
Clark laughed and turned his head so he might kiss her fingers. "I'll see," he said, and Marty knew that was his promise. "Tomorra?"
"Tomorra."
Marty went to bed happy with the knowledge that on the morrow she would have a visit with her dear friend again.
When Clark was hitching the team to the sleigh the next morning to make his promised trip to pick up Ma, Lady began to
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bark, running down the lane toward an approaching team. It was Lou Graham.
Clark threw a rein around a fence post and walked toward the upcoming sleigh, his crutch thumping on the frozen ground.
Lou was not alone. Carefully tucked in with warm blankets, Ma Graham sat beside him.
After a neighborly "howdy" Lou explained. "Ma's been frettin' 'bout not seein' Marty fer a spell. I was goin' on by to pick up some feed barley at the Spencers', so I brought her along fer a chat while I'm gone."
"Well, I'll be," said Clark. "I was just hitchin' my team to come on over an' git ya, Ma. Marty's been right anxious to see ya."
Clark helped Ma down, and Lou prepared to be on his way again.
"I'll bring Ma on home whenever she an' Marty think they've had 'em enough woman talk," Clark joked.
"Ya mind? Thet sure would help me out some. Then I can go on back by way of town an' git some things I'm needin'."
The team left the yard, and Clark walked to the house with Ma. He would put the horses back in the barn and give them some hay until they were needed to return Ma home.
Marty couldn't believe her eyes when Clark ushered Ma into the kitchen. She knew Clark couldn't possibly have been to the Grahams' and back already.
She laughed when she heard the story and settled Ma down in one of the comfortable kitchen chairs. Ellie put on the coffee and placed the cups on the table. Then she set a plate of sugar cookies beside the cups and excused herself.
"Think I'll just run off down to Kate's fer a bit," she said.
"Not so fast, young lady," Ma said with a knowing smile. "What's this I'm hearin 'bout you and thet there young, good-lookin' cowboy?"
Ellie blushed.
"It being' true?" continued Ma.
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"It's true--thet is, iffen you've been hearin' what I think ya might have been hearin'."
Ma pulled Ellie close and gave her a big hug. "I'm happy fer ya," she said hoarsely. "I've always saw you young'uns as sorta my own. I wish ya all the happiness, Ellie, an' God bless ya ... real good."
Ellie thanked her with misty eyes. She and Ma Graham had always had a special relationship, as if Ma was the grandmother she did not have.
Ma turned to Marty. "So how ya been doin'?" she asked simply. "You've had ya quite a winter. I've been thinkin' so much on ya. First, ya had to git over the rather surprisin' news of being' a mother again. Then ya had the awful hurt to bear with Clare an' Kate. Now this. Must be a little hard to take, on top of everythin' else."
Marty had known Ma would understand. Ma did not believe in talking in circles. She went straight to the heart of the matter.
"Yeah," she answered, carefully choosing her words. "Guess it has been a rather rough winter. My, it was hard to see Clare an' Kate go through thet pain. But I'm so proud of both of 'em, Ma. They have both been so strong through it all. They've showed me a lesson or two."
"I could see when I saw 'em in church thet they hadn't let it bitter 'em. I'm so glad, Marty--so glad. Bitterness is a hard burden to bear. I should know. I've had me my bouts with it."
"You?"
"Sure did. I woulda just gone on an' on a carryin' it, too, iffen ya hadn't come along when ya did an' straightened me out." "Me?"
"You'll never know just how set I was to sit an' feel sorry fer myself before Christmas there. Oh, I know. I didn't really tell ya all I was feelin', but I was all set fer a good, long bitter spell. I felt it just wasn't fair thet I should lose two good men in a lifetime. Some women don't even like the one they got, I reasoned, an' here I was with
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two I had loved deeply an' I lost 'em both. Didn't seem fair somehow. Didn't even seem worth fightin' to keep up a good front fer the kids. Then ya came by an' made me realize it did still matter to my kids. I started thinkin' on it an' I saw somethin' else, too. True, some women don't like the man they got. Thet's to their sorrow. But I had me two good companions. Now, how many women could be so blessed? An' here I was a fussin 'bout it."
Marty smiled at Ma's way of thinking it all through.
"So I decided," continued Ma, "thet I just should be thankin' the Lord fer all the good years 'stead of fussin 'bout the years to come."
"An' it helped?"
"Ya bet it helped. Every day I think of somethin' more to be thankful fer. I have a good family--mine an' Ben's. We raised us good young'uns. That's truly somethin' to be thankful fer."
Marty agreed wholeheartedly. What a burden it must be to have children who fought against their parents, against the Lord.
"I have lots of good mem'ries, too, an' a mind still alert enough to enjoy 'em."
Marty hadn't thought about the "mind" bit, but Ma was right.
"So it's easin' some? The pain, I mean?" Marty asked softly.
"It still hurts. Many times the mem'ries bring a sharp pain with 'em, but each day I tell myself, This is a new day. It can be just a little bit easier than yesterday was."
Marty rose to get the perking coffee.
"An' how is it fer you?" asked Ma.
Marty suddenly realized that things were just fine for her. Yes, she had wanted to bring Ma to her house so that she could cleanse herself of all of the pain of seeing her Clare hurt so deeply. She had wanted to pour out to Ma that she was going to lose her Ellie, and she didn't know how she would ever do without her. She had wanted to feel Ma's sympathetic eyes upon her, to feel Ma squeeze her hand in encouragement, to see the flicker of pain on Ma's face, mirroring her own. She didn't want that now. Not any of it. She
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didn't deserve it. Every mother had to watch her children suffer at times. Every mother had to someday loosen the strings and let her children go--not just one of them, but all of them, one by one. It was all part of motherhood. One nourished them, raised them, taught them for many years so that they could be free--free to live and love and hurt and grow. That was what motherhood was all about. Marty swallowed away the tears in her throat and smiled at Ma.
"Things are fine," she assured her, "really fine. We've had us a good winter. Kate an' Clare came through their sorrow even closer to God an' each other than before. There will be more babies. Nandry turned all her bitterness 'bout her pa an' Clark's accident over to the Lord. Ellie has found the young man she wants to share her life with, an' he will make her a good an' God-fearin' companion. An' me--well, I still have me this here little one to look forward to. Ellie an' me's been hopin' fer a girl, but I wouldn't mind none iffen it was another boy--just like his pa--or one of his older brothers."
Marty had not looked forward to coming back from the West to a church without Pastor Joe. Not only did she miss her son-in-law as family, but she knew she would miss him in the pulpit, as well. The adjustment had not been as difficult as she had feared. The young minister who now was shepherding the local flock was easy to learn to love and respect.
Pastor Brown was his name, though many of the people in the congregation called him Pastor John. He had taken a good deal of ribbing in his growing-up years. "Hey, John Brown," the kids would call, "Is yer body molderin' yet?" Then would follow a chant of "John Brown's Body." John hated the teasing. He had tried unsuccessfully to get his family to call him Jack. Perhaps then the kids would miss the pun in his name. It didn't work. His family never seemed to remember that he preferred Jack, and on the few
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Pastor Brown seemed to have a true gift of sensitivity in dealing with people. The older members of the congregation marveled at how well he could often right a difficult situation. Even the children in the church respected him. Never could he be accused of intending hurt to another.
Clark looked up in surprise from his harness-mending to see Pastor John approaching him.
"Hello there," he called. "Be right with ya. I'll just hang me this harness back up on the pegs, an' we'll go on in an' see what the womenfolk got to eat fer a bachelor preacher."
Pastor John smiled. "I've already been in the house an' greeted the womenfolk. They've already given me an invite to dinner, so I'm way ahead of you. Smells awfully good in there, too."
"Well, let's go on in an' sit a spell, then," said Clark.
"No, no. You go right on fixing your harness. I'll just sit here on this stool and watch you while I'm talking. Anything I got to say can be said right here."
Clark understood that there was something the young man wished to talk about in private, so he resumed his work on the harness, letting the preacher pick his own time and pace.
"Been a long, mean winter," spoke the parson. "Sure will be good to see it coming to an end."
"Me too," agreed Clark. "Me too. An' I expect all the animals thet been winterin' through it, both wild an' tame, share our feelin'."
"Reckon they will at that."
"Speakin' of animals, ya got one with ya?"
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