by Janette Oke
Scottie just then returned from town and with him was the letter from the family back home.
"Dear Ma and Pa," Marty read aloud.
"We are so glad to hear that Pa is finally feeling better. We can't say how sorry we are for the accident that took Pa's leg, but we are so glad that he was spared. We have all been praying daily, I guess almost hourly, for you both.
"We don't want you to worry none about things here at home. Clare has decided to go ahead with his wedding. They had talked of waiting until you were back home again, but they thought that that might pressure you into traveling before you are really ready. We want to be good and sure that you are strong enough for the trip before you attempt it, Pa. So, for our sake, please don't come home until you are really well.
"Arnie is taking good care of the stock. That's been his job since you left, Pa. Of course he helps Clare in the field, too, but the stock is in his special care. He has not been seeing Hester lately. Her brothers just made it too miserable, and she says that she doesn't want to marry anyone that her brothers can't drink with.
"There's a new girl in town though. She is the new preacher's daughter, and Arnie has gotten pretty friendly with her. You would really like her, Ma. She's a very thoughtful person, and Arnie is beginning to think that she's kind of cute.
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"Luke's not going to college this fall. He's been seeing Dr. Watkins a lot lately. Dr. Watkins says that he's still lots young and another year of waiting won't hurt him any. Dr. Watkins is giving Luke the use of some of his medical books to read. He is taking Luke with him on his Saturday calls too, so Luke says he is learning more than he ever would in the first year of school. Dr. Watkins really seems to be enjoying Luke. He treats him as though he was his son. Guess Dr. Watkins maybe misses not having a family of his own. Anyway, Luke seems really happy with this arrangement.
"Everything is going well here. The canning is most all done, Ma. The garden has done real good and the apples are coming on well. Ma Graham came over and helped me for one day. She sends her love. Everyone at church is remembering you in prayer.
"Nandry and Clare both say that they will write now that we know a little better what to say. I will admit that we were really scared for awhile. God bless you both. We miss you to be sure, but we are doing fine on our own.
"In love, Ellie and the boys"
The letter both relieved and saddened Marty. She missed them all so much, but it was good to hear that they were all right and managing well without them. She was glad that Clare was going ahead with the wedding, and she was also glad that Arnie had a nice girl for a friend. Marty was relieved to hear that her Luke would not be going off to college without his mother there to see him off. She thanked God for working out these things and for allowing Dr. Watkins to shepherd the boy.
Clark turned from the letter with relief in his face. Marty had been unaware that, in spite of his ordeal, he also was concerned for the family at home.
"Well," he said, "seems as though they be makin' do jest fine without us. I'm proud of the young'uns you've raised, Mrs. Davis."
Marty beamed. "An' so am I. 'Course you didn't have much of a hand in it at all."
,
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"Maybe we can jest sort of take our time recuperatin' after all," sighed Clark. His grin was a little wobbly. "I think I'll jest go on back to my bed and catch me a nap."
Marty looked at him quickly and saw that he was rather pale. Maybe Missie had been right; maybe Clark was pushing things too quickly.
But Clark was content to take one day at a time. He attempted only what he thought he could manage. Very gradually, his strength was returning.
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Chapter Twenty
Neighbors
The two families from town whose boys had been involved in the old mine accident came out to the LaHaye farm for a visit. The ladies, still unable to talk of the incident without weeping, thanked Clark over and over for saving their sons. Mrs. Croft, whose Abe had been lost in the mishap, wiped away tears as she shared how difficult the adjustment to life without Abe had been for his brother Casey, but she was so thankful they had been able to see Abe again and that he had not been buried in the depths of the mine. They also were appreciative to Willie for making the proper arrangements concerning the blasting of the mine opening so there would be no further danger to other children.
Though it was difficult for them to truly express what they were feeling, they did try to make Clark understand how sorry they were that he had lost his leg. Clark assured them that in every circumstance of his life--whether good or bad--he believed with all of his heart that God knew his situation and was more than able to help him through it. He told them he was aware that there would be adjustments and some of them
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would be difficult; but, though he was human, God was sovereign. The visitors looked a trifle uneasy at Clark's "strange talk." Marty, watching with understanding eyes, supposed it was as new to them as it had been to her when she had first joined Clark's household so many years before. Clark's face and voice held such confidence that in spite of their doubts, the people in the room could not but be sure he meant every word.
Finally Mrs. Croft dared to speak some of what she was feeling. "It was hard fer me not to have a preacher-man here fer my son's buryin'. Oh, I know I ain't rightly what you'd call a church person, but I believe in the Almighty. Can't say thet I'm on speakin' terms with 'im exactly. . . but. . . well, sometimes . . . 'specially in hard times like we jest been through . . . sometimes I jest wish I knew a little more 'bout 'im . . .
It was Willie who spoke. "We have meetin's here together each Sunday. I know thet it ain't like being in a church, but we do read from the Word together an' sing a hymn or two. We sure would be welcomin' you to join us. Anyone is welcome at any time."
"Where ya meetin'?"
"Right here--in our home."
The woman's eyes took on a new light.
"What time ya meet?"
"Every Sunday at two o'clock."
"I dunno," spoke up the man. "It's a long way from town. By the time we got back home again, it'd be most dark."
The woman, disappointed, looked down at her lap and her clasped hands.
Clark spoke up. "Maybe the service could be moved up a bit earlier and not 'llowed to go fer too long."
The woman looked up again, her eyes hopeful.
"Well," said the man, sensing how much it meant to her, "we might try it fer a Sunday at the two o'clock time an' see how it goes."
The slight smile flickering across the woman's face said it all.
Andy's parents had taken no part in the conversation. Willie
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turned to them. "We'd be most happy to have ya join us, too."
The man was quick to dismiss the idea. He shook his head and shuffled his feet in an embarrassed fashion. What he mumbled was, "Don't think thet we be a-needin' thet. Our boy is jest fine now. Doc set his ankle and it's most as good as new."
Willie held his tongue. He wished to say that one did not go to church only when one had an apparent need, but now did not seem the proper time to say it. Clark said it--in a little different way, perhaps, but the message was there.
"We spend a bit of time in our service thanking the Lord as well. Perhaps you an' yer wife would like an opportunity to thank God thet He 'llowed yer boy to git out safely. Ya would be welcome to join us at any time--fer any reason."
The man nodded but remained silent.
Missie served them coffee and cake, and they went on their way, Mrs. Croft already counting the days until Sunday.
Maria and Juan came often. Juan, like a new man, had been to the city to make arrangements for setting up a proper office for the practice of medicine. He had stocked a supply cupboard with the medicines and equipment he would need. The townsfolk had coaxed him to move into a building that they would provide, but Juan wished to remain on his ranch. He did agree to be at a town office for two days of
the week; the rest of the time he would work out of his own home. Glad that he had built a large house, he immediately converted one wing into an office and small examining room. He worried some, realizing that he had none of the conveniences of the city hospitals, but some cases could be sent out by train or stagecoach.
One night as they talked together, Clark noticed that the usually buoyant Juan was quiet. Maria tried to keep the conversation going, but it was easy to sense that something was troubling Juan. After asking about his new practice, the neighborhood, the ranch, the children, and still getting very little response from Juan, the group grew quiet.
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Clark eventually turned once more to Juan. "I'm a wonderin', Doc, iffen I might see ya in the privacy of my room fer a few minutes," asked Clark. Juan offered his arm and Clark managed the distance with short, awkward hops.
Clark sat on his bed and caught his breath. He needed some kind of a crutch. He must get busy fashioning one. Hopping was far too difficult and drained him of what little strength he had.
"Something troubling . . . ?" began Juan, concerned. "Yah," said Clark easily, "I'm a-thinkin' thet there is." The doctor automatically reached for the offending limb and began to unpin the pant leg, but Clark stopped him. "Leg's jest fine, Doc."
Juan was puzzled.
"Something else is bringing you pain?"
"Well, ya might say thet."
"And where is it hurting?"
"Well, I don't rightly know. Thet's what I was gonna be askin'."
Juan's puzzled frown deepened.
"Well," said Clark, watching Juan closely, "I kinda got the feelin' thet somethin' was hurtin' the doctor and he wasn't feelin' free to say anythin'."
Juan looked startled, and moved away to the window and stood looking out on the soft fall night.
"It shows that much?"
"It shows."
"I am indeed sorry. I did not mean to bring my feelings to this home, to bring sadness to those I care for."
"Anythin' thet ya care to talk about . . . or thet I could do?" asked Clark.
Juan stood in silence for several minutes and finally turned with a deep sigh and troubled eyes.
"I think that you have heard my story--at least in part. You know that I became a doctor against my father's wishes. You know too that I was responsible for my own brother's death--"
But Clark's hand stopped him. "No," he said emphatically,
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"thet's not the way I heard the story. Yer brother had gangrene in a bad leg; you amputated, as you had to. Yer brother chose to take his own life."
Juan waved that aside. "My father does not see it that way. He told me to leave that night and forbade me to ever return to his home again."
"I'm sorry," said Clark. "It must be very hard for you."
"It is. It is very hard. Now that I am again going to practice medicine, I wish with all of my heart that I could do so with my father's blessing." Juan hesitated, then continued. "That sounds very foolish to you, I'm sure, but--"
"Not at all. I think thet I'd be a-feelin' the same way." "You would?"
"To be sure I would."
There was silence. Clark broke it. "What of yer mother? Is she still livin'?"
"I don't know. Perhaps that is what bothers me the most. My mother never dared to say so, but I think she was proud that I had chosen to be a doctor. When my father sent me away, my mother, for the first time in her life, dared to protest. She fell on her knees before him and pleaded that he reconsider. In the name of Mary and all the saints, she asked him to allow me to stay. 'Must I lose both my sons on the same night?' she cried. I can see her yet, and the vision haunts me. If only I knew that my mother was all right."
"Why don't ya jest go on down an' find out?"
"Return home?"
"Sure."
"But my father has not asked me to come."
Clark shrugged his shoulders.
The minutes dragged by as Juan struggled with the thought. Then Clark asked softly, "Are ya afraid?"
"Of my own father?" Juan's shock showed the insult of such a question.
"Well, I don't be knowin' the man. Have no idea what he might do."
"My father would never harm me, if that's what you are thinking."
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"I'm thinkin' nothin'," responded Clark simply. "You were doin' the thinkin'."
Juan nodded his head in reluctant agreement.
"So," said Clark, "since ya have nothin' to fear, why is it a problem to go back?"
"I have not been asked," said Juan with a great deal of dignity. "To go back so would be like a stray puppy, crawling home for forgiveness and acceptance. Even my father would scorn such--"
"Ya mean it's a matter of pride?" Clark asked quietly. Juan's head jerked up, his black eyes flashing fire.
"I understand," Clark nodded gravely. "A man does have his pride."
There was silence again. Juan began to pace the room. The air around them seemed to be heavy with unspoken ideas. Clark again dared to break the silence.
" 'Course a man can, with God's help, swaller his pride an' do what he knows he should. Iffen yer mother is livin', I'm sure thet she is hurtin' too. She has no idea iffen you're alive or dead. An' iffen yer father is still livin' an' has maybe changed his feelin's some, how would he ever be findin' ya to let ya know?"
Still Juan struggled with the issue.
"You do not know--" he began.
"No," agreed Clark, "I do not know. I'm admittin' to thet. But God does, an' I don't think thet you're admittin' to thet. Shore thing, I wasn't raised as you was raised, but things have been a bit tough fer me at times, too. Life can be pretty quick to take a swipe at a man. Sometimes we can't duck the blows. We jest gotta take 'em head-on. They smart a bit, to be sure. But . . . " Clark allowed his gaze to rest on his stub of a leg, "He knows all thet. He not only knows, but He cares. He doesn't ask from us thet we understand or even like what we face, but jest thet we face it like a man, an' do what we know to be right, regardless of the fact thet it goes against us at times."
"And the right thing for me as you see it?"
"I can't tell ya thet. I know thet iffen ya are troubled 'bout
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things as they be now, then maybe ya should do somethin' to try to straighten 'em out. I know thet mothers can pain some- thin' awful, not knowing 'bout their sons. I know thet fathers can make mistakes thet they suffer fer, an' sometimes it's most difficult to be man enough to say they was wrong. Thet's all I know. Yes . . . I know another thing, as well. I know thet God can help us do the right thing--even though it seems impossible. But only you can decide what is the right thing fer you."
Juan weighed the words of the older man. At length he turned to him and extended his hand.
"I am not making any promises, except that I will think about what you have said. It is a very hard thing."
Clark took the hand and shook it firmly. "I will be prayin' thet you make the right decision," he said.
They returned to the others. There were questions in many eyes but none were asked. Maria and Juan soon declared that they must be on their way home.
Cookie came to visit Clark whenever his work would allow him a break. He usually waited until he saw Clark out on the veranda getting some fresh air or early morning sun, and then he would hobble over to ease himself to a step or a nearby chair. He seemed to feel he and Clark had much in common. One day he even dared to talk about it.
"Leg bother ya much?"
"Not bad now. Gives me a bit of a jar iffen I happen to bump it."
"Trouble with 'phantom pain'?"
"Some."
"Must be peculiar feelin'. Somethin' hurtin' thet ain't even there."
"Yah, bothers me some all right. Itches somethin' awful at times, an' ya ain't even got anythin' to scratch." Clark chuckled ruefully.
"Well, at least I don't have them problems," said Cookie. "Yer leg still pain ya a good deal?" asked Clark. "Sometimes." There was a momen
t of silence while Cookie
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thought of the pain. "Not as bad lately though. Was a time I near went wild with it."
Clark nodded his head in understanding.
"How many years now?" he asked.
"I try to fergit. Guess it must be 'bout five already. No, six. Lotsa' folks said as how I'd a-been better off to have it off like you done."
"Well," Clark reminded him, "I wasn't able to do my own choosin'. Don't know's I would have really picked this way to do it, iffen I had."
"Yer leg was bad broke, Clark," Cookie assured him evenly. "I knew as soon as I seed it thet only a miracle could save it, an' seems to me we been a little short on miracles in my lifetime."
Clark smiled. "Well," he said firmly, "I ain't seen an overabundance of miracles myself, but I shore ain't doubtin' them none." Watching Cookie's expectant face carefully, Clark went on, "Guess one of the biggest miracles thet I know of is when God takes a no-good sinner and makes a saint fittin' fer heaven outa 'im. Now, thet's a real miracle, to my thinkin'. Even an earthly fella like the doc can, with some trainin' an' the right tools an' medicine, put a badly messed-up body together ag'in. But only God, through His love an' grace, can take a crushed and broken soul and restore it ag'in. Yessir, thet's a miracle."
Cookie scuffed the dust with the toe of his boot.
"Take me now," Clark said confidingly, "ya know what happened with me? When I first woke up to the fact thet I only had one leg, a part of me died inside. I started tellin' myself all kinds of stories 'bout being' only half a man, an' how sad it was to be a cripple, an' how sorry I could be fer myself, an' even how God had let me down. Fer a minute, I almost had me convinced thet I had good reason to jest turn over to the wall and have a real good feelin'-sorry-fer-myself time. My body was broken--was bruised and hurtin'--an' my soul wanted to sympathize with it, see? My soul wanted to curl up an' hurt an' suffer an' become bitter an' ugly. Now, God didn't choose to do a miracle on this here leg." Clark tapped the stump