The Road to Love. Linda Ford

he must. The place he’d once known as home was gone. Now his home was the world; his father, God above; his family, believers wherever he found them, although he never stayed long enough to be able to call them friends.

      The wind caught at his huddled shelter and gave him a whiff of cows and hay. Before he could stop it, a memory raced in. He and Lowell had climbed to the hayloft to escape a rainstorm. Lowell, three years older, had been his best friend since Hatcher was old enough to recognize his brother’s face. Lowell had one unchanging dream.

      “Hatch, when you and I grow up we’re going to turn this farm into something to be proud of.”

      They were on their stomachs gazing out the open loft doors. Rain slashed across the landscape, blotting out much of the familiar scene, but both he and Lowell knew every blade of grass, every cow, every bush by heart.

      “How we gonna do that, Low?” he asked his big brother.

      “We’re going to work hard.”

      Hatcher recalled how he’d rolled over, hooting with laughter. “All we do is work now. From sunup to sundown. And lots of times Daddy pulls us from bed before the sun puts so much as one ray over the horizon.”

      Lowell turned and tickled Hatcher until they were both dusty and exhausted from laughing. “Someday, though, our work will pay off. You and me will get the farm from Daddy and then we’ll enjoy the benefit of our hard work.”

      Hatcher sat up to study his brother and suddenly understood why Lowell didn’t complain or shirk the chores their father loaded on him. “That why you work so hard now?”

      Lowell nodded. “If you and me keep it up we’ll have a lot less work to do when it’s ours.” Lowell flipped back to his stomach and edged as close to the opening as he could. “See that pasture over there? It could carry twice as many cattle if we broke it and seeded it down to tame hay. And that field Daddy always puts wheat in has so many wild oats he never gets top price for his wheat. Now, the way I see it, if we planted oats for a few years, cut them for feed before the wild ones go to seed, I think we could clean up the field.”

      For hours they remained in the loft, planning how to improve the farm. Hatcher remembered that day so clearly, because it was the first time he and Lowell had officially decided they would own the farm some day. As months passed, and he began to observe and analyze, Hatcher, too, came up with dreams.

      But it was not to be.

      If he let himself think about it he’d gain nothing but anger and pain and probably a giant headache. He determinedly shoved aside the memory.

      Too cold and damp to read his Bible, he began to recite verses. He began in Genesis. He got as far as the second chapter when the words in his mind stalled. It is not good for the man to be alone. He’d said the words hundreds of times but suddenly it hit him. He was alone. And God was right. It wasn’t good. Like a flash of lightning illuminating his brain, he pictured Mrs. Bradshaw stirring something on the stove, that persistent strand of hair drifting across her cheek, her look alternating between pensive and determined. He recalled the way her hands reached for her children, encouraging shy Mary, calming rambunctious Dougie. He’d also seen flashes of impatience on her face, guessed she was often torn between the children’s needs and the weight of the farm work. He could ease that burden if he could stay.

      It wasn’t possible.

      He shifted, pulled the tarp tighter around his head and started reciting from the Psalms.

      “Mr. Jones?”

      Hatcher jerked hard enough to shake open his protective covering. Icy water ran down his neck. The shock of it jolted every sense into acute awareness.

      The voice came again. “Mr. Jones?”

      He adjusted the tarp, resigned to being cold and wet until the rain let up and he found something dry to light fire to.

      “Mr. Jones?”

      He didn’t want to talk to her. Didn’t want to have her presence loosening any more memories so he didn’t move a muscle. Maybe she wouldn’t see him and go away.

      “Mr. Jones?” She was closer. He heard her footsteps padding in the wet grass. “There you are.”

      He lowered the tarp and stared at her, wrapped in a too-large black slicker. She held a flickering lantern up to him. The pale light touched the planes and angles of her face, giving her features the look of granite.

      “It’s raining,” he said, meaning, What are you doing out in the wet?

      “It’s cold,” she said. “Your fire’s gone out.”

      He didn’t need any reminding about how cold and wet he was. “Rain put it out.”

      “I remember how it is. You must be frozen.”

      “I don’t think about it.” Dwelling on it didn’t make a man any warmer.

      Water dripped off the edge of the tarp and slithered down his cheek. It wouldn’t stop until it puddled under his collar. He let it go, knowing anything he did to stop its journey would only make him wetter.

      She remained in front of him. “I can’t rest knowing you’re out here cold and wet.”

      He’d rest a lot better if she’d leave him alone, instead of stirring up best-forgotten and ignored memories. “Been cold and wet before and survived.”

      “You can stay in the shanty.”

      “I’m fine.”

      She grunted. “Well, I’m not. I’ll never sleep knowing you’re out here, remembering how miserable the rain is when you’re in the open.” She began her laugh with a snort. “Though, believe me, I’m ever so grateful for the rain. It’s an answer to prayer. Now if you’d accept my offer and get in out of the cold, I could actually rejoice over the rain.”

      He’d guess persistence was her middle name. “Shame not to be grateful.”

      “Then you’ll come?”

      The thought of someplace warm and dry or even one of the two, had him thinking. Still he hesitated. “You don’t know nothing about me.”

      “I know what it feels like to be cold and wet. That’s enough.”

      Still he remained in a protective huddle. “I could be wicked.”

      “That’s between you and God. But right now, I’m getting a little damp. Could we hurry this along?”

      “You’re not taking no for an answer?”

      “No.”

      She left him little choice. They could both be cold and wet to the core or he could give in to her obstinacy. The latter seemed the better part of wisdom and he pushed to his feet, disturbing his wraps as little as possible as he followed her through the thin protection of the trees, across the road and up a grassy path angling away from her house.

      “Just tell me where,” he said when he realized she intended to lead him to the shanty.

      “I’ll show you.”

      She’d be soaked to the gills by the time she made her way back home but he already discerned she was a stubborn woman set on doing things her way.

      She stopped, held the lantern high to reveal a tiny shack, then pushed open the door, found another lantern on a shelf and lit it.

      From under her slicker, she pulled out a sack of coal. “This should keep you warm.” She held up her lantern high and looked around. “This hasn’t been used of late. You’ll probably have mice for company but there’s still a bed here. Not much else.”

      “It’s fine.” Surprisingly, no water leaked through the ceiling. “I’ll be warm and dry.”

      “Come up for breakfast.”

      Before he could protest, she closed