The Road to Love. Linda Ford

at a time. Don’t look down. Don’t think how far it is to the top. Or the bottom.

      Be merciful to me, O God, be merciful unto me: for my soul trusteth in thee: yea, in the shadow of thy wings will I make my refuge, until these calamities be overpast.

      The metal bit into her palms.

      She hated the feeling that headed for the pit of her stomach as she inched upward, and continued as though the bottom had fallen out of her insides. But she had to ignore her fear and do this task.

      She paused at the platform, loathing the next part most of all. Once she stood on the narrow wooden ledge…

      Now was not the time to remember how Mr. Martin fell off while greasing his windmill and killed himself. She would not imagine the sound his body made landing far below.

      A crow cawed mockingly as it passed overhead.

      The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside still waters.

      There would be no water for the Bradshaw family or their animals if she didn’t take care of this task.

      She no longer missed Jeremiah with a pain like childbirth, no longer felt an emptiness inside threatening to suck the life from her. The emptiness still existed, but it had stopped calling his name. What she missed right now was someone to do this job.

      Shep barked and growled. The dog must sense the man across the road.

      “Be quiet,” Dougie ordered. Shep settled down, except for a rumbling growl.

      Kate mentally thanked the dog for his constant protection of the children.

      The wind tugged at her trouser legs.

      She clung to the top bar. This farm and its care were entirely her responsibility unless she wanted to give up and move into town, marry Doyle—who kept asking even though she told him over and over she would never give up her home or the farm. Which left her no option but to get herself up to the platform and grease the gears.

      “Ma’am?”

      The sound of the unfamiliar voice below sent a jolt of surprise through Kate’s arms, almost making her lose her grip on the metal structure. She squeezed her hands tighter, pressed into the bars and waited for the dizziness to pass before she ventured a glance toward the ground. She glimpsed a man, squat from her overhead view and with a flash of dark hair. But looking down was not a good idea. Nausea clawed at her throat. She closed her eyes, pressed her forehead to the cool bar between her hands and concentrated on slow, deep breaths.

      “Ma’am. I could do that for you.”

      The tramp from the trees no doubt, scavenging for a handout. Willing to do something in exchange for food as most of them were. But why, God, couldn’t you send nice Mr. Sandstrum from down the road? Or one of the Oliver boys?

      “I can’t pay,” she said. Jeremiah had left a bit of money. But it had been used up to buy seed to plant new crops and provide clothes for the growing children.

      “I’d be happy with a meal, ma’am.”

      A glow of gratitude eased through her. She’d feed the man for a week if he did this one job. But she hesitated. How often could she count on someone to show up and handle every difficult situation for her? She needed to manage on her own if she were to survive. And she fully intended to survive. She would keep the farm and the security it provided for her and the children, no matter what.

      No matter the hot, dry winds that dragged shovelfuls of dust into drifts around every unmovable object, and deposited it in an endless trail through her house.

      No matter the grasshoppers that clicked in the growing wheat, delighting in devouring her garden and making Mary scream as she ran from their sticky, scratchy legs.

      No task, not even greasing the windmill, would conquer her.

      “I can manage,” she called, her voice not quite steady, something she hoped those below would put down to the wind.

      “Certain you can, ma’am.” After a pause, the man below added softly, “It’s been a fair while since I had a good feed. Could I do something else for you? Fix fence…chop wood?”

      Kate chuckled softly in spite of her awkward position. She wished she dared look down to see if he meant to be amusing. “Mister, if you chop all the wood in sight, there wouldn’t be enough to warm us one week come winter. We burn coal.”

      The man laughed, a regretful sound full of both mirth and irony. “Don’t I know it.” he said.

      The pleasure of shared amusement tickled the inside of the emptiness Kate had grown used to and then disappeared as quickly as it came.

      He continued. “Makes it hard for a man to stay warm in the cold. Doubly hard to cook a thick stew even if a man had the makings.”

      Kate knew the feeling of unrelenting cold, hunkering over a reluctant fire, aching for something warm and filling to eat. Seemed no matter how long she lived she’d never get over that lost, lonely feeling. It was this remembrance that made her ease her way down the ladder.

      She sighed heavily when her feet hit solid ground.

      Shep pressed to her side.

      Grateful for the dog’s protection, she patted his head to calm him, and glanced about for her children.

      Dougie bounced around the stranger, boldly curious while Mary had retreated to the shadow of the chicken house. Knowing how much Mary hated and feared the chickens, her choice of safety seemed ironic.

      Kate faced the man.

      He was taller than he looked from above, bigger, and lean to the point of thinness, his black hair shaggy and overly long, his skin leathered and brown from living outdoors, his eyes so dark she couldn’t see the pupils.

      But she liked the patient expression of his face. He looked the sort of man who would be unruffled by adversity. She mentally smiled. A roving man no doubt had his share of such.

      His clothes were threadbare but clean.

      It said a lot for a man that he managed to look decent under his present circumstances. And what it said made her relax slightly.

      The tramp rolled a soiled cowboy hat in his fingers, waiting for her to complete her study of him. Suddenly, he tossed the hat on the ground and reached for the bucket of grease.

      At first she didn’t release the handle. She would have to do this job sooner or later. Then she let him take the bucket. Later suited her just fine.

      He scurried up the windmill with the agility of a cat.

      Kate watched his progress, squinting against the bright sun. Her chest tightened as he stepped to the platform and the wind tossed his hair. She shuddered when she realized he didn’t hang on. She pulled her gaze from the man and grabbed Dougie’s arm, putting an end to the way he bounced up and down at the ladder, trying to reach the first rung.

      “Come on, the man is going to want to eat when he’s done.” If she didn’t provide a decent meal he would no doubt leave one of those hobo signs at the gate indicating this farm provided mean fare. Why should she care? But she did. She still had her pride.

      “Mary, come on. I need your help.” Mary shrank back while Dougie tried to pull from her grasp. Seemed to be the way she always stood with them—holding Dougie back, urging Mary on.

      She’d planned bread and fried eggs for them. Now she had to scrape together something for a regular meal. And she still needed to milk the cows, separate the milk, set bread to rise, a hundred other little tasks beyond measuring or remembering.

      “Come, Mary.” Her words were sharp. She sounded unforgiving. But she didn’t have time to coddle the child.

      Mary jerked away from the building and raced to her side.

      As Kate shepherded both children to the house, she mentally scoured