The Road to Love. Linda Ford

      The invitation, heartfelt and sincere, begged at his heart. He knew to accept it was to break his code of conduct. He didn’t stay. He didn’t go beyond kind and courteous. He couldn’t. But her pleasant smile caused him to waver. One more meal and then he was on his way. “Very well.”

      She indicated he should wait. He leaned against the truck and looked around. A big unpainted barn, one door sagging. Breaks in the fences where tumbleweeds driven by the wind had piled up and then caught the drifting soil until the fence disappeared. A solid chicken house, the chickens clucking at the barren ground behind their fence.

      A farm like many others. Once prosperous; now struggling to make it through each season.

      He watched the children play. So happy and innocent. Maybe such happiness was reserved for the very young.

      Chapter Three

      Kate stood in the middle of her kitchen, a palm pressed to her throat, and tried to explain to herself why she’d insisted the man stay for supper.

      Not that she regretted the invitation. She owed him for the gifts he’d given the children. It was pure joy to see them both laughing and playing so carefree. But more than that, he’d admitted he’d failed to catch a rabbit and she couldn’t push aside the knowledge he’d go hungry if she didn’t feed him. She’d learned at a young age how to snare the shy animal, had grown quite good at it for all it was a tricky business. But she recalled too well that rabbits were sometimes as scarce as hen’s teeth. Hunger was not a pleasant companion. True, most times they were able to rustle up something—edible roots to be boiled, lamb’s quarters—a welcome bit of greens in the spring but grainy and unpleasant as the season progressed. More times, her father got eggs or potatoes or even a generous hunk of meat in exchange for some work he’d done.

      But although thankfully few and far between, Kate could not forget the days her stomach ached with hunger, when she’d gone to bed with nothing but weak tea to fill the emptiness.

      No, she could not in good conscience turn a man back to an empty stew pot even if she had to scrape the bottom of the barrel to feed him. And although she’d used the last of her meat two days ago for the meal she prepared for Hatcher Jones she wasn’t at the bottom of the barrel yet, for which she thanked God. And her farm.

      Mr. Zimmerman at the store said he’d heard talk of setting up a butcher ring. She hoped her neighbors would do so. Mr. Zimmerman said the Baileys had something ready. Perhaps they’d take the initiative and start the ring. In a few weeks the yearling steer could be her contribution. But in the meantime, all she had to offer Hatcher was fried eggs and potatoes and something from the few items left from last year’s preserving. As the eggs and potatoes fried, she raced down to the cellar for a jar of beet pickles to add to the meal for color. Everything ready, she went to the door and whistled for the children to come.

      Mr. Jones jerked around and stared at her. No doubt he’d heard the same dire warnings as she about women who whistled. She smirked derisively. “I know, ‘a whistling woman and a crowing hen are neither fit for God nor man.’”

      He touched the brim of his hat. “Seems a crowing hen would taste just fine.”

      Her surprise at his answer gave her the sensation of missing a step, her foot dropping into nothingness, her stomach lurching in reaction. It took her a second to steady her breathing.

      He touched the brim of his hat. “Ma’am,” he added.

      She was about to be ma’amed to death. “Name’s Kate Bradshaw, if you don’t mind.”

      “Good enough name far as I’m concerned.”

      At his laconic humor, she felt a snort start in the back of her mouth and pressed her fist to her mouth hoping to quell it, knowing she couldn’t. She’d tried before. Tried hard. But she’d never learned to laugh like a lady. And with a willful mind of its own, her very unladylike snort burst around her fist. She expected to see embarrassment or surprise in Mr. Jones’s face. Instead little lines fanned from the outside corners of his eyes easing the resigned disinterest dominating his expression so far.

      Her laugh deepened as it always did after the initial snort. Her gaze stayed with him, fastened on his dark eyes as they shared amusement and, it seemed to her, a whole lot more, things too deep inside each of them for words or even acknowledgement.

      The children marched toward her, Shep at their heels singing his soulful song and Kate escaped her sudden flight into foolishness and gratefully returned to her normal, secure world.

      Dougie stopped at the steps. “Did you know dogs could sing, Momma?”

      Kate shook her head. “I didn’t know Shep could sing, though I’ve heard him howling at the coyotes.”

      Dougie turned to the man. “Hatcher, you ever hear a dog sing before?”

      Mr. Jones nodded. “A time or two.”

      Dougie looked shattered, as if knowing another dog had the same talent made Shep less special.

      Hatcher gave the dog serious consideration. “I never heard a dog sing as well as this one, though.”

      Dougie’s chest expanded considerably. He looked at Mary, who retreated to the doorway. “See. I told you.”

      At that moment, Kate knew an inexplicable fondness and admiration for the man who’d returned her son’s dignity through a few kindly, well-chosen words. She smiled at the children, including Hatcher in her silent benediction. “Get washed up for supper.”

      “Hatcher staying?” Dougie demanded.

      “Yes, he is.”

      “Good.” He faced the man. “Thank you for the whistle.”

      Kate turned Dougie toward the door. “Wash.” As the children cleaned up, she dished a plateful for Mr. Jones and carried it out to him along with a handful of molasses cookies. They were dark and chewy. Not at all fancy but she had nothing else for dessert. “Would you care for tea?”

      He hesitated before he answered. “Much appreciated.” He waited until she headed indoors before he sat down and turned his attention to the food. At the door she paused. He seemed the sort of man who should share their table as well as their food. Yet, he was a stranger and a hobo at that.

      She hurried inside, ate with the children then carried a cup of tea out to the man. He wrapped his hands around the white china cup, rubbing his thumbs slowly along the surface as if taking pleasure in its smoothness, causing her to wonder how long it’d been since he’d been offered a simple cup of tea.

      He sipped the contents and sighed. “Good.”

      “It’s just tea.” She remained on the step, knowing she should return to the kitchen and get at her evening chores, yet feeling comfort in adult company. Not that she suffered for want of such. She’d stopped at Doyle’s office while in town this afternoon and as always he seemed pleased to see her.

      He’d smiled as she entered the office. “What a pleasant surprise.” He closed a folder and shoved it aside. “I could use some fresh tea as could you, I’m certain, before you head back to the farm. If you truly must return.” His pale blue eyes brimmed with adoration. “Have you considered how convenient it would be for both of us if you lived in town. In the best house, need I remind you?”

      She nodded, a teasing smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “I’ve seen the house. I know how lovely it is.”

      “I decorated it and bought every piece of furniture for you, my dear. All for you.”

      “So you’ve told me many times.” His generosity filled her with guilt. “Need I remind you that I didn’t ask for it?”

      He rose and came around the desk to stand close to her, lifted her chin so he could see her face as he smiled down at her. “I know you didn’t but everything is evidence of my devotion to you.”

      Again