The Road to Love. Linda Ford

before the children are out of school.”

      He’d made shelves such as that on two previous occasions. Once when a kind family had provided shelter from a raging snowstorm.

      Another time after he’d helped an elderly woman bury her husband. He’d carved a verse in the top branch. Hebrews thirteen, verse five, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee, hoping the object and verse would remind her she wasn’t alone.

      But Mrs. Bradshaw’s gratitude for his poor offering gave him a queer mingling of regret and hope. He couldn’t afford to luxury in either emotion. Backing away, he touched the brim of his hat. “Ma’am.” He headed down the road. He got as far as the end of the truck when she called out.

      “Wait. Mr….” She paused as if searching for his name,

      “Jones. I was planning to go to town and post a little advertisement for someone to help me. I can’t run this farm by myself.”

      “Lots of men looking for work.” He continued walking away.

      She fell in step beside him. “I need someone who can fix my tractor and put the crop in. You seem like a handy kind of man.”

      “I’m moving on.” Her steps slowed but his did not.

      “Right away?”

      “The road is long.”

      “And it calls? My father was like that.”

      He didn’t argue but for him the open road didn’t call. The back road pushed.

      She stopped altogether. “I’m sure I’ll find someone.” Her voice rippled with determination. She turned and headed home. “Or I’ll do it myself.”

      Hatcher faltered on his next step then marched onward. Before he reached the end of the lane, he heard her singing and chuckled at her choice of song.

      “‘Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves. We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.’”

      The woman needed a whole lot of things to happen before she could rejoice about the sheaves. Not the least of which was someone to help her put the seed in the ground, but no need for him to worry about her. Within an hour of posting her little ad, she’d have half a dozen or more men to choose from.

      Back at the slough where the flattened straw-like grass showed evidence of how long he’d camped there, he bundled up his now-dry clothes and packed his kettle away. He cocked his head when he heard Mrs. Bradshaw drive down the road.

      He hesitated, thinking of her words I’ll do it myself, and hearing her cheery voice in joyful song. She was the kind of woman who deserved a break. He would pray she got it and find a hired man who would be what she needed.

      She’d never said if her husband was dead or gone looking for work elsewhere. Though it seemed the farm provided plenty of work. Maybe not enough income to survive on. Must be hard raising those two young ones alone and running the farm, as well. Hard for her and the kids. If only he could do something to ease their burden. Besides pray.

      He thought of something he could do that might add a little pleasure to their lives. Another couple of hours before he got on his way wouldn’t hurt. Regretfully resigned to obeying his conscience he dropped his knapsack and pulled out his knife, chose a nice branch and started to whittle. He stopped later to boil water and toss in a few tea leaves. When the tea was ready, he poured it into a battered tin cup, picked up his Bible, leaned against a tree trunk and settled back to read as he waited for the Bradshaws to come home. He calmed his thoughts, pulling them into a tight circle and stroked the cover of the Bible, worn now to a soft doe color, its pages as fragile as old onionskin. He’d carried it with him since he left home, knowing, hoping to find within its pages what he needed. He’d found strength for each day, a tenuous peace, and a certainty of what he must do, what his life consisted of now. Like Cain, he was a vagabond.

      He opened the Bible, smoothed the tattered edges of the page with his fingertip and began to read.

      Sometime later, he heard the truck groan up the lane, waited, giving the family a chance to sort themselves out then he headed up the dusty tracks.

      The dog saw him first and barked. The little boy yelled. “Mom, it’s Hatcher. He’s come back.”

      “Dougie,” a voice called from inside the house. “Stay here.”

      The eager child skidded to a halt and shuffled backward to the truck where he stopped and waited, bouncing from foot to foot as if still running down the road in his mind. The dog hovered protectively at his side.

      Mrs. Bradshaw hurried out, saw her son was safe and shielded her eyes with her hand as she watched Hatcher approach. Her lips curved into a smile of recognition.

      Something in his heart bounced as restless and eager as Dougie at the truck then he smoothed away the response with the knowledge of who he was and what his future held. He thought to warn the woman to spare her smiles for someone who’d be staying around to enjoy them. Pushed away that thought, as well. Settled back into his hard-won peace.

      “Ma’am.” He nodded and touched the brim of his hat, painfully aware how dirty it was. “I made something for the little ones, if you don’t mind.”

      She studied him a moment. He could feel her measuring him before she nodded as if he had somehow passed an inspection.

      A flash of regret crossed Hatcher’s mind. For the first time his solitude seemed poverty-stricken. He needed to cling to the blessings of his life. One God had provided. One that suited his purpose.

      He pulled a willow whistle from his pocket and held it out to Dougie. The child bounced forward and took it with loud thanks. He blew a thin sound.

      Shep backed away, whining. The child looked at him and blew again. The dog settled on his haunches and howled.

      Dougie blew. The dog howled in unison.

      The boy stopped. The dog stopped. The boy blew his whistle. The dog howled. Both child and animal tipped their heads as if not quite sure what was going on.

      Mrs. Bradshaw laughed. “Shep wants to sing with you.”

      Dougie giggled and blew several sharp notes. The dog lifted his nose and howled.

      Hatcher’s wide smile had an unfamiliar feel. As if he hadn’t used it in a long time.

      The little girl slipped out the door and pressed to her mother’s side.

      Hatcher pulled another whistle from his pocket. “One for you, too, missy.”

      The child hesitated. He understood her guarded fearfulness, respected it and waited for her to feel he meant her no harm.

      “Go ahead, Mary,” her mother said.

      The child snatched the whistle from Hatcher’s hand. He caught a glimpse of blue eyes as she whispered her thanks. The dog’s plaintive howls drew the child away. She blew her whistle. The dog turned toward the added sound and wailed. The girl laughed.

      Hatcher nodded, satisfied he’d given both children a bit of pleasure. “Ma’am.” He touched his hat again and retraced his steps toward the slough.

      “Wait,” she called.

      He stopped, hesitated, turned slowly.

      “Thank you.”

      He touched the brim of his hat. He’d done what he aimed to do—give a bit a pleasure he hoped would make the children forget for a few short hours the meanness of their lives.

      “I’ll make you supper.”

      He’d already been here longer than usual, longer than he should. “I have to be moving on.”

      “It’s too late today to go anywhere.”

      She had a point. But he didn’t want to hang around and…

      Well, he just didn’t care to hang around.