Love's unfolding dream (Love Comes Softly Series #6) (19 page)

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He moved to fall into step beside her, but she waved him away.

"Why don't ya stay out an' have another ride or two?" she said. "Dan won't mind. We'll call ya as soon as lunch is ready" "You sure?" asked Jackson, eyeing the hill again.

"I'm sure. You might not git another chance. Spring can come pretty early in these parts."

"Before Christmas?"

"Ya never know"

He grinned. "Think I will," he said. "Thanks."

Belinda nodded and hurried off toward the house. She needed to check on Melissa. She prayed that there had been damage only to Melissa's clothes and not to her pride--or to their friendship.

Belinda found Melissa in her room. She had removed the torn dress, but she had not put on another. Instead she lay on her bed, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with sobs.

"Melissa," cried Belinda in alarm. "Were you hurt?"

Melissa looked disgustedly up at Belinda, her eyes swollen from crying.

"As though you care," she challenged.

Belinda was taken aback. She crossed to the bed, sat down, and laid a hand on the girl's arm.

"Ya know I care," she insisted. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Melissa drew herself up and climbed off the bed. "Don't get your hopes up," she threw at Belinda, "I don't need a nurse."

Belinda was completely baffled by the whole exchange. She decided to change the subject.

"We're gonna have coffee soon. I'm jest goin' to git it on now"

"Well, I won't be there," spat out Melissa.

"You
are
hurt. Where?"

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"I'm not hurt," Melissa insisted impatiently. "I'm just not coming down, that's all."

"But what--what will I tell folks? They'll all wonder--"

"Tell them anything you want to. I don't care," and Melissa tossed her hair back with an angry move and reached for her bathrobe.

Belinda stood to go. She wasn't sure what to do. She didn't know what was wrong. She still wondered if Melissa really had been hurt and was refusing to say so. She wished Luke would miraculously arrive.

"Is there anythin' I can do?" she asked, genuinely sympathetic.

Melissa gave her an angry look. "It would seem that you have already done enough, don't you think?" she spat out.

Belinda frowned. "What do ya mean?" she asked. What in the world had she done to make the girl so angry?

"What do ya mean?" Melissa mimicked. "You know exactly what I mean. You've been cutting in on me and Jackson all day. You know he likes me--and you know I like him--yet you just keep on butting in--spoiling everything!"

The long speech ended in uncontrollable tears. Belinda stood staring at her overwrought and unreasonable niece.
Where did Melissa get such an idea?
was her frantic thought. She had purposely tried to stay out of the way. And she had bent over backward to-- but it was clear Melissa was not going to listen to reason.

Belinda heard her mother calling her. She slipped from the room without further comment, but her heart was heavy as she went back down the stairs to help in the kitchen.

Not much had been said while their guests were still there, but as soon as the Browns had left, Marty wanted an explanation concerning Melissa. There was little Belinda could tell her. She

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hated to "tell on" Melissa, but there was no way she would lie to her mother. So she finally just told the truth as simply as she knew how.

Marty's eyes widened as they sought Clark's above Belinda's head. "Yer sure?" she asked. "Yer sure she thinks ya were cuttin' in?"

Belinda nodded.

"An' she's jealous?"

Again Belinda nodded.

"I find thet hard to believe," stated Marty. "Surely she'll see things different in the mornin'."

But Melissa did not see things differently in the morning. She did her chores and prepared for school, but she was not her usually cheery chattering self. And she carefully avoided any conversation with Belinda.

"Oh, dear Lord," prayed Marty, watching the girls walk down the lane to the road, a careful distance between them. "We've got us one of them triangles. What do we do now?"

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SIXTEEN

Pride

At Christmastime, neighbors tried to share food baskets with the Simpson family, but each visitor was turned away at the door. The community all wanted to help, but they did not know what to try next. The minister also was turned away again when he tried to visit--it seemed that the family wanted no comfort or aid from God, either. Marty's heart ached over their destitute and pride-filled condition, and Clark muttered under his breath. Sheer foolishness and pigheadedness, that's what it was.

The debt for the firewood and groceries still had not been paid. Clark would have gladly considered it a gift, but he knew the family would not. Until they felt they had paid the debt, Clark was well aware he would not be able to help them further.

He decided to drop in on them one more time. At first he planned to take Marty with him. Then he figured it might look too much like a neighborly call, so they talked it over and Clark decided to go alone. He wanted it to seem as businesslike as possible.

All the way over to the Simpsons', Clark tried to think of jobs that needed doing. He really could think of none. Clark reflected on the plans he and Marty had made. It wouldn't be easy for Marty In fact, it wouldn't be easy for either of them, and he feared they both might feel a bit guilty of dishonesty in the whole

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affair. It was hard to tell the Simpsons that they needed help when in truth they did not.

Marty had been able to come up with a short list of things she could have Mrs. Simpson sew for her. Then there was a quilt that was promised to Nandry's Mary for her birthday. Marty supposed she could use some help in the quilting, though she enjoyed it and usually did her quilting alone.

Still, those jobs wouldn't take much time.

So they had tried to figure out something else for the woman to do, but each time they came back again to the sewing.

"How much in yard goods do ya have on hand?" Clark had asked Marty.

"Four or five pieces, I reckon," she had replied.

"Well, can't ya find some way to make use of 'em?"

"I had purposes in mind fer all of 'em," Marty had told him, "but I just don't need 'em yet. One was to be a dress fer Belinda, but it's too grown-up a print fer her yet--well, at the rate she's maturin', maybe not that long," she quipped. "And one is fer aprons fer Kate, and one is fer the backin' fer Amy Jo's quilt when she finishes school an' another fer--"

"I'll go to town," Clark had said. "I'll go to town an' buy some material with no purpose at all."

"Then what'll I have 'er do with it?" Marty had protested.

"I dunno. We'll think of somethin'--how 'bout a new dress fer you?" Clark said with a smile and a hug.

"Oh, Clark, I don't need somethin' new," Marty protested. "Maybe not, but maybe Mrs. Simpson does," was his gentle rejoinder, and she nodded her head in agreement.

And so he had gone to town and had come home with six lengths of yard goods. He had chosen some pretty pieces--or the clerk had, Marty wasn't sure which, she told him with a twinkle in her eye--but she also said she still hadn't figured out what to do with all of them. And who knew if Mrs. Simpson could even

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sew? She might only spoil the pieces.

Clark just shrugged his shoulders. "Throw 'em in the ragbag, then," he had stated, at which Marty had looked dismayed.

It would have been so much simpler, so much less costly, if the family had just allowed the neighbors to outright help them.

Clark reviewed all of this in his mind as he coaxed the team forward. He was busy trying to properly prepare his words to the Simpsons. What could he say that would be totally truthful and would not offend them?

Clark tied the team and walked toward the door. His artificial limb was making his leg ache again. Or maybe it was just the cold--Clark didn't know for sure. All he knew was that shivers of pain were shooting from the stump clear up to his hip.

He rapped loudly on the door and Mr. Simpson answered. He appeared ready to launch into his usual "we-don't-take-anycharity" speech, so Clark began quickly, "Came to see 'bout clearin' thet debt fer the wood and foodstuff"

The door opened a bit wider and the man stepped back.

The woman was busy at the stove. By the smell that filled the room, Clark decided she was making stew for supper. It smelled good. Clark sniffed appreciatively and gave her a smile and a nod.

Clark looked around for the boys, but only the smaller one was present, listlessly playing cat's-in-the-cradle with a piece of twine in a corner of the room.

The man motioned toward a chair, though he did not ask Clark to be seated, nor did he invite him to remove his coat.

Clark sat down and unbuttoned the coat to hang loosely.

"I'm listening," growled the man, standing with hands on his hips.

"Well, I figured as how ya might be anxious to git the weight of this here debt off a' yer shoulders," Clark began. "I have a few jobs round the place thet I could put ya to doin' as soon as ya can spare the time."

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"Time, I got lots of," the man replied without a smile. Clark nodded.

"How many days?" the man asked.

"Not sure. Two--maybe three."

"That won't pay off our debt," the man stated sullenly.

"It'll pay off the vegetables," responded Clark. "Yer gittin' out green logs next spring in exchange fer the firewood."

Mr. Simpson nodded. Maybe it would cover the vegetables. He seemed to feel that the matter was closed.

"My wife has some sewin' that . . . that . . . she could use some help on," Clark continued. "Wondered iffen yer wife might be interested."

"Thought you said the work I did would pay it off," the man answered irritably.

"So it will," Clark said without ruffling. "The sewin'--thet would be fer a wage."

Clark saw the woman at the stove swing her head upward. He pretended not to notice.

"Yer wife can't sew?" asked the big man with a hint of sarcasm.

"She can sew first rate," Clark was quick to defend Marty "No harm in a woman gittin' a bit of help with her chores now an' then. We've got ourselves lots of grandkids--"

The man mumbled something under his breath. "So what're you offering to swap?" asked Simpson.

"Thought we might pay in cash," said Clark. "We could swap, but we don't know iffen there's anythin' we got thet ya might be needin'. But good help, now--thet's hard to come by."

The man's eyes narrowed in obvious interest. He turned to the woman.

You want to do that, Ma?" he asked her.

Clark was pleased he had asked, not ordered. He must have some good qualities in him under all that gruffness.

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The woman responded with a nod of agreement.

"What're you paying?" asked Simpson.

"What d'ya think is fair wage?" Clark countered.

"Ten cents an hour," said the man.

Clark took his time before answering.

"Was thinkin' on fifteen," he finally informed the man. "Don't wanna git the reputation of not being' willin' to pay a fair wage."

"Fifteen," agreed Mr. Simpson, and the two men shook on it.

"I'd best be gittin' on home, then," said Clark, rising to his feet. "It gits dark powerful early these days, an' I got me chores to do."

"We'll be over first thing in the morning," the man told him.

"Then I guess I'd best tell ya where to find us," Clark said with a hint of a smile. It did not bring any kind of friendly response to the face of the man. Clark pulled a stub of pencil and a piece of paper from his pocket and busied himself drawing a simple map. He was bending over the table when he heard the door creak open and close again. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement, but he purposely did not look up from drawing.

The older boy had come home. Clark finished his crude map and his bit of explanation before he lifted his head.

The boy still had not moved from the door nor removed his skimpy coat. The one sleeve had been tied into a clumsy knot to keep out the cold. A gun was tucked under his good arm, and in his hand he carried a couple of rabbits and a grouse. Clark nodded a greeting and eyed him evenly.

"Ya must be a good shot," he acknowledged with genuine warmth.

The boy nodded in return, tossed the game into the corner, and hung the gun on the wall pegs.

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"Do ya always have thet kind of luck?" Clark asked with a grin.

"Mostly," said the boy simply and slipped the coat off his shoulders.

Clark moved toward the door. He buttoned his coat against the cold and reached to reclaim his hat from where he had dropped it by the chair. He could feel the boy's eyes on him.

Clark looked at him, wondering what was going on in his mind.

He had almost reached the door when the boy spoke. "Thought you claimed to have only one good leg," he said with a bit of rancor in his voice.

Clark looked down at his legs. They both looked good all right. His trouser legs fell full and nearly to his boot tops. Only if one looked closely would he have seen that the boots did not match.

"No," said Clark with a smile. "Me, I got two good legs. Now, one I borrowed, I need to admit, but I got me two."

He reached down and hiked the pant leg quickly upward, exposing the wooden leg with its straps and braces.

He saw the woman wince before she turned quickly away and the younger son, who had sat quietly in the corner of the room, suddenly leaned forward, his eyes round with wonder.

"It works 'most as good as my old one did," Clark went on. "Oh not quite. But Luke, my doctor son, he insisted thet I git me one. I fought it at first, but now I don't know what I'd do without it. Frees my hands up"--Clark extended his hat in both his hands--"an' makes things a heap easier fer me."

The boy said nothing.

Clark turned back to the man as he slipped his hat back on. "Well, we'll see ya in the mornin', then," he said and nodded his good-bye.

He let himself out the door, closed it firmly behind him, and