Love comes softly (3 page)

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settled on her. She must force herself to get over this feeling she knew, for she had to take over this kitchen like it belonged to her. She couldn't restrain the slight shudder that ran through her, though.

As she returned from emptying her dishwater on the rose bush by the door, Clark was pulling a chair up to the kitchen table.

"She be asleep already," he said.

Marty placed the dishpan on its peg and hung the towel on the rack to dry. What now? she wondered, but he took care of that for her.

"The drawers in the chest all be empty. I moved my things to the lean-to. Ya can unpack an' make yerself more comfortable like. Feel free to be a usin' anythin' in the house, an' if there be anythin' thet ya be a needin', make a list. I go to town most Saturdays fer supplies, an' I can be a pickin' it up then. When ya feel more yerself like, ya might want to come along an' do yer own choosin'.

"I think thet ya better git ya some sleep. It's been a tryin' day. I know thet it's gonna take ya some time to stop a hurtin'-- fer ya to feel at home here. We'll try not to rush ya."

Then his gaze demanded that she listen and understand. "I married ya only to have Missie a mama. I'd be much obliged if ya 'llow her to so call ya."

It was an order; she could feel it as such. But her eyes held his steadily, and though she said nothing, her pride challenged him. Okay! She knew her place. He offered her a place of abode; she in turn was to care for his child. She'd not ask for charity. She'd earn her way. Missie's mama she would be. She turned without a word and made her way to the bedroom. She closed the door behind her and stood for a few moments leaning against it. When she felt more composed she crossed quietly to where she could look down on the sleeping child. The lamp gave a soft glow, making the wee figure in the crib appear even smaller.

"All right, Missie," Marty whispered, "let's us make a deal. Ya be a good kid an' I'll do my best to be a carin' fer ya." She looked so tiny and helpless there and Marty realized

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that here, at less than two years of age, was someone that life had already hurt. What deserving thing had this little one done to have the mother that she loved taken from her? Marty's own baby stirred slightly within her, and she placed a hand on the spot that was slowly swelling for the world to know that she was to be a mother. What if it were my little one, left without my care? The thought made near panic take hold of her. Again she looked at the sleeping child, her brown curls framing her pixie face, and something stirred within her heart. It wasn't love that she felt, but it was a small step in the right direction.

Marty was up the next morning as soon as she heard the soft click of the door as Clark left the house to go to the barn. Quietly she dressed so as not to disturb Missie, and left the room, determined to uphold her part of the 'convenience' marriage of which she found herself a part. So she had a roof over her head. She'd earn it. She would be beholden to no man, particularly this cold individual whose name she now shared. She refused, even in her thoughts, to recognize him as her husband. And speaking of names, she cautioned herself, it wasn't going to be easy to remember that she was no longer Martha Claridge, but Martha Davis. Listlessly she wondered if the law would object if she stubbornly clung to her 'real' name. Surely she could be Martha Lucinda Claridge Davis without incriminating herself. Then with a shock she realized that her baby would have the Davis name too.

"Oh, no!" she stopped short and put her hands to her face. "Oh, no, please. I want my baby to have Clem's name."

But even as she fought it and let hot tears squeeze out between her fingers, she knew that she'd be the loser here as well. She was in fact married to this man, no matter how unwelcome the thought; and the child who would be born after the marriage would be in name his, even if it was Clem's. She felt a new reason to loathe him.

"Well, anyway, I can name my baby Claridge iffen I want to," she declared hotly to herself'. "He can't take thet from me."

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She brushed her tears on her sleeve, set her chin stubbornly, and went on to the kitchen.

The fire was already going in the big black cookstove, and Marty was glad that she wouldn't have to struggle with that on top of her almost insurmountable task of just carrying on. She opened the cupboard doors and searched through tight sealed cans until she found the coffee. She knew where the coffee pot was, she thought thankfully. Hadn't she washed it and put it away herself? There was fresh water in the bucket on a low table near the door and she had the coffee on in very short order.

"Well, thet's the first step," she thought. "Now what?"

She rummaged around some more and came up with sufficient ingredients to make a batch of pancakes. At least that she could do. She and Clem had almost lived on pancakes, the reason being that there had been little else provided for her to prepare. She wasn't going to find it an easy task to get proper meals, she realized. Her cooking had been very limited. Well, she'd learn. She was capable of learning, wasn't she? First she'd have to discover where things were kept in this dad- blame kitchen. Marty rarely used words that could be classed as profane, though she had heard plenty in her young lifetime. She sure felt like turning loose a torrent of them now, though. Instead she chose one of her father's less offensive expressions-- about the only one that she had been allowed to use.

"Dad-blame!" she exploded again. "What's a body to do?"

Clark would expect more than just pancakes and coffee she was sure, but what and from where was she to get it?

There seemed to be no end of tins and containers in the cupboards, but they were all filled with ingredients, not something for breakfast.

Chickens! She'd seen chickens, and where there were chickens there should be eggs. She started out to go in search of some, through the kitchen door, through the shed that was the entry attached to the kitchen, when her eye caught sight of a strange contraption at the side of the shed. It looked like some kind of pulley arrangement and following the rope down to the floor she noticed a square cut in the floor boards and one

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end had a handle attached. Cautiously she approached, wondering if she might be trespassing where she did not belong. Slowly she lifted the trap door by the handle. At first she could see nothing; then, as her eyes became more accustomed to the darkness, she picked out what appeared to be the top of a large wooden box. That must be what the pulley and rope were for. She reached for it and began to manipulate the ropes, noticing that the box appeared to be moving upward. It took more strength than she had guessed it would, yet she found that she could handle it quite nicely.

Slowly the box came into view. She could feel the coolness that accompanied it. At last the box was fully exposed and she slipped the loop of rope over a hook that seemed to be for that purpose. The front of the box was fitted with a door, mostly comprised of mesh, and inside she could see several items of food. She opened the door and gasped at the abundance of good things. There were eggs in a basket, crocks of fresh cream, milk and butter, side bacon and ham. On the next shelf were some fresh vegetables and little jars containing preserves and, of all things, she decided after a quick sniff, fresh honey. Likely wild. What a find! She'd have no problem with breakfast now. She took out the side bacon and a few eggs. Then she chose some of the jam and was about to lower the box again when she remembered Missie. The child should have milk to drink as long as it was plentiful, and maybe Clark liked cream for his coffee. She didn't know. In fact, she didn't know much at all about the man.

Carefully she lowered the box again and replaced the trap door. Gathering up her find, she returned to the kitchen feeling much better about the prospect of putting breakfast on the table.

The coffee was already boiling and its fragrance reminded her how hungry she was. She took the dishes from the cupboard and set the table. She'd want the food hot when Clark came from chores, and she didn't know how long they took him in the mornings.

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Chapter 4

Morning Encounter

Marty had just turned back to mixing her pancakes when she heard Missie. Best get her up and dressed first, she decided, and left her ingredients on the cupboard. As she appeared at the bedroom door, Missie's bright smile faded away and she looked at Marty with surprise, if not alarm.

"Mornin', Missie," Marty said, and lifted the child from the crib to place her on her own bed.

"Now I wonder where yer clothes be?" She spoke to the child.

They were not in the large chest of drawers, for Marty had already opened each drawer when she unpacked her own things the night before. She looked around the room and spotted a small chest sitting beneath the room's one window. It was Missie's all right, and Marty selected garments that she felt suitable for that day. She did have some sweet things. Her mama must have been a handy seamstress.

Marty returned to the tiny one who sat wide-eyed, watching her every move. She laid the clothes on the bed and reached for Missie, but as the child realized that this stranger was about to dress her, she made a wild grab for her shoes and began screaming.

Marty decided her shrieks would pale a ghost.

"Now Missie, stop thet," she scolded, but by now the child was howling in either rage or fright, Marty knew not which.

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"I wan' Pa," she sobbed.

Marty conceded defeat.

"Hush now, hush," she said, picking up the squirming little girl. Gathering the clothes against the heaving, howling child, she carried her to the kitchen, where she placed girl and belongings in a corner. Missie pulled her clothes to her possessively, still sobbing as she did so. Marty turned back to the pancakes just as the coffee sputtered and boiled over. She made a frantic grab for the pot, pulling it farther to the back of the stove. She'd put in too much wood, she realized. The stove was practically jumping with the heat. She looked around for something with which to clean up the mess, and finding nothing that seemed suitable, went to her own room where she pulled a well-worn garment from her drawer. The thing was not much more than a rag anyway she decided, and back she went to the kitchen to mop up. Missie howled on. It was to this scene that Clark returned. He looked from the distraught Marty, who had by now added a burned finger to the rest of her miseries, to the screaming Missie in the corner, still clinging furiously to her clothes.

Marty turned from the stove. She had done the best that she could for now. She tossed the soggy, smelly garment into the corner and her eyes sparked as she nodded toward Missie.

"She wouldn't let me dress her," she stormed. "She jest set up a howlin' fer her pa."

She wasn't sure how she expected Clark to respond, but certainly not as he did.

"I'm afeared a child's memory is pretty short," he said evenly, so calmly that Marty blinked.

"She already be a fergettin' what it's like to have a mama."

He moved toward the cupboard, not even glancing Missie's way lest it encourage her to a fresh burst of tears.

"She'll jest have to learn thet ya be her mama now an' thet ya be boss. Now ya take her on back to the bedroom an' git her dressed an' I'll take over here." He indicated the somewhat messy kitchen and the partially prepared breakfast. Then he crossed and opened a window to let some of the heat from the

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roaring stove escape, and did not look at either Marty or Missie again.

Marty took a deep breath and stooped to scoop up Missie who reacted immediately with screams like a wounded thing, kicking and lashing out as she was carried away.

"Now look you," Marty said through clenched teeth, "remember our bargain? I said be ya good, I would be yer mama, an' this ain't being' good." But Missie wasn't listening.

Marty deposited her on the bed and was shocked to hear Missie clearly and firmly state between screams, "I-- wan' Mama."

So she did remember. Marty's cold anger began to melt slowly. Maybe Missie felt about her the way she did about Clark-- angry and frustrated. She didn't really blame her for crying and kicking. She would be tempted to try it herself had not life already taught her how senseless and futile it would

be.

"Oh, Missie," she thought. "I knows how ya be feelin'. We'll have to become friends slow-like, but first-- " she winced, "first, I somehow has to git ya dressed."

She arranged the clothes in the order that she would need them. There would be no hands to sort them out as she struggled with Missie, she knew. Then, she sat down and took the fighting child on her knee. Missie still threw a fit. No, it wasn't fear. Marty could sense that now. It was sheer anger on the child's part.

"Now Missie, ya stop it."

Marty's voice was drowned out by the child's and then Marty's hand smacked hard, twice, on the squirming bottom. Perhaps it was just the shock of it, or perhaps the child was aware enough to realize that she was mastered. At any rate her eyes looked wide with wonder and the screaming and squirming stopped. Missie still sobbed in noisy, gulping breaths, but she did not resist again as Marty dressed her.

When the battle was over, the child dressed, and Marty exhausted and dishevelled, the two eyed one another cautiously. "Ya poor mite," Marty whispered and pulled the little thing close. To her surprise, Missie did not resist, but cuddled