Love's abiding joy (Love Comes Softly #4) (14 page)

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Missie pulled away, and Marty could feel frustration and anger in the slim body. Brushing at her tears, Missie went back to the sandwiches. Her whole person seemed shut away. Marty remained silent and began to slice beef and place it on the bread.

When the sandwiches were ready and the coffee had boiled, Missie went to find Willie. Surely her husband would understand and pray with her for Clark's quick recovery. They had not invited Clark west to bring him to harm. But when Missie had met Willie as he was leaving her father's room, he informed her that he was leaving and it seemed that he had no time nor inclination to stop and pray. Willie had suggested that she look in on Nathan to reassure him. Missie went to Nathan's room, but it was Missie who needed some reassurance.

She held the small boy close and let her tears fall. When she was sure that she could speak coherently, she talked to him. "Grandpa got the boys out, Nathan. Grandpa is kind of a hero. He hurt himself saving others. Now he needs to be in bed and have a long rest. You an' Josiah might need to be very quiet an' good for the next few days. Ya can do thet for Grandpa, can't ya?"

She felt Nathan's head bobbing a yes up against her.

"We need to pray for Grandpa. God can make him all better again. Will ya pray with Mama now, Nathan?"

Nathan agreed and the two of them knelt by his bed.

"God," said Nathan simply, "Grandpa got a hero an' is hurt an' needs You to make him better. He needs me an' Josiah to be quiet an' not 'sturb him. Help us to not fight or yell. An' help Mama an' Gram'ma to nurse Grandpa good. Amen."

Missie wished to ask the young boy to pray again. She wanted to say, "Nathan, you didn't ask God to make your grandpa well. You didn't say it, Nathan." Instead she held him for a moment and told him if he'd like to go to the kitchen and share the lunch with the ranch hands, he could. Nathan bounded away, glad to be free of his room.

Missie returned to the kitchen, her heart heavy and her head spinning. How could God answer their prayers if they

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wouldn't pray them? Missie went to pour the coffee with a shaking hand.

Marty slipped quietly into Clark's room and knelt by his bed. She took one of his hands in hers and caressed it, careful not to bring further hurt to the already damaged hand. It did look better now that it had been cleaned up. She pressed it to her lips and let her tears wash it again.

"Oh, Clark," she whispered, "I couldn't bear it iffen some- thin' should happen to you. Oh, God, I jest couldn't stand it. Please, dear God, make 'im better again. Please leave 'im with me. I need 'im so much." There, she was praying the very way she had warned Missie against. Well, she couldn't help it. She couldn't help it! She needed Clark so much. She loved him more than life itself. She couldn't bear to lose him. She just couldn't! "Oh, please, God; please, God," she pleaded.

She stayed beside his bed, crying and praying, until all of her energy and her tears were spent. Clark still did not stir. Would he ever regain consciousness?

At length Marty was aware of a hand on her shoulder. "Mama," asked Missie, "Ya want a cup of coffee?" Marty shook her head.

"Ya should, ya know. It might be a long night. I told Wong not to bother with supper except for the boys. I didn't think anyone else would be hungry."

Marty looked up. "Yer right," she said wearily. "I couldn't eat a bite."

"Coffee, then," said Missie, holding out the cup.

Marty lifted herself to her feet and took the coffee. She was surprised at how stiff she had become. Unaware that it was getting dark outside, she wondered how long she had been there beside Clark. Missie pushed a chair toward her and she sat down.

"The boys are already in bed," Missie ventured. "Willie still isn't back. Don't know why he--"

"Maybe he went fer a doctor. He said thet yer pa's leg--"

"I'm afraid there's no doctor anywhere around," Missie offered sadly. "He might have heard of someone good at setting breaks hough."

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Marty sipped at the coffee and watched Missie's face. "Didn't Willie say where he was goin'?"

"Just said he would be gone for a while an' if we needed anything to call the men. He also said not to let Pa stir around none. Might hurt his leg."

Marty looked at the motionless Clark. "Looks like we needn't worry none 'bout thet. Wish he
would
stir some. It would make me feel some better iffen I could jest talk to him."

"Willie says that movin' might injure his leg even more."

"Maybe it's a blessin' thet he has thet bump on his head. At least he doesn't suffer as much. By the time he comes to again, maybe the pain will be cared fer some."

Marty hadn't thought of the unconsciousness as a blessing, but perhaps it was. She just prayed that it wouldn't last too long.

They sat together in silence. Scottie came for a few minutes and asked if there was anything he could do. They assured him they would call if there was any change.

Cookie hobbled in, his face drained and tired-looking. Missie thought she had never seen him look so old. Maybe he wasn't feeling well; maybe that was why Willie had asked her to make the lunch for the cowboys.

"Cookie, are you all right?" she asked him.

"Whatcha meanin'?" asked Cookie.

"You're lookin' sorta down."

Cookie shook his head. How could he tell her that seeing Clark's injury had reminded him of the injury in his past and the pain that had accompanied it? Clark was truly fortunate right now. He was unaware of pain. But if consciousness returned, would he be able to keep from screaming with the intensity of the agony that he would feel? And how would those earth-rending screams affect the rest of the household? "Guess it bothers me to see a good man hurt," was all that Cookie said.

The evening crawled on. The sun disappeared and the stars came out. Soon a silvery moon was shining down on a familiar world. The horses stomped and fought in the corrals, Max barked at some distant coyotes, the crickets chirped, and

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the night-winged things beat against the window pane in an effort to get to the light. Still Clark did not stir, and Willie did not come.

Marty and Missie sat together, talking in low tones and praying in turn. At length Missie stood and moved toward the door.

"I think I'll fix somethin' to drink. You be wantin' tea or coffee?"

"Tea, I think," responded Marty wearily. She too stood and walked about the room. Missie left for the kitchen, and Marty moved to pick up Clark's ragged clothes from the floor. She looked at them. They were dirty and torn and the trousers were minus one leg. Clark's leg? She kept forgetting the broken leg in her anxiety over Clark's unconsciousness. But she was not overly concerned about the leg. Many people had suffered broken legs. Usually, with a little skill on the part of some attendant, the leg was soon whole and workable again.

Marty pulled back the bed-cover and looked at the leg swathed in bulky bandages.
Actually, the men did a rather poor job of it,
she thought. She began to unwind the white material, determined to fix the bandage up a bit. To her surprise there was blood on the cloth. Broken legs did not bleed, unless of course the injury was more extensive. Marty unwound the bandage more hurriedly, and the little cry which escaped her lips was like the sound of a small, wounded animal. Clark's leg was not just broken--it was destroyed! Marty felt a sickness sweeping all through her and rushed to the small basin on the stand in the corner. Her whole body shook as she retched. Faint and weak, she grasped the edge of the stand and fought to stand on her feet. At length she regained enough strength and presence of mind to be concerned for the evidence of her sickness before Missie returned. She gathered up the basin and the small pitcher that Missie had used for the cold water and headed for the backyard, disposed of the basin's contents and washed it out and then returned quickly to the room. The cool night air had helped to revive her some and she hastily attempted to put things back in order. Hurriedly she rewrapped the broken limb, trying to copy the men's original bandaging

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as closely as she could. Then she chided herself. It was not a time for secrets. She knew that Willie had tried to spare her--her and Missie--but the truth needed to be known.

She unwrapped the wound and began to methodically and carefully clean and bind it up, doing the best job possible for her to do. She finished just as Missie returned with the tea.

Marty was glad for the strong, hot tea. She sipped it slowly until she felt some of its strength gradually making its way through her body.

"I took a look at yer pa's leg," she stated matter-of-factly. "The broken one?"

"The broken one."

"I hope ya didn't move--"

"Yer father did not stir."

A minute of silence followed.

"It's bad, Missie, really bad."

"How bad?"

"A heavy timber or rock must have fallen on it." "Ya mean. . . ?"

"I mean it's crushed. It'll need a real doctor, one with special skills an' tools--"

"Then we'll find one. Willie prob'ly went for one. That's what he did. He went to find a doctor."

"But ya said--"

"What do I know? Just 'cause I don't know of a doc doesn't mean there isn't one. Willie hears far more--"

"I hope and pray he knows of one."

"He will. He will. Just you wait 'an see. When he gets back here, he'll have--"