Love's unfolding dream (Love Comes Softly Series #6) (27 page)

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But just as he felt ready to give up his anger, his stump of an arm would catch his attention and a new wave of pain would sear, seemingly from fingertip to shoulder. Sobs of pain and anguish would cause Drew to bury his head in his pillow or flee the house in renewed bitterness.

And so Drew struggled with himself. One minute he was content to wrap himself securely in his shell of bitterness and pain, and the next minute almost responding to the urge to try to find some other way to live with what "fate" had handed him.

Another thing puzzled Drew. He felt there was something different about his mother, subtle changes he couldn't put into words. Was it just his imagination or was it really there?

For the past several years, Drew's mother had been shut away in silence and self-pity.She had not wanted to go west, had resisted with all her being. Oh, not in so many words. That was not her way. But they all knew how she felt. It showed in the tightness of her lips, in the stiffness of her stance, in the darkening of her eyes. Though she had never been one to laugh and chat easily, she became a woman living in a shell. It was as if the real person did not even share the dampness of the crowded soddy with the rest of the family. She became cold and withdrawn, even from her children.

There had been one thing that had seemed to bring life and fire to Drew's mother, and that was lesson time. How her dark eyes flashed if the boys were reluctant to study Her chin thrust forward stubbornly when she declared that she did not intend to rear unlearned children--west or no west. Their father, too, made sure time was found each day for books and learning.

At the beginning of the new school term, Drew had watched his younger brother Sidney being ushered off to school. Now that Sid was dressed in proper garments, their mother had insisted he should be in a real classroom where he belonged. Drew watched her holding her breath that first morning.
How would he fare among

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the other students?
Drew knew this was her worry. Would the youngster have years of catching up to do? But the first report of Mrs. Brown was filled with incredulous praise. The boy was unbelievably ahead of his age group, she stated, and she commended the Simpsons heartily for their excellent job in supervising the boy's education.

Drew knew his mother had been tempted to send him, too, off to the local school. She undoubtedly would have insisted, had it not been for his age and his missing arm. She did not say so, but Drew knew that her mother-heart, though shriveled and broken by her hard life, ached for him. She knew it would be difficult for him to face the world.

Drew's father did not seem to feel comfortable in Drew's presence. He did not discuss the accident or Drew's handicap. In fact, he seldom talked to Drew at all. But he did make it quite clear that he did not wish to have Drew back in the woods felling trees.

Even Sidney let his eyes skim quickly over the empty sleeve and then directed his gaze elsewhere. Drew began to feel he would go through all of life with people conveniently overlooking him.

So Drew was left to his gun and his wandering. He probably would not have been able to make it through those first difficult months had he not known that the family needed meat, and that he, even though missing a limb, was still able to supply it.

But in recent weeks Drew had been sensing a newness of life and hope in his mother. Oh, true, she still had very little to say, and she still never laughed, but her eyes looked different somehow She seemed. . . she seemed warmer, less chilled and cut off from the rest of the family. Could it be that something was changing on the inside?
And if so, why?
Drew wondered. Was it simply because she was winning the struggle for survival? Oh, they were still in need--that was for sure--but they were not in debt to any man. They had lost nearly everything they'd owned, so there was

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really nothing more for anyone else to claim. But they were dressing better now--were eating more than rabbit stew.His mother even had her own garden, and come fall she would not be beholden to the neighbors.

But was that the whole reason for the hope in her eyes? Or did it have something to do with that Davis family? She shared the house with Mrs. Davis three times and even up to five times a week. Was some of that other woman's optimistic spirit rubbing off on her?

Drew watched his mother closely, hoping with all his heart that the change might continue and that she would begin talking to him, chatting as mother to son, perhaps even allowing him a chance to talk about his missing arm. He studied his mother carefully each day when she returned from the Davis farm.

Drew did not understand the Davis family. But he could sense that they were different in some way. He had never seen a woman who seemed to be as sensitive--as caring--as Mrs. Davis. Drew longed to see that look of love and caring in the eyes of his own mother.
If only. . . if only . . .
his heart kept crying.
If only we could talk. If only Mother felt free to speak what she feels. If only she would ask me how I felt.

And what about the Davis father? The guy with just one leg? How had it happened and how come he could accept it. . . even
joke
about it? Why did he seem to have such a warm and generous spirit? His little schemes of the year before had not been missed by Drew. He knew Clark had "invented" ways to help the family through their first winter. He had seen the Davis' woodpile. He had seen the farm. Drew knew Clark wasn't the type of man to need outside help to keep things in order.
What makes the fellow tick, anyway?
he asked himself.

The whole thing was beyond Drew. He couldn't figure out any of it. He stayed as far away from the Davises as he could get.

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One fall day when the wind was rattling the red and gold leaves and the geese were crying overhead, Drew found himself walking toward the Davis farm. The gun was tucked in the crook of his missing arm. He always carried it that way. It made him feel that his arm--such as it was--was still good for something. But today the gun was forgotten. He would not have thought to shoot even if a rabbit or a grouse had crossed his path. Drew, deep in thought, decided he had to find some answers. With sudden resolve he quickened his step toward the only person who might be able to help.

Drew was relieved to find Clark clearing fallen leaves out of the spring. Drew did not wish to go near the house. He did not want to risk a chance meeting with Belinda.

"Drew!" Clark greeted him warmly. "Out huntin' again I see. No luck?"

Drew laid the gun aside, his cheeks flushing a bit. He hadn't really been looking for game.

"Not yet" was all he answered.

"I'll jest be a minute here," Clark told him, "and then we'll go on up to the house an' see what Marty might have to munch

on."

Drew leaned over the gurgling water and swept more leaves out into the current with his right hand.

"Were ya left- or right-handed?" Clark surprised him by asking.

"Right," answered Drew.

"Thet's one thing about losin' a leg," Clark stated matter-of- factly, "don't make much difference." When Clark chuckled, Drew smiled to join him.

"How's yer pa doin' with his loggin'?" Clark asked further. "Good," said Drew. "He found himself a mule somewhere. He's real pleased with himself."

"Thet'll help him a lot," said Clark. "Don't know how he

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managed last winter without one."

"Oh, he and Ma just hooked on ropes and hauled them out. I'm after Pa to let me get back to helpin' him," Drew went on.

Clark looked directly at the boy. He commented, "He don't want ya in the woods?"

Drew shook his head. "Won't let me go near--ever since the accident. Thinks it's his fault, I guess. That's just silly. Wasn't anybody's fault--just one of those things."

Clark was silent for a few moments while he scooped out soggy leaves and tossed them aside. "Guess I can understand his feelin's," he said.

Drew nodded. He guessed he could understand his pa's feelings, too, but it did seem foolish when his pa needed all the help he could get.

"Well," said Clark, straightening up, "guess thet'll be good enough fer now. I'll need to clean it once or twice yet 'fore winter freezes it in."

A flock of Canada geese passed overhead, calling out their forlorn cries. Clark and Drew both looked skyward.

"Always did think thet the cry of a goose is one of the saddest sounds I know," Clark observed. "Does it hit ya thet way?"

Drew nodded solemnly. It did. He wasn't sure why.

"I don't know what there is about it," Clark went on, "but it 'most makes me shiver." And his shiver was obvious to Drew.

"Let's go git somethin' to warm us up," he suggested. "Marty'll have somethin' hot fer sure."

Drew sucked in his breath. If he went now he might never find the courage to talk to Mr. Davis again.

"I was kinda wonderin' if I might talk to you some?"

Clark's face softened. He lowered himself to a soft bed of leaves and nodded to the boy to go on.

"I . . . I hate to take your time like this but. . . but. . ."

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"I've got me more time than anythin' else," Clark assured him.

"Well, I . . . I . . . noticed . . . truth is, I've been wondering. You see, I figured if anyone should know what someone goes through in losing a limb, then it should be you."

Clark broke a small twig and cast it into the spring water. The current swirled it around a few times and then carried it off downstream.

"I only lost a leg, boy," Clark said softly. "Ya lost an arm. Now I ain't even pretendin' thet there ain't a big difference there." The boy swallowed hard. Clark was making light of his own

loss.

He looked at Clark evenly. "I happen to know myself well enough to know that I wouldn't take kindly to losing a leg, either," Drew said.

Clark nodded.

"How long ago?" Drew asked.

"Long time now," said Clark, leaning back against a tree trunk. "Long, long time. Before Belinda was even born." "How'd it happen?"

A shadow passed briefly over Clark's face, telling Drew even more than his words did.

"Couple a kids were messin' around in an old mine shaft," Clark began. "It caved in on 'em. I went in to get 'em out. They were 'most buried in it. 'Fore I got the second one out, it caved in again. The heavy timbers got me."

"How'd you get out?" asked Drew.

"Men--friends from our son's ranch--dug fer me."

"Did you . . . did you give yer permission to the doc? To take yer leg, I mean?"

"Nope!" said Clark. "Didn't know a thing 'bout it. Actually, I didn't lose my leg right away. An' there weren't a doc within miles, far as anyone knew It was Marty thet tried to clean it up

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an' disinfect it. It was crushed, too. An awful mess, they tell me. Then gangrene set in. I shoulda died, I guess, but God had other plans. Sent along a doctor--right from among the neighbors-- and he took care of the leg while I was wild with fever."

Drew felt himself go weak as Clark told the story simply, without drama. He could picture too well the scenes that Clark briefly described.

They sat silently for many minutes.

"What did you think when you . . . when. . ."

"When I came to my senses and knew what'd happened?" Clark finished for him.

The boy swallowed hard and nodded. He could not speak.

"Well, at first. . . at first I thought my whole world had fallen apart. I wondered how I would ever be a man again. . . how I'd care fer my family . . . what I'd think about myself. Fer a while . . . fer a little while . . . I wished I had died . . . at least thet's what I
thought
I wished. But not fer long. God soon reminded me thet I had a lot to live fer. That my family loved me and would keep right on lovin' me--one leg or two--an' thet God hadn't forgotten me. Thet He was still with me, still in charge of my life. It took a while, but God helped me to accept it. Don't miss it too much anymore at all."

"It still hurts you, though, doesn't it?"

Clark's head came up. "What makes ya say thet?" he asked, looking carefully at Drew.

"I've seen you. I've seen you reach down and rub it. I know . . . I know how bad it can ache. Even though it's gone, it can still--"

"Phantom pain," Clark finished for him.

The boy nodded.

"Yers bother ya much?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes it's not bad."

Clark nodded knowingly.

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"How long you had thet . . . thet. . . ?" the boy began.

"Wooden one? 'Bout five years now, I guess. Works real good, too. Don't know how I ever got along without it. Luke, my doctor son, talked me into it."

"They don't have . . . they don't have. . . things for arms, do they?"

"Course they do. Not jest like this. Sorta has hooks an' things, but Luke could tell ya all 'bout 'em."

Clark stopped while Drew suddenly put his head down on his one good arm, sobbing convulsively. He felt Clark quickly put an arm around him and draw him close.

"Cry," Clark said, his voice sounding a little shaky, "go ahead an' have a good cry. I did. Let me tell ya, I did. Scream, iffen ya want to. Git it all out. Ya got somethin' worth cryin' over. Go ahead, boy."

Drew shook with his sobbing. "I hate it!" he screamed out. "I hate it! I don't have an arm. I don't have a God. I don't have
nothin'."

Clark still held on to him, then passed him a large checkered handkerchief and let him blow. With an arm still around him, Clark spoke quietly. "Son," he said. "I can't do nothin"bout gittin' ya an arm but . . . but I do know where ya can find yerself a God."

Drew looked up, no longer ashamed of his tears.

"Ya don't even need to go a lookin' fer 'im," Clark said, "fer, truth is, He's been lookin' fer you. He loves ya, son. He loves ya. An' He wants to come into yer life, ease yer hurt and give ya a real reason fer livin'."

Drew felt himself shaking his head. "I. . . I. . . I've done lots of wrong things. I don't think thet God would want--"

"That's the beauty of it," Clark continued. "He doesn't need to wait until we're without wrong. He'd wait forever iffen He did. We've all done wrong. The Bible tells us thet--an' there's no way