The Road to Love (17 page)

K
ate braked to a sudden stop in the churchyard, climbed from the truck and smoothed her dress as best she could. The heat and dust of the drive hadn't improved its appearance.

“Hurry, children. We're late.”

Hatcher hadn't shown up to help with the chores and she'd grown slack about getting things done in a hurry. She'd barely had time to change and settled for tying her hair back with an ecru ribbon.

They hurried inside. Doyle sat in his customary place, room beside him for the three of them. She wondered if he'd save her a place after his parting words yesterday.

“I expect you to come to your senses by tomorrow.”

Thankfully, she had.

They slipped in beside him. He met her gaze briefly, his too-blue eyes sober, inquisitive. As usual, he was immaculate, not a hair on his head out of place. She felt his quick look of disapproval at her rumpled, windblown look. She flashed a quick, nervous smile, mouthed, “sorry,” wanted to explain life didn't always leave time for meticulous grooming.

But the service began and he pointedly turned his attention to the front.

She sank beside him, shushed the children and tried to concentrate on the proceedings, but the sun trumpeted through the windows, baking the inhabitants. The discordant music grated her nerves to rawness. The sound had never before bothered her. Today she was too tired to ignore it. She hadn't slept well at all. If she wasn't angry with Doyle for his inexplicable dislike of Hatcher, she fretted over Hatcher's situation. Seemed the man carried a dreadful burden of guilt. One he needed to get rid of. God surely didn't expect him to swelter beneath it.

But mostly she dreaded the awful loneliness that would consume her after Hatcher's departure.

She shifted, wished she could dab at the perspiration soaking the back of her neck and jerked her head toward the sound of a fly banging into the window.

Doyle stiffened. She could feel his silent warning to sit still and she hid a sigh as she fixed her eyes on the preacher.

Suddenly, the words of the sermon broke through.

“We worry about things we shouldn't worry about. Things we should leave in God's hands.” The preacher paused and smiled around at the congregants.

“I think this story illustrates the point. There was once a man struggling along the road with a heavy load. His back bent from the weight, his steps grew smaller and smaller. He wondered if he'd make it to town. But then a wagon pulled up beside him. The driver called, ‘I'll give you a ride, friend.' Gratefully, the man pulled himself to the seat and the driver flicked the reins and continued his journey. After a few minutes, the driver turned to the man. ‘Friend, why don't you get rid of that heavy load? Put it in the wagon box.' The man shook his head. ‘I couldn't do that. It's enough you give me a ride. You shouldn't have to carry the pack, as well.'”

Light laughter filled the pause.

“We need to give God our burdens and trust Him to carry them.”

Kate sighed. If only Hatcher could have heard this message. What was she thinking? No finger-pointing. As Jeremiah often said, you point a finger at someone and three point back at you.

She readily admitted she needed to hear this message. She worried about her farm, having a home, so many things. She needed to trust God to take her burdens.

The service ended, rustling filled the church as people prepared to leave.

“Doyle,” she whispered.

“We'll talk outside.” He sounded pleased with himself.

He'd be less pleased with her when she'd had her say. She stood, smoothed her Sunday dress, hoped her collar was straight.

Doyle stepped aside for her and the children to go ahead. They marched down the aisle like cattle driven to pasture.

“Over there,” he murmured, jabbing his finger past her to indicate the corner of the churchyard farthest from the little graveyard.

“Children, run and play until I call you.”

They crossed the yard. She turned to confront Doyle but he spoke first. “Is he—”

She cut him off. “Doyle, I have something to say to you.”

He was a fine-looking man. Perhaps a bit too fine. He could use a few wrinkles, a smudge or two to make him real. He wore an expectant look of self-satisfaction.

“Doyle, I can't marry you.”

His eyes flashed brittle blue. His mouth flopped twice before he could speak. “It's because of that man, isn't it?”

She wished it were. “I realize I don't love you and I can't marry a man I don't love.”

He studied her with narrowed eyes.

She hoped her smile was gentle, conciliatory.

“Did you love Jeremiah?” he demanded.

The question sliced through her. No, she hadn't love her husband with the heart-exploding kind of love she felt for Hatcher. Guilt tinged her thoughts. “I respected him greatly.” Let him come to any conclusion he wished. But she didn't respect Doyle. Not after his recent behavior.

He drew himself up, stepped back, his nose curled as though she'd developed a strong odor. “You will never keep your farm. When it goes to the highest bidder, I'll buy it and sell it at profit. Something you know nothing about.”

She hadn't expected him to be overjoyed at her announcement, but neither had she expected him to be vindictive.

“You'll come crawling to me on your hands and knees.”

She could only stare. She grew aware of people glancing their direction. Sally hovered nearby, her face awash in concern. She turned back to the man. “Doyle, I wish you all the best.”

He shot her a look that would wither the trees around the graveyard and spun around, practically mowing Sally down.

“Maybe you can talk some sense into your friend. Convince her it's foolish to keep company with a murderer.”

Kate's knees melted, tears stung her eyes. She ordered her legs to straighten and sniffed back the tears. She wouldn't wipe at them in front of everyone.

Sally hurried to her side.

Kate wanted to throw herself into her friend's arms but again refused to fuel her neighbors' curiosity. Instead, she edged around so Sally blocked their view.

Sally grabbed her hand. “A murderer—what did he mean?”

Kate shuddered back a sob.

“Are you okay?” Sally demanded.

Kate managed a nod. “He's angry because I told him I couldn't marry him.”

Sally yanked her arm. “Are you completely crazy? Marriage to Doyle would be the best thing for you.”

Kate stiffened her spine. “I don't love him.”

“He can offer you a life of luxury and ease.”

Her jaw began to ache. “That's not what I want.”

“You
are
crazy.”

Kate looked over Sally's shoulder to where Frank stood, shifting from foot to foot, glancing back and forth from his wife to Doyle, who strode rapidly away. Kate smiled. Frank would chase the man down and pummel him if he threatened Sally. “Are you saying you'd give up your life with Frank for a life of ease with a man you didn't love?”

Sally's expression hardened. “I might.”

Kate's gaze raced back to her friend. “You don't mean that.”

“I suppose not.” There was a shrug in her voice. “But I get dreadfully tired of the work and worry and futileness of trying to survive on a dirt farm.”

Kate's mouth cracked at the corners of her smile. “At least you have a home.”

“At least I have a home.” Sally sighed, looked unsatisfied, then brought her gaze back to Kate and studied her with narrow-eyed concentration. “Who is the murderer?”

Kate shook her head. People seemed reluctant to leave, waiting to discover the same thing. Their murmured curiosity scratched at her senses.

“It's that hobo, isn't it? I told you he was no good. You should have listened to me from the start.”

A sigh as big as the sky filled Kate's lungs and escaped in a hot blast. “He isn't a murderer.”

“Doyle made up a lie?”

“Not exactly.”

Sally shook Kate's arm. “Then ‘exactly' what did he mean?”

“He had no right to say anything. The man deserves to leave his past behind. He shouldn't have to run from people's cruelty for something he didn't do.” Her words blasted as hot as the scorching sun.

“What didn't he do?”

“He didn't kill the man. It was an accident. The courts said so. Don't you think it's time he was allowed to start anew?” She hadn't meant to sob the last word.

“You've fallen in love with him.” Sally's words rang with disapproval.

Kate faced her friend squarely, thought to deny it but suddenly couldn't keep it a secret any longer. She put her arm through Sally's and pulled her close, led them toward the fence. “So what if I have?” She meant to sound defiant but couldn't stop the sob that accompanied her words. “He's leaving as soon as the crop is in unless I can persuade him to stay.”

“Kate Bradshaw. How can you even think such a thing? Listen to me. Get rid of him immediately. As soon as you get home. Then go to Doyle and tell him you were wrong. Marry the man while you can.”

Kate jerked away, put several feet between them. “I have to get my crop seeded.” She didn't care a hair about the crop but surely Sally would appreciate the need.

“I'll get Frank to finish your crop. Just get rid of that hobo. A murderer.” She shook her head. “I knew the first time I saw him he'd be bad news for you.”

Kate stopped walking. “I thought you of all people would understand.”

“I understand you are making a huge mistake.”

“You don't know the first thing about him, yet you're willing to condemn him. Doesn't seem very Christian.”

“It's common sense. A God-given quality you seem to have lost.”

Kate gulped back a sadness that ached like forever. Never had she felt so alone. Abandoned by everyone she thought she could count on.

She spun away. “I have to go.” She called the children, got them into the truck without anyone sidling up to her to demand answers. Silent and broken, she turned the vehicle toward home.

Mary, seated in the middle, stared straight ahead. “Momma, what did Mr. Grey mean?”

The brittle sun stung Kate's eyes and she blinked hard to clear her vision. She wanted to spare Mary's feelings, protect her from the awfulness of that ugly word. “He spoke in anger.”

“But he said…did he mean Hatcher?”

Dougie turned from peering out the window. “What about Hatcher?”

“Mr. Grey said—”

Kate interrupted her daughter. “Don't say it, Mary.”

Mary's face crumpled. Tears flooded her eyes.

“Honey, I'm sorry you had to hear that. It was unkind of Mr. Grey to say it.” Doyle would excuse it as the truth, but sometimes the truth didn't need to be so brutal.

“What about Hatcher?” Dougie demanded.

“He's leaving soon.” If he hadn't already. It hurt to say it out loud. She could understand him not wanting to face the cruel curiosity of others, but how awful that unkindness should drive him away. She groaned.

“Momma?” Mary's worried voice made Kate realize she must hide her feelings better. She would not let her children suffer any more than she could help.

“We'll soon be home.” Maybe Hatcher would still be there, and they could enjoy his presence for a few more hours. She swallowed her agony as she faced the reality of tomorrow. He'd finish seeding and leave. If he hadn't already.

She forced her attention to the struggling crops of the neighbors. The plants that survived yesterday's dust storm wilted under the brassy sun.

As she turned up the driveway, she glanced toward the shanty. The door stood open.

There was no sign of Hatcher.

Dougie bounded from the truck. “Can I go see Hatcher?”

“No. He might be gone already. We all know he's going, don't we?”

“Yes, Momma,” they chorused in sad alto voices.

“Then we might as well get used to it.” How easy the words, how difficult to make her heart accept them. He
could
stay. That's what hurt the most. He could face the pointing fingers, the whispers and prove he was innocent. Didn't running make him look guilty?

She flung into the house. “Get changed and play outside. I'll call you when dinner is ready.” She hurried to her room to shed her hot Sunday dress.

Let him leave. It didn't matter to her. She'd manage. She wouldn't miss his slow smile, his steady kindness, the dark flash in his eyes when he didn't know she saw him watching her.

Moaning, she sank to the edge of the bed.