Worthy of Riches (15 page)

Working with the animals had proven to be a greater challenge. Harnessing the horses was one of the more intimidating and frustrating chores. They often refused to cooperate. If they were in the pasture, they'd do all they could to avoid capture, and once harnessed, fought the yoke. It sometimes took Adam the better part of the morning to get
them in harness. His greatest frustration was knowing that his own ineptness set the horses against him. He'd persevered, however, and finally managed to do a respectable job of harnessing and driving the Belgians.

Adam had so much to learn. He had never milked a cow before marrying Laurel. When he was first learning, more milk ended up on the barn floor than in the pail. Laurel nearly giggled out loud remembering the first time he'd killed a chicken. The headless rooster had taken flight and headed straight at an astounded Adam, splattering him with blood. He'd sworn never to eat chicken again. He did, of course, and actually became competent at killing and butchering the birds.

With a sigh, Laurel got up.
Some day he'll be a fine farmer.
Sadness touched her. Her father had talked about all he'd wanted to teach Adam and how they would work together.

Adam sat at the kitchen table, typewriter in front of him, while Laurel kneaded bread dough. Occasionally her eyes wandered to her husband. Deep in thought, his fingers eagerly struck the keys. Laurel shaped the dough into two loaves and placed them in bread pans to rise. She started working on sweet dough for cinnamon rolls, Adam's favorite confection. “How would cinnamon rolls be for breakfast tomorrow?” she asked.

Adam didn't look up.

“I'm making cinnamon rolls,” she said.

“Good.” Adam still didn't look up.

Laurel kept working, a smile touching her lips. Adam was so wrapped up in his work that he hadn't heard what she'd said. It was good to see him doing what he loved. His face was flushed, and his eyes were bright.
He's happy,
she thought, realizing the light had gone out of him even before her father's death. She'd known Adam wasn't a farmer, but she had hoped he'd learn to love it. Now she realized the enormity of the sacrifice he'd made for her. Writing was part of who he was; it had been his life.

Guilt crept over Laurel. Adam had given up writing for her, and she'd encouraged him to do so. She hadn't really considered what God had wanted for him. Maybe they should have moved to Chicago; then Adam could have continued to write for the paper.
I want him to be happy, but how can he be without writing? Maybe we ought to move.

What about Mama? She needs me.
Laurel knew she couldn't leave yet; it was too soon. And she had the baby to think about. The doctor had said it was due around Christmas. They'd have to stay at least until after it was born.

Laurel studied Adam. He was completely absorbed. She'd planned on telling him about the baby right after supper, but he'd gone straight to work on his story. Once he knew, what would he say about leaving or staying? Maybe she ought to keep it to herself until he could make a decision.

She set the rolls on the warming shelf beside the bread. “Would you like more coffee?”

“No thanks.” Adam pulled a sheet of paper out of the typewriter. “You want to hear what I've written so far?”

Laurel sat at the table. “Absolutely.” While Adam read, she rested her face in her hands and listened. It was a wonderful piece. He started with the bear's perspective, which was thrilling and frightening, then went on to tell how the colonists came to the valley and how hate had grown between them and the homesteaders. He used the prowling bear as an illustration of the enemy prowling through the valley, seeking to destroy. He talked about Will Hasper and Ray Townsend—how the conflict had grown between them and how the two ended up hunting the bear together. The piece ended with Will's death and how his example of love and sacrifice finally brought peace to Ray Townsend and to the valley.

By the time Adam finished reading, Laurel was crying. “It's beautiful,” she said, moving around the table and sitting in his lap. She hugged him around the neck and wept. “Daddy would have loved it.”

Adam held her closely. “I hope the paper likes it. I want people to read it, not just because I wrote it, but because they need to hear.”

Laurel kissed Adam. “I know the editor will like it, and people
will
read it.”

Adam mailed the story to the
Trib
the following morning. The waiting began. He went about his work, but the question of the story's fate stayed with him. He liked what he'd written, and now that his appetite had been whetted, he wanted to do more. Running the farm was important and even fulfilling in many ways, but it didn't satisfy his need and drive to write. He'd already decided that if the paper liked the story he'd propose a series of stories. He might even write a book.

Two weeks later a special delivery letter arrived. Laurel ran to the cabbage field, waving it in the air. “Adam, this came for you. It's from the
Tribune.”

Adam brought his hoe down, burying it in the dirt. Then he looked at Laurel and the letter in her hand. “From the
Trib?”

“Yep. I thought you'd want to read it right away.” She handed him the letter.

He pulled off his gloves, shoved them into a back pocket, and tucked his hoe under one arm. “I hope it's good news,” he said, ripping open the envelope and removing a letter. Silently he read.

“Well, what does it say?”

Adam kept reading, a smile emerging. Finally, with a dumbfounded expression, he said, “They loved it! It's going to run in this coming Sunday's edition.”

“How wonderful! I knew they'd like it!” Laurel hugged Adam.

“There's more. They want me to do a whole series of stories on Alaska—one every week!”

“I'm so proud of you!” She kissed him. “You can work right from home. You won't have to move!”

“Move? Who's moving? What are you talking about?”

“I just thought you missed writing so badly that maybe we ought to move back to Chicago.”

“I don't want to live there. I love it here. This is where we belong.”

“When I watched you writing, you looked so happy. I figured you should write even if it meant not living here.”

Adam grinned. “I'm going to write, but I'm not moving!” He scanned the letter again. “We'll be fine, just fine.” He paused. “I'll have
to interview a lot of the old sourdoughs around her to get more stories, but I figure I'll have time to do that and to work the farm.”

“I know a lot about Alaska. With all the work I've been doing on Jessie's notes, I've learned a lot. You'll have lots of material for stories. And I'd love to do some of the research for you.”

“That would be perfect.” Adam threw an arm around Laurel's shoulders. “We'll be a team. You can be the researcher, and I'll be the writer!” Suddenly, he lifted Laurel and twirled her around.

Laurel laughed. “Adam, put me down. I'm getting dizzy.” Once steady on her feet, she looked into her husband's eyes.
Now I can tell him,
she thought, excitement building. Keeping her hands on his muscled arms, she smiled. “I'm glad you'll be able to write, especially now.”

“What do you mean, especially now?”

“Oh, Adam, everything is perfect. Our life is perfect.” Laurel kissed him. “I have some news.”

“What?”

“I wasn't completely honest with you about what the doctor said.”

“What do you mean? Is everything all right?”

Laurel laughed. “Yes. Everything's fine.” She smiled coyly. “In fact, it's perfect. We're going to have a baby.”

Adam looked dumbstruck for a moment. When he found his voice, he asked, “A baby? You're sure?”

Laurel nodded.

“When?”

“December.” Adam wasn't reacting the way Laurel had expected. Instead of being elated, he looked worried. “I thought you'd be happy.”

Adam smiled, and his face lit up. “I am. I just can't believe it. I'm going to be a father!” He pulled Laurel into his arms, kissed her, and held her against him. “A father.” Adam held Laurel away from him and placed his hand on her abdomen. “A baby's growing inside you.” A question touched his face. “Why didn't you tell me? You saw the doctor a couple of weeks ago.”

Laurel took a breath. “I was waiting for you to hear back from the paper. I knew you wouldn't move if you found out I was pregnant.”

“I never said I wanted to move.”

“I know. I just thought that maybe we should. I know how much you've missed writing.”

Adam smiled. “I wouldn't have gone. Remember how hard you hung on, insisting we belonged here? Well, it took me a while to see it, but you were right.” His eyes moved over farmland, wild fields, forests, and mountains, then settled on their house. “I love it here. I want to raise my children here.” He hugged Laurel again. “Let's tell your mother.”

“No. Not yet.”

“Why?”

“What if something happens?” She glanced at her stomach. “I don't think anything will, but it hasn't been very long since Daddy died, and if something did go wrong, well, it would be so hard on her.”

“All right, but it's not going to be easy to keep this secret.”

“It'll just be for a little while.”

Adam smiled. “All right. I'll wait, but not too long, OK?”

“OK.” Laurel stepped into her husband's embrace and rested her cheek against his cotton shirt. “I'm so happy. I just wish Daddy were here. He would have been such a good grandfather.”

“We'll tell him all about his grandfather.”

“It might be a girl.”

“Maybe.” He kissed the tip of Laurel's nose. “Course I wouldn't mind. If we have a little girl, she'll look just like you, and I'll be in love all over again.”

JEAN PLACED THREAD AND NEEDLE IN HER SEWING BASKET AND LEANED BACK in her chair. She was weary but dreaded going to bed. The nights were long and empty. At the end of each day they loomed, and Jean would put off the inevitable. She sewed, baked, or tidied the house, anything to put off going to bed.

With a sigh she finally set the sewing aside, stoked the fire, then turned down the front room lantern. Arms wrapped around her waist, she stood at the window and stared out. It was nearly eleven o'clock, but a soft glow still touched the sky above the mountains, and dusk hung over the valley.
Maybe it would be easier to sleep if it were dark,
Jean thought.
It would only seem more bleak.

“No reason to stay up,” she said and walked to her room. Pulling back the bed covers, she sat on the soft mattress. Moving as if in slow motion, she kicked off her slippers and slid between cool sheets. Pulling the blankets up under her chin, Jean stared at the ceiling, following the progress of a small spider lithely making its way toward a distant corner. She closed her eyes and listened to the house. It was quiet except for an occasional settling creak.

The familiar aching crept over her. Why couldn't she drive it back? Pain embedded itself in her chest, and the tears came once again. She knew God was near, but she felt alone.
Please Father, help me.

Jean ran her hand over the place where Will used to lie beside her. Most nights they had snuggled together and visited quietly, talking about the children, their hopes, and their fears. Then, clasping hands, they had prayed. For twenty-three years Jean had fallen asleep with Will's arm protectively draped over her.

Now she was only half of a whole. She had no warm body beside her, no soft snoring, no gentle touch. “I miss you,” she whispered, cradling Will's pillow and breathing in his scent. Already it was fading. “I'm scared. How can I live without you?”

Anger settled in, momentarily overriding the grief. “You didn't have to die. Why did you do it? You should have thought of us.” Confused and ashamed, Jean buried her face in the pillow and sobbed.

She cried until she had no tears left, then stared into a brief darkness, willing sleep to come.
Lord, I don't think I can do this. I can't bear it. I feel as if it will kill me. I want to die. At least I will be free of this agony.

Even as the thoughts came, Jean rejected them. She had to live. Her family needed her. And the pain would ease, she'd been told. “Lord, forgive me for my selfishness. Forgive me for my weak faith. Help me to be strong.”