Linda Ford - The Road to Love

It stalled.

Tears stung the corners of her eyes. She blinked them away. She would not cry. Somehow she’d conquer this beast. “I have to make it run or I’ll never get my crop in, but this thing has become my thorn in the flesh.”

“A gift then.”

She snorted. “Not the sort of gift I’d ask for.”

“Two Corinthians twelve verse nine, ‘My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.’ And verse ten, ‘When I am weak, then I am strong.’ Guess it’s when you can’t manage on your own and need God’s help, you find it best.”

She stared, her jaw slack, not knowing which surprised her more, the challenge of his words or the fact of such a long speech from the man who seemed to measure his words with a thimble.

He met her startled gaze, his eyes bottomless, his expression bland.

She pulled away, looking at nothing in particular as the words of the Bible sifted through her anger, her frustration and fear, and settled solidly in her heart. She needed God’s help. And He had promised it. When she needed it most, she got it best. She liked that idea.

In the heavy silence, she heard the trill of a meadowlark. The sound always gave her hope, heralding the return of spring. She located the bird with its yellow breast on a nearby fence post and pointed it out to Hatcher. “Can you hear what the bird is saying? ‘I left my pretty sister at home.’” She chuckled. “Jeremiah told me that.” He’d also told her to keep the farm no matter what. That way she’d always have a home.

Hatcher nodded. “Never heard that before. Jeremiah your husband?”

She listened to the bird sing his song twice more before she answered. Jeremiah taught her everything she knew about farming. But somehow she hadn’t learned the mysteries of mechanical monstrosities. “He’s been dead three years.”

“Sorry.”

“Me, too.” She turned back to the tractor. “Would you mind cranking it again? I have to get this field worked.”

He did so. The engine started up easily but as soon as Kate tried to make the tractor move, it quit.

“Maybe it just needs babying along. I’ll run it awhile.”

Kate stubbornly clung to her seat behind the steering wheel. “You were in a hurry to leave until you heard my husband is dead.”

“I’m still leaving.”

She stared ahead. She wanted to refuse Hatcher’s offer. She didn’t need pity. She wouldn’t accept a man’s sudden interest in the fact she was alone. Widowed. An easy mark. Desperate.

“Crank it again. I have to do this myself.”

But nothing changed. The minute she tried to ease the tractor forward, actually make it do the work it was created for, the engine stalled.

This was getting her nowhere. The wide field seemed to expand before her eyes, and blur as if viewed through isinglass. She brushed the back of her hand across her eyes to clear her vision and jumped down. “Fine. See if it will run for you.”

He started the temperamental piece of metal, climbed behind the wheel, eased it into gear and moved away.

She wanted to run after him and demand to drive the tractor, demand the tractor cooperate with her. Instead she stared after him. One, two, three…only when she gasped ten, did she realize she’d been holding her breath waiting for the beast to respond to Hatcher as it did to her.

It didn’t. It bumped along the field as defiant as a naughty child.

At least Hatcher had the courtesy not to look back and wave.

He made fifty yards before he stopped, climbed down and plodded back to her. “I’ve got some spare time. I’ll work until noon. By then I’ll have all the kinks worked out of the engine.”

Kate wanted to protest even though she was relieved to have a few more hours unchallenged by her stubborn tractor. She swallowed her pride. “Thank you.”

He turned back and she hurried across the field to the house. He deserved some kind of compensation for doing this. She’d make cookies and biscuits to give him for his journey.

When noon came, she carried sandwiches and hot tea to the field and handed him the bundle she’d made of cookies and biscuits.

“What’s this?” he asked.

She explained.

At first she thought he’d refuse, then he took the bundle.

“Thanks. Appreciate it.”

She’d been dreading it all morning but it was time to take over the tractor. She had no choice if she were to get the field prepared for seeding. And then what? But all morning she’d thrown up a barrier at the question, refusing to deal with the obvious answer—as soon as the field was worked she’d have to seed it and then—no, she wouldn’t think that far ahead.

She climbed behind the wheel. The machine had run all morning. She’d glanced that direction often enough to assure herself of the fact. Hatcher had jumped down a few times and made some sort of adjustment then continued on.

But again, it stalled as soon as she tried to drive it. “Why can’t I make it work?” she yelled.

He shrugged. “I’ll finish out the day.”

“Great,” she muttered. She should be grateful and she was. But she was also on the edge of desperation. If he worked all day he wouldn’t finish even one field. Then he’d be on his way. And she’d be stuck with the beast. And two more fields that needed working. Suddenly marrying Doyle seemed like the most sensible thing in the world.

All afternoon, she considered her options. Marry Doyle and sell the farm. An easy way out, yet not one she was willing to take. Rent out the farm. But renting it out would mean they’d have to move. No man would want the farm without the house. No. There had to be a way she could make this work. If only the tractor would run for her as readily as it did for Hatcher Jones.

She had one option left. Somehow, she had to convince the man to stay. At least until she got the crop in.

She had hot water ready for him to wash in when he came in from the field. “Supper is waiting.” She used her purchased tin of meat—a spicy loaf—mixed it with rice and tomatoes and spices. She’d made bread pudding for dessert, adding a generous handful of raisins. Not the best of fare but she’d done what she could with her meager supplies.

She waited until the children ate then took tea out to Hatcher. It stuck in her throat to beg, but she’d made up her mind.

“Mr. Jones, is there any way I can persuade you to stay around to put the crop in for me? I wouldn’t be able to pay you much. But I could let you live in the settler’s shanty on the other quarter.”

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