The Road to Love. Linda Ford

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СКАЧАТЬ slithered down his cheek. It wouldn’t stop until it puddled under his collar. He let it go, knowing anything he did to stop its journey would only make him wetter.

      She remained in front of him. “I can’t rest knowing you’re out here cold and wet.”

      He’d rest a lot better if she’d leave him alone, instead of stirring up best-forgotten and ignored memories. “Been cold and wet before and survived.”

      “You can stay in the shanty.”

      “I’m fine.”

      She grunted. “Well, I’m not. I’ll never sleep knowing you’re out here, remembering how miserable the rain is when you’re in the open.” She began her laugh with a snort. “Though, believe me, I’m ever so grateful for the rain. It’s an answer to prayer. Now if you’d accept my offer and get in out of the cold, I could actually rejoice over the rain.”

      He’d guess persistence was her middle name. “Shame not to be grateful.”

      “Then you’ll come?”

      The thought of someplace warm and dry or even one of the two, had him thinking. Still he hesitated. “You don’t know nothing about me.”

      “I know what it feels like to be cold and wet. That’s enough.”

      Still he remained in a protective huddle. “I could be wicked.”

      “That’s between you and God. But right now, I’m getting a little damp. Could we hurry this along?”

      “You’re not taking no for an answer?”

      “No.”

      She left him little choice. They could both be cold and wet to the core or he could give in to her obstinacy. The latter seemed the better part of wisdom and he pushed to his feet, disturbing his wraps as little as possible as he followed her through the thin protection of the trees, across the road and up a grassy path angling away from her house.

      “Just tell me where,” he said when he realized she intended to lead him to the shanty.

      “I’ll show you.”

      She’d be soaked to the gills by the time she made her way back home but he already discerned she was a stubborn woman set on doing things her way.

      She stopped, held the lantern high to reveal a tiny shack, then pushed open the door, found another lantern on a shelf and lit it.

      From under her slicker, she pulled out a sack of coal. “This should keep you warm.” She held up her lantern high and looked around. “This hasn’t been used of late. You’ll probably have mice for company but there’s still a bed here. Not much else.”

      “It’s fine.” Surprisingly, no water leaked through the ceiling. “I’ll be warm and dry.”

      “Come up for breakfast.”

      Before he could protest, she closed the door and was gone.

      He stood dripping. How had he ended up in the same place for more days than he knew was wise? His limit was two nights and he’d exceeded that.

      His mind must be sodden by the rain. How else did he explain being here in this house? He held the lantern high and looked around. A small shack of bare wood weathered to dull gray with one tiny window over a narrow table. Two wooden chairs were pushed to the table. From the drunken angle of one he guessed it missed a leg. A rough-framed, narrow bed and tiny stove completed the furniture and crowded the space. He couldn’t imagine a family living here though he knew many had lived in similar quarters as they proved up their homesteads. But it was solid enough. And fit him like a long-lost glove, feeding a craving he refused to admit. Snorting at his foolish thinking, blaming the stubborn woman who’d insisted he stay here for his temporary loss of reason, he reminded himself he couldn’t stay.

      One night. No more.

      He shrugged the tarp off, draped it over a coat hook on the wall and built a fire. As warmth filled the room, he pulled off his wet clothes, hung them to dry and donned his spare shirt and pants.

      He tested the mattress. It felt strange not to feel the uneven ground beneath him. For all the comforts of the place, sleep eluded him. He rose and sat at the rough wooden table, opened his Bible and began to read. At Psalms chapter sixty-eight verse six, he pulled up as if he’d come suddenly and unexpectedly to the end of a lead rope. He read the verse again, then again, aloud this time.

      “God setteth the solitary in families: he bringeth out those which are bound with chains.”

      A great yearning sucked at his insides until he felt like his chest would collapse inward. He longed to put an end to his solitary state. He wanted nothing more than home and family.

      But it could never be. He had his past to remember.

      He clasped his hands together on the open Bible and bowed his head until his forehead rested on his thumbs. “Oh God, my strength and deliverer. I have trusted You all these long years. You have indeed been my shelter and my rock. Without You I would have perished. You are all I need. You are my heart’s desire.” He paused. In all honesty, he could not say that. Despite God’s faithfulness he ached with an endless emptiness for things he didn’t have, things he knew he could never have. “God, take away these useless, dangerous desires. Help me find my rest, my peace, my satisfaction in You alone.”

      From the recesses of his mind came words committed to memory. Delight thyself also in the Lord; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart. Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass.

      “Psalm thirty-seven, verses four and five,” he murmured out of habit. “But what does that mean for me?”

      Long into the night he prayed and thought and planned then finally fell asleep on the soft mattress.

      He’d considered ignoring her invitation to breakfast and eating a handful of the biscuits she’d provided but he didn’t even want to guess what she might do. Likely tramp over and confront him. He smiled at the way he knew she’d look—eyes steady and determined, hands on hips—pretty as a newly blossomed flower. For the sake of his peace of mind it was prudent to simply accept her “offer.”

      He made his way across the still-damp fields to the Bradshaw house. The rain had been short-lived. Enough to give the grass a drink. Not enough to provide moisture for the soon-to-be-planted crops.

      During the night, he’d come to a decision. One he felt God directed him to and as such, not something he intended to resist.

      He kicked the dampness off his boots and knocked at the door then stepped back to wait for Mrs. Bradshaw. She opened the door almost immediately and handed him a plate piled high with bright yellow eggs, fried potatoes and thick slices of homemade bread slathered with butter and rhubarb jam.

      A man could get used to regular meals. “I’ll stay long enough to put in the crop.” He could do the spring farmwork and obey the verse filling his thoughts last night—Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction. James chapter one, verse twenty-seven.

      So long as he stayed away from town and her neighbors, he’d СКАЧАТЬ