The Road to Love. Linda Ford

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СКАЧАТЬ Sure could use a good cleaning. He checked the carburetor. The choke was closed. No wonder it wouldn’t run. “You got a piece of hay wire?”

      “Hay wire? You’re going to fix my truck with hay wire?”

      “Ma’am, ain’t nothing you can’t fix with hay wire and bubble gum.”

      She made that snorting sound of laughter again. “Sorry, I have no bubble gum but I’ll get you some wire.”

      She sauntered away to the barn, chuckling and murmuring about the miracle of wire and gum.

      He was glad to brighten someone’s day. As he waited, he scraped dirt and bug guts off the radiator and tightened the spark plugs.

      Her quiet chuckle heralded her return, the sound like the first rays of a summer day—warm, promising good things to fill the ensuing hours.

      He quieted his soul with the words of scripture: He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city. He sought for the reference. Knew it was Proverbs but the sound of the woman at his elbow made him momentarily forget the exact location. He kept his attention on the motor until he brought his thoughts under submission. Proverbs sixteen, verse thirty-two. Only when he had it correct did he straighten.

      “This do?” Her voice bubbled with amusement as she handed him a coil of wire.

      “Just the thing.” He bent off a piece and wired the choke open. “That should do the trick.”

      He cranked the motor over several times and it kicked to life.

      Remembering her skyward pleas, grateful for divine assistance, he stood back, glanced up to heaven and nodded to thank God for His help.

      Mrs. Bradshaw clapped. “Guess I just needed a prayer partner. And someone who understands motors. Can you show me what you did?”

      “It’s nothing. Just the miracle of hay wire.” Side by side, they bent over the motor and he explained the workings of the carburetor and the function of the choke.

      “Got it.” She straightened and turned to lean on the fender that hinted at once being gray. Now it was mostly patchy black and rusty. “Trouble is, now I know that, it will be something else that goes wrong.”

      “Someone once told me, if you’re not learning and growing, you’re withering.”

      She chortled. “No doubt about it then. I’m growing.” She grew quiet as she looked across the fields. “Though it seems my farm is withering.”

      “Your husband off working somewhere?”

      She didn’t answer.

      Caution. That was good. Didn’t pay to trust too quickly. He dusted his hands. “Brought you a gift.” He retrieved it from beside the truck.

      “A gift? Why?”

      “To say thanks.”

      She took the shelf and examined it, ran her fingers over the words he’d cut into the front of the shelf. The Lord is my helper. “It’s beautiful.”

      He heard the shimmer in her voice and lowered his gaze, tried not to let the tightness in his throat make itself known.

      She cleared her throat and continued. “I’ll hang it next to the door. But it’s me who owes you thanks for getting the truck running. I have to get to town today and didn’t know how I was going to make it there and do my errands before the children are out of school.”

      He’d made shelves such as that on two previous occasions. Once when a kind family had provided shelter from a raging snowstorm.

      Another time after he’d helped an elderly woman bury her husband. He’d carved a verse in the top branch. Hebrews thirteen, verse five, I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee, hoping the object and verse would remind her she wasn’t alone.

      But Mrs. Bradshaw’s gratitude for his poor offering gave him a queer mingling of regret and hope. He couldn’t afford to luxury in either emotion. Backing away, he touched the brim of his hat. “Ma’am.” He headed down the road. He got as far as the end of the truck when she called out.

      “Wait. Mr….” She paused as if searching for his name,

      “Jones. I was planning to go to town and post a little advertisement for someone to help me. I can’t run this farm by myself.”

      “Lots of men looking for work.” He continued walking away.

      She fell in step beside him. “I need someone who can fix my tractor and put the crop in. You seem like a handy kind of man.”

      “I’m moving on.” Her steps slowed but his did not.

      “Right away?”

      “The road is long.”

      “And it calls? My father was like that.”

      He didn’t argue but for him the open road didn’t call. The back road pushed.

      She stopped altogether. “I’m sure I’ll find someone.” Her voice rippled with determination. She turned and headed home. “Or I’ll do it myself.”

      Hatcher faltered on his next step then marched onward. Before he reached the end of the lane, he heard her singing and chuckled at her choice of song.

      “‘Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves. We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.’”

      The woman needed a whole lot of things to happen before she could rejoice about the sheaves. Not the least of which was someone to help her put the seed in the ground, but no need for him to worry about her. Within an hour of posting her little ad, she’d have half a dozen or more men to choose from.

      Back at the slough where the flattened straw-like grass showed evidence of how long he’d camped there, he bundled up his now-dry clothes and packed his kettle away. He cocked his head when he heard Mrs. Bradshaw drive down the road.

      He hesitated, thinking of her words I’ll do it myself, and hearing her cheery voice in joyful song. She was the kind of woman who deserved a break. He would pray she got it and find a hired man who would be what she needed.

      She’d never said if her husband was dead or gone looking for work elsewhere. Though it seemed the farm provided plenty of work. Maybe not enough income to survive on. Must be hard raising those two young ones alone and running the farm, as well. Hard for her and the kids. If only he could do something to ease their burden. Besides pray.

      He thought of something he could do that might add a little pleasure to their lives. Another couple of hours before he got on his way wouldn’t hurt. Regretfully resigned to obeying his conscience he dropped his knapsack and pulled out his knife, chose a nice branch and started to whittle. He stopped later to boil water and toss in a few tea leaves. When the tea was ready, he poured it into a battered tin cup, picked up his Bible, leaned against a tree trunk and settled back to read as he waited for the Bradshaws to come home. He calmed his thoughts, pulling them into a tight circle and stroked the cover of the Bible, worn now to a soft doe color, its pages as fragile as old onionskin. СКАЧАТЬ