The Road to Love. Linda Ford

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СКАЧАТЬ what his life consisted of now. Like Cain, he was a vagabond.

      He opened the Bible, smoothed the tattered edges of the page with his fingertip and began to read.

      Sometime later, he heard the truck groan up the lane, waited, giving the family a chance to sort themselves out then he headed up the dusty tracks.

      The dog saw him first and barked. The little boy yelled. “Mom, it’s Hatcher. He’s come back.”

      “Dougie,” a voice called from inside the house. “Stay here.”

      The eager child skidded to a halt and shuffled backward to the truck where he stopped and waited, bouncing from foot to foot as if still running down the road in his mind. The dog hovered protectively at his side.

      Mrs. Bradshaw hurried out, saw her son was safe and shielded her eyes with her hand as she watched Hatcher approach. Her lips curved into a smile of recognition.

      Something in his heart bounced as restless and eager as Dougie at the truck then he smoothed away the response with the knowledge of who he was and what his future held. He thought to warn the woman to spare her smiles for someone who’d be staying around to enjoy them. Pushed away that thought, as well. Settled back into his hard-won peace.

      “Ma’am.” He nodded and touched the brim of his hat, painfully aware how dirty it was. “I made something for the little ones, if you don’t mind.”

      She studied him a moment. He could feel her measuring him before she nodded as if he had somehow passed an inspection.

      A flash of regret crossed Hatcher’s mind. For the first time his solitude seemed poverty-stricken. He needed to cling to the blessings of his life. One God had provided. One that suited his purpose.

      He pulled a willow whistle from his pocket and held it out to Dougie. The child bounced forward and took it with loud thanks. He blew a thin sound.

      Shep backed away, whining. The child looked at him and blew again. The dog settled on his haunches and howled.

      Dougie blew. The dog howled in unison.

      The boy stopped. The dog stopped. The boy blew his whistle. The dog howled. Both child and animal tipped their heads as if not quite sure what was going on.

      Mrs. Bradshaw laughed. “Shep wants to sing with you.”

      Dougie giggled and blew several sharp notes. The dog lifted his nose and howled.

      Hatcher’s wide smile had an unfamiliar feel. As if he hadn’t used it in a long time.

      The little girl slipped out the door and pressed to her mother’s side.

      Hatcher pulled another whistle from his pocket. “One for you, too, missy.”

      The child hesitated. He understood her guarded fearfulness, respected it and waited for her to feel he meant her no harm.

      “Go ahead, Mary,” her mother said.

      The child snatched the whistle from Hatcher’s hand. He caught a glimpse of blue eyes as she whispered her thanks. The dog’s plaintive howls drew the child away. She blew her whistle. The dog turned toward the added sound and wailed. The girl laughed.

      Hatcher nodded, satisfied he’d given both children a bit of pleasure. “Ma’am.” He touched his hat again and retraced his steps toward the slough.

      “Wait,” she called.

      He stopped, hesitated, turned slowly.

      “Thank you.”

      He touched the brim of his hat. He’d done what he aimed to do—give a bit a pleasure he hoped would make the children forget for a few short hours the meanness of their lives.

      “I’ll make you supper.”

      He’d already been here longer than usual, longer than he should. “I have to be moving on.”

      “It’s too late today to go anywhere.”

      She had a point. But he didn’t want to hang around and…

      Well, he just didn’t care to hang around.

      “Or did you find some game?”

      He shook his head. He’d planned to snare a rabbit but he’d whiled away his hours whittling and reading. “I’m not the world’s greatest hobo.”

      “Need more practice?”

      “Don’t think so.” Some things just never got easier.

      “Then please, allow me to share what we have. As thanks for the children’s toys.”

      The youngsters had moved off, marching to their tunes, the dog on their heels, still adding his voice. Every so often the children stopped, looked at Shep and laughed.

      “See how much fun you’ve provided them.”

      Hatcher’s smile started in the corners of his mouth, tugged his lips to the centers of his cheeks and didn’t stop until it nested in his heart. “That’s all I wanted, ma’am. No thanks needed.”

      “Nevertheless, I insist.” She spun around and headed for the door, paused and turned back. “Please.”

      The invitation, heartfelt and sincere, begged at his heart. He knew to accept it was to break his code of conduct. He didn’t stay. He didn’t go beyond kind and courteous. He couldn’t. But her pleasant smile caused him to waver. One more meal and then he was on his way. “Very well.”

      She indicated he should wait. He leaned against the truck and looked around. A big unpainted barn, one door sagging. Breaks in the fences where tumbleweeds driven by the wind had piled up and then caught the drifting soil until the fence disappeared. A solid chicken house, the chickens clucking at the barren ground behind their fence.

      A farm like many others. Once prosperous; now struggling to make it through each season.

      He watched the children play. So happy and innocent. Maybe such happiness was reserved for the very young.

      Chapter Three

      Kate stood in the middle of her kitchen, a palm pressed to her throat, and tried to explain to herself why she’d insisted the man stay for supper.

      Not that she regretted the invitation. She owed him for the gifts he’d given the children. It was pure joy to see them both laughing and playing so carefree. But more than that, he’d admitted he’d failed to catch a rabbit and she couldn’t push aside the knowledge he’d go hungry if she didn’t feed him. She’d learned at a young age how to snare the shy animal, had grown quite good at it for all it was a tricky business. But she recalled too well that rabbits were sometimes as scarce as hen’s teeth. Hunger was not a pleasant companion. True, most times they were able to rustle up something—edible roots to be boiled, lamb’s quarters—a welcome bit of greens in the spring but grainy and unpleasant as the season progressed. More times, her father got eggs or potatoes or even a generous hunk of meat in exchange for some work he’d done.

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