The Road to Love by Linda Ford

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.
    â€œMr. 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.”

Chapter Four
    A t her request, profound shock reverberated down Hatcher’s spine and out through his toes. He felt the texture of the wooden step through the thin soles of his boots. His insides had a strange quivering feeling. For a matter of several heartbeats he could not pull together a single coherent thought. Then he heard the persistent buzzing of an anxious fly, sucked in air laden with the scent of the freshly worked soil and willed the crash of emotions away.
    She had no idea what she asked; the risks involved in her asking. If she did, her request would be that he move along immediately.
    Words of remembrance flooded his mind, words branded into his brain within weeks of starting his journey, put there by reading and memorizing passages of scripture pointed directly at him. And the Lord’s anger was kindled against Israel and he made them wander in the wilderness forty years, until all the generation that had done evil in the sight of the Lord was consumed . Numbers thirty-two, verse thirteen, and verse twenty-three, Behold ye have sinned against the Lord: and you can be sure your sin will find you out.
    He had sinned. For that he’d repented, but the scars, the burden and guilt of what he’d done could not be erased.
    He was a wanderer. There was no remedy for that. “Ma’am, I’m a hobo. I never stay in one place.”
    She made an impatient sound. “I thought most of the men were looking for work. I’m offering you that along with meals and a roof over your head.”
    Silently he admitted the majority of men he’d encountered were indeed searching for a job, a meal and hope. He was not. He wanted only his Bible, his knapsack and forgetfulness. “Sky’s my roof.”
    â€œIt’s been known to leak.”
    How well he knew it. They both looked toward the west, where clouds had been banking up most of the afternoon.
    â€œRain’s a good thing,” he said. “It ‘watereth the earth and maketh it bring forth and bud, that it might give seed to the sower, and bread to the eater.’ Isaiah fifty-five, verse ten.”
    She snorted. “Rain is good but not if you don’t have shelter.”
    He thought to remind her of Psalm ninety-four, verse twenty-two, My God is the rock of my refuge, and point out God was his shelter but decided to save himself any possibility of an argument and said, “Got me a tarpaulin.”
    â€œMy father had itchy feet. I’ve spent more than my share of nights under a tarp telling myself it kept off the rain. Trying to convince myself I wasn’t cold and miserable and would gladly trade my father for a warm place to spend the night.”
    Her answer tickled his fancy. “That how you got this farm? Traded your father for it.”
    She made a derisive sound. “Didn’t have to. I married Jeremiah and got myself the first permanent home I ever had.”
    He closed his mind to remembrances of his first and only permanent home.
    She continued, not noticing his slight distraction. “I fully