The Road to Love

Today, as he worked, he interspersed his recitation with plans on how to rectify his debt to Mrs. Bradshaw. It would require he return to the slough where he’d spent the previous night. Not often did he retrace his steps but he couldn’t move on until he adequately repaid her.

He finished working for Mr. Briggs, received a meager meal of one shriveled unpeeled potato and a slab of side bacon that was mostly fat. It measured poorly in comparison with the meal of the previous evening. Mr. Briggs granted him permission to use the water trough to wash his clothes and himself, which he did. In his clean set of clothes, his wet ones rolled and tied in a bundle, he returned to the slough where he hung the garments to dry.

And then he tackled his project.

Next morning Hatcher headed up the driveway to the Bradshaw home with the shelf he’d created from willow branches. Nothing special. Hobos all over the country made them. In fact, she probably had several already. A woman who cooked a fine generous meal like the one she’d provided him was bound to have received gifts before.

The big black-and-white furry dog raced out to bark at his heels.

“Quiet, Shep,” he ordered.

The animal stopped barking but growled deep in his throat as he followed so hard on Hatcher’s heels it made the back of his neck tingle.

Not a dog to let anyone do something stupid. Good dog for a woman who appeared to be alone with two kids.

The place seemed quiet at first but as he drew closer, he heard mumbled warnings. Seemed to be Mrs. Bradshaw speaking. Threatening someone.

He felt a familiar pinching in his stomach warning him to walk away from a potentially explosive situation but he thought of some of the homeless, desperate, unscrupulous men he’d encountered in his travels. If one of them had cornered Mrs. Bradshaw…

He edged forward, following the sound around the old Ford truck and drew to a halt at the sight of Mrs. Bradshaw standing on a box, her head buried under the hood of the vehicle, her voice no longer muffled by the bulk of metal and bolts.

“You good for nothing piece of scrap metal. Why do you do this to me? Just when I need you to cooperate, you get all persnickety.” She shifted, banged her head and grunted.

“If I had a stick of dynamite, I’d fix you permanently.”

Hatcher leaned back on his heels, grinning as the woman continued to scold the inanimate object. After a moment, he decided to make a suggestion that might save both the truck and the woman from disaster.

“’Scuse me for interrupting, but maybe you should bribe it instead of threatening it.”

She jerked up, crashed her head into the gaping hood and stumbled backward off the box, her palms pressed to the top of her head as she faced him, her eyes narrowed with her pain. “Oh, it’s you. You startled me.”

He regretted she had every right to be frightened of him. Fact of the matter, she should be far more wary than she was. He tipped his head slightly. “My apologies.” He slid his gaze to the dirt-encased engine behind her. “It’s being uncooperative?”

She turned to frown fiercely at the bowels of the truck. “I’ve done everything. Even prayed over it.”

He blinked in surprise and amusement at the way she glanced upward as if imploring God to do something.

“I might be able to help,” he said.

She stepped aside, made a sweeping swing of her arm toward the truck. “It’s all yours, mister.”

He hitched up his pants, pretended to spit into his palms, rubbed his hand together, and imitating her gesture, glanced imploringly skyward.

She laughed, a snorting sound she tried to hide behind her fist.

He darted her a quick glance, not wanting to stare at the way her warm brown eyes flashed amusement yet his gaze lingered a second as a strand of her shoulder-length cinnamon-colored hair blew across her cheek and she flicked it aside. Nice to see a woman who still knew how to laugh. He’d seen far too many all shriveled up inside and out, worn down from fighting the elements, trying to cope with disappointment after disappointment and a mountain of work that never went away. Well, maybe he could do something to ease this woman’s work and repay her for her kindness of two days ago. He bent over the hood of the truck and studied the motor. 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.