The Road to Love Read Online Free Page B

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.
    â€œWait. Mr….” She paused as if searching for his name,
    â€œJones. 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.”
    â€œLots 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.”
    â€œI’m moving on.” Her steps slowed but his did not.
    â€œRight away?”
    â€œThe road is long.”
    â€œAnd 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.
    â€œâ€˜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. He’d carried it with him since he left home, knowing, hoping to find within its pages what he needed. He’d found strength for each day, a tenuous peace, and a certainty of what he must do, 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