Forevermore

  Forevermore

  Books by

  Cathy Marie Hake

  FROM BETHANY HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  Letter Perfect

  Bittersweet

  Fancy Pants

  Forevermore

  Whirlwind

  Forevermore

  CATHY MARIE HAKE

  Forevermore

  Copyright © 2008

  Cathy Marie Hake

  Cover design by Jennifer Parker

  Cover photography: Linda’s Photography, Linda Motzko

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Pubishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Printed in the United States of America

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hake, Cathy Marie.

  Forevermore / Cathy Marie Hake.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-7642-0318-3 (pbk.)

  1. Women cooks—Fiction. 2. Texas—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3608.A5454F67 2008

  813’.6—dc22

  2007034141

  * * *

  To Cianna, Audrey, and Fiona—

  three bright girls who see life’s promises and

  possibilities and embrace them with courage and joy.

  CATHY MARIE HAKE is a nurse who specializes in teaching Lamaze, breastfeeding, and baby care. She loves reading, scrapbooking, and writing, and is the author or coauthor of more than twenty books. Cathy makes her home in Anaheim, California, with her husband, daughter, and son.

  Forevermore

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  One

  1891 Texas

  The fields lay ripe for harvest; the house looked ready to collapse. A bounty of weeds fought vegetables in the garden for space, and a scraggly rosebush by the porch wouldn’t last another week if someone didn’t water it. Hope Ladley reckoned this was the right place to stop. God had a habit of sending her where folks needed a helping hand, and this farm practically shouted her name.

  “Whoa.” She didn’t bother to pull back on the reins, for her mule never stepped lively enough to require more than a simple command. Hope jumped down from her two-wheel cart, gave Hattie an appreciative pat, and called out, “Anybody home?” She grabbed a sizable stack of envelopes and headed toward the house.

  An obviously pregnant woman stepped out onto the front porch and shut the screen door with one hand while rubbing her lower back with the other. “You be a good girl,” she said to a child on the other side. “I’m going to talk to someone for a minute.”

  Hope tucked the envelopes into the pocket of her apron and murmured, “Lord, I do my best to serve you, but you gotta remember the onliest things I ever helped with a birthing had four legs.”

  The woman shuffled out from under the porch awning and lifted a hand to shade her eyes from the blazing sun. “Hello.”

  “Hello, yourself. I’m Hope Ladley.” Hope headed toward her and belatedly remembered she’d shucked her shoes a few hours back. Oh well. No fixing that oversight now. “Ma’am, I’ll come to you. Best you stay in the shade up there. Hotter than the hinges of Hades out here.”

  “It is terribly warm.” The woman still wrapped her arms about herself as if she’d felt a chill. She looked past Hope. “Are you all by yourself?”

  “I reckon you could say that, but God—He’s always with me. And Hattie there—she’s my mule—well, might hurt her feelin’s if’n I didn’t say she made for a fine travelin’ companion.”

  Slowly, the woman nodded. She hadn’t given her name and inched back up each of the four steps. Her tongue darted out and moistened her lips; then she cast a look at the tall, black yard pump. “Did you stop to get some water?”

  “Hattie and me—well, we both had a long, cool drink a mile or so ago. Nice of you to offer, though.”

  “Annie?” A tall, broad-shouldered man in blue jeans came around the corner. He yanked off his straw work hat and cast a questioning look at his wife. Deep grooves bracketing his unsmiling mouth and scrunched brows bore testament to a man whose mind dwelled on more than his fair share of worries.

  The lady on the top porch step said, “We have a visitor. Her name is—”

  “Hope Ladley,” Hope declared as she stepped up and shook the farmer’s hand. It was big, sunburned, and callused—the kind of hand that bespoke someone who worked long and hard for everything he owned. He’d sweated and toiled to own this farm. Good, honest dirt under his nails—one of the best ways a woman could tell a man was a hard worker.

  “Jakob Stauffer.” His voice sounded as icy as his eyes looked.

  Lord, I’m steppin’ out in faith here. If this ain’t where you’re wantin’ me to be, I reckon you’ll send me away. Since the farmer didn’t introduce his missus, Hope bridged the awkward silence. “I’m a plainspoken woman, Mr. Stauffer, so I’m gonna be up-front. Your ox’s wallowin’ beneath all that straw.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my team.” The farmer scowled and dragged his hand from her grip. “Not a soul could say my livestock—”

  “Now, hold it there for a minute. I’m just usin’ a Bible sayin’.” She leaned toward him a little and half whispered, “Aren’t you God-fearin’ folk?”

  “Jakob, I think she meant the ox is in the ditch.”

  Hope perked up. “That’s it! Then what critter gets all the straw?”

  “A camel.” The woman waddled down the stairs and stood real close to her man. “I’m Annie Erickson.”

  She’s not his wife. Hope felt more than a bit confused. Lord, I’m confounded. I must’ve been wrong about this bein’ where you wanted me. “So you already got yourself a housekeeper.”

  The woman twitched a pitiful excuse for a smile. “Jakob is my brother.”

  “You were talking to at least one young’un inside. Got a passel of ’em betwixt the both of you?”

  “This—” Mrs. Erickson’s voice caught. “This is my first.”

  “We’ll be praying for you to have an easy time of it and for the babe to be healthy.” Hope nodded and turned back to the farmer. It’s his turn to crow about his family.

  Sleet would look warm compared to his icy glare. “What do you want, Mrs. Ladley?”

  “It’s Miss. I’m free to follow wherever God takes me.” She swept an arm toward his fields. “Harvest is nigh upon you. I don’t mean to boast, but I can cook real fine. What, with all the men you’ll have round to labor on your land, seems you could stand to keep me here to feed ’em.”

  “We were just talking about hiring two of the Richardson girls.” Mrs. Erickson didn’t sound very sure of herself.

  Mr. Stauffer mutter
ed something about the lesser of two evils.

  “Tell you folks what. You don’t know me from Eve.”

  “It’s supposed to be Adam,” Mr. Stauffer growled.

  Hope shook her head. “Can’t be. ’Course, you’d know me from him. Eve was the gal. Anyway, I reckon you oughtn’t hire me right off without having some proof that I can turn out a decent meal. So tell me how many I’m to feed supper, what you have a notion to eat, and what time it’s to be ready.”

  The farmer ran his hand through mud brown hair, but that didn’t begin to remove the imprint from his hat. His grim expression didn’t change one iota as he raised his chin toward his sister.

  If he’s leaving the decision to her, he’s got to be a widower. Hope pulled the packet of letters from her apron and handed them to Mrs. Erickson. “Recommendations from other farmers. Some folks like that kind of stuff afore they make up their mind whether to keep me on.”

  Looking down at the thick stack in her hand, Mrs. Erickson sounded uncertain. “I suppose we could give her a try, Jakob.”

  “Dandy. I’ll move my mule and cart outta the way. Mr. Stauffer, are you hankering after anything special to eat or is there any particular chore that needs doin’?”

  He shook his head and took the porch steps two at a time. He paused at the doorstep and looked down at his dirty boots. “Emmy-Lou,” he called before opening the door and hunkering down.

  A little girl threw herself into his arms. “Daddy! Are you gonna take me to see the piglets again?”

  “No.” He cupped his big hand around his daughter’s towhead and held her close.

  Hope’s heart did a little do-si-do. A man who cast aside his own troubles, knelt down, and loved on his child—there was a man to be admired.

  He pressed a kiss on Emmy-Lou’s head. “Milky snuck off and had her litter.”

  “She did?” Emmy-Lou pulled back. “I wanna see them! How many?”

  “You be a good girl, and I’ll show you where they are after supper.”

  “How many, Daddy?”

  Mr. Stauffer rose. “I’m keeping that a secret right now. Since you’re going to be a good girl, you’ll be able to come out and count for yourself.”

  “It’s always nice to have something to look forward to.” Hope smiled at the girl. She had her father’s blue eyes, but instead of being cool, they shone with innocence. Hope winked at her. “So is Milky a cat or a dog?”

  “A cat.” Emmy-Lou yanked on the side of her father’s jeans.

  “Daddy, does that lady know how to bake cookies?”

  “Shore do. You got a favorite kind?”

  Curls bobbed as the little girl nodded. “Big ones!”

  A smile flitted across Mr. Stauffer’s face, then disappeared. “Miss Ladley, tie your mule to the sycamore. Shade’s hard to come by.”

  Hope tromped back toward Hattie. Mr. Stauffer might seem all gruff, but he liked kids and animals. And his sister, too. With that many points in his favor, she knew he was a good man. A red bandana hung loosely around his neck, and a blue one had peeked out of his back pocket when he’d bent down to hug his little girl. That detail hinted that he was given to neatness. Well, then, he’d appreciate her helping things run smoothly.

  As she walked Hattie right past the porch and toward the shade, Hope heard Emmy-Lou’s high, little giggle. “Daddy, how come does that lady’s mule wear a hat?”

  “Her name’s Hattie, and by wearin’ one, she carries her shade ’long with her where’re she goes,” Hope called back. With her mule unhitched and roped to the tree, Hope stopped by the water pump with her stockings, shoes, and a towel. After washing her hands and face, she dampened half the towel and went to the porch. Mr. Stauffer had gone back to work, so Hope sat on the top step, swiped her ankles and feet clean, then pulled on her stockings and shoes.

  “Are you,” Emmy-Lou asked as she hopped and wiggled, “gonna make me cookies now?”

  “Can’t say for certain. Don’t you worry none, though. I promise I’ll bake up a batch.”

  “Big ones?”

  “C’mere.” Hope tugged Emmy-Lou close and inspected her hand. “My, you’re a big girl!”

  “Un-huh!”

  Hope traced her finger around Emmy-Lou’s palm. “Well, a girl your size would probably want a cookie so big it would barely fit in her hand.”

  Mrs. Erickson remained by the door. “Emmy-Lou, it’s naptime. Gehe zum Bett.”

  Go to bed, Hope translated in her mind. Emmy-Lou’s lower lip poked out in a pout. Hope turned her and gave her a nudge. “Ja, Emmy-Lou.” She searched for the German words for “sleep well.” “Schlaff gut.”

  “Sprechen sie Deutsch?” Mrs. Erickson gave her a startled look.

  “Only a tad.” Hope held open the screen door. “Just enough to get by in the kitchen. Don’t much matter what the language, a rumbling belly sounds the same.”

  Once inside, Mrs. Erickson held Emmy-Lou’s hand and looked a little uncertain.

  Hope inhaled deeply. “Mmm-mm. You’re bakin’ bread. If’n you tell me how much longer it needs, I’ll be happy to pull it outta the oven so’s you can take a nap yourself.”

  Mrs. Erickson shook her head. “I need no nap. Have some coffee.” She looked away and added, “I will be back with you in a minute.”

  While Mrs. Erickson tucked her niece into bed, Hope glanced around the downstairs of the farmhouse. Stairs divided the area in half. A large, sunny parlor with a piano lay to the left of the door. Just beyond it, a door to a small room stood open. Snooping would be wrong, so Hope satisfied her curiosity simply by standing on tiptoe and craning her neck. A rolltop desk and a shelf of books told her Mr. Stauffer must have a lot of book learning.

  To her right, a set of matching maple furniture made her breath catch. The washstand, hutch, table and chairs looked so grand, Hope figured even a king would be proud to own them.

  Shafts of wheat woven into pretty designs hung on either side of the washstand, and on the adjacent wall a sampler and a framed photograph decorated the wall to one side of the sunny window. The picture captured a blond woman, aglow with love, gazing up at Mr. Stauffer. In contrast to his present worry lines, in the picture he looked completely carefree. A clock hung on the other side of the window. The gleaming brass pendulum ticked the seconds while the hands momentarily clasped together to show the time of five minutes past one.

  Beyond that were the kitchen and a door that undoubtedly led to a pantry tucked beneath the stairs. Blue-and-lavender-flowered feed-sack curtains swagged to either side of a window right over a big sink, and coffee stayed warm on a huge Sunshine stove.

  Hope headed into the kitchen. Women could be mighty particular about their kitchens, and she’d learned to pay heed to what a lady said. Following directions on the first day invariably put everyone on a good footing. As it was, Mr. Stauffer acted downright unfriendly, and Mrs. Erickson seemed pretty standoffish. If’n this is where God wants me, all’s I need to provide is a good meal and a little time, and we’ll all get along.

  “Mugs . . . mugs . . .” In the second cupboard she opened, Hope found dishes—white ones with a dainty ring of forgetme-nots along the edge. She took out two cups and went to the stove to fill them. Hearing Mrs. Erickson come down the stairs, she asked, “Should I get cream out of the icebox for you?”

  “Nein. I can get it.”

  Hope slid the cups onto the table. “Ma’am, I’m here to help. All I did was sit in the mule cart all morning. I’d count it a favor if you’d let me stretch my legs again by fetching the cream before we have us a sit-down.”

  Mrs. Erickson nodded. Her gaze skittered away.

  Poor woman was timid. Maybe embarrassed, too, at starting to slow down on account of her big belly.

  A chuckle bubbled out of Hope as she lifted the whimsical porcelain creamer. “Never milked me a frog, but this’un’s cute enough, it makes me think ’tis possible.” She set it down on the table and scooted the sugar closer to Mrs. Erickson. “Reckon gett
in’ sugar and cream from a frog’s loads better’n gettin’ warts.”

  “I . . . I suppose so.” A hesitant smile crossed Mrs. Erickson’s face.

  Hope slid into a chair and took a sip from her cup. “Oh, you make a fine cup of coffee. I like putting eggshells in with the grinds to take out the bitterness. What do you do?”

  “Eggshells.”

  Hope smiled. “Now, how’d you like that? No wonder I thunk yours tasted so good. I noticed that stove there. Mighty fine one. Big reservoir shore must come in handy.”

  “It does not burn so hot as a wood stove, but I like it.”

  “Me too! Baking takes a few minutes longer, but the biscuits won’t burn as quick if you get busy with something else.” Hope took a sip of coffee. “I saw the coal bin. If’n you tell me where you keep your coal, I’ll fill it up.”

  Mrs. Erickson glanced at the clock and started to rise.

  “Betcha the bread’s ready.” Hope hopped up and motioned her to sit back down. “Ma’am, I don’t mean to horn in, but it seems to me that there’s gonna be plenty ’nuff for us to do. Might as well have you save up your strength whilst I work out my wiggles.”

  Over the next fifteen minutes, Hope coaxed information from Mrs. Erickson. When they’d decided on what to make for supper, Hope asked, “How many do we cook for?”

  “There will be Jakob, Phineas, Emmy-Lou, you, and me.”

  So that’s her husband’s name. I wondered where he was. Oddsounding name. Hope repeated it to commit it to memory.

  “Phineas.”

  “My brother’s farmhand.” Mrs. Erickson stuck her spoon into her coffee cup and stirred, even though she’d already swallowed all but the last mouthful. “He sleeps in a room in the barn, but he eats with us here.”