The Road to Love by Linda Ford Page A

mine.”
    Sally laughed. “The smell of an overheated brain. The signs of rampant overimagination.”
    Kate laughed, too. “At least you didn’t say rampant insanity.”
    â€œDoesn’t mean I didn’t think it.”
    â€œYou didn’t.”
    Sally looked away as if hiding her thoughts. “I’m not saying.”
    Kate chuckled, unable to stay upset with this dear friend for more than two minutes at a time. “I’ll show you my garden.”
    â€œYou’ve already got it planted?”
    â€œNo, but it’s ready. I’ll do it next week.” When Hatcher had seen her turning the soil last night, he’d reached for the shovel.
    â€œI’ll do that.”
    She’d resisted. “I don’t expect you to do everything around here.”
    He kept his hand on the handle waiting for her to release it. “I’m sure you have other things to do.” His glance slid past her to the house.
    Kate followed his gaze. Mary sat forlornly on the step. She’d asked Kate to help her with learning the names of the presidents. Kate explained she didn’t have time but if she let Hatcher dig the garden she could help Mary. Yet she hesitated, found it hard to let go.
    â€œI think someone needs her mother,” Hatcher said softly.
    If he’d sounded critical or condemning, Kate would have refused his help. But he sounded sad and Kate suddenly ached for Mary’s loneliness. She’d neglected the child so often since Jeremiah’s death. At first, Kate couldn’t cope with anything but survival, then Dougie had been sick all one winter, and always, forever the demands of the farm.
    â€œThank you.” She dropped her hands from the shovel and gave him a smile that quavered at the corners.
    â€œMy pleasure.” The late-afternoon sun slanted across his face, making her notice for the first time the solidness of his jaw. He smiled and something soft and gentle filled his eyes.
    She hurried back to the house, feeling slightly off balance from his look. It was only her imagination but somehow she felt he’d seen and acknowledged the loneliness she never allowed herself to admit.
    As she helped Mary recite names she watched Hatcher make quick work of digging the garden. Finished, he put the shovel away and without lifting his arm, raised his fingers in a quick goodbye. She waved once, feeling suddenly very alone.
    She wouldn’t tell Sally about that. No need to start up her worries again.
    Sally left two hours later. Caught up visiting with her friend, Kate had neglected meal preparations and hurried to complete them. Sally’s husband, Frank, sent over some fresh pork so they would have meat for supper.
    The potatoes had just come to a boil when she heard Mary’s thin screech. Now what? A grasshopper? The wind? The child overreacted to everything. When was she going to learn to ignore the little discomforts of farm life? At least Sally hadn’t pointed out the benefits of town life for Mary. It was the one thing capable of making Kate feel guilty. Her daughter would be much happier in Doyle’s big house.
    When Mary let out another yell, Kate hurried to the window to check on her and sighed. Chickens pecked around the child. Dougie and Tommy must have carelessly left the gate open when she’d sent them to get the eggs.
    â€œDougie,” Kate called out the open window. No answer. And now he’d done a disappearing act, probably hoping to avoid a scolding. They had to get the chickens back in the pen before they wandered too far or laid their eggs in hiding spots. Kate needed every egg she could get.
    She hurried to the stove, pushed the pots to the back, and grabbed the bucket of peelings.
    Mary, wailing like the killing winds of summer, stood in the doorway.
    â€œHelp me get the chickens in,” Kate said, heading outside.
    Mary shrank against the wall, her eyes consuming her face.
    Kate captured her hand and