Love's New Beginning (a Love Comes Softly fanfiction)

Room for More Love

Clark couldn't get what had happened in the garden out of his mind. He had held Marty in his arms, he had felt ... he had felt the desire to kiss her, to do more than that. He couldn't deny that—and he found he didn't want to. Somehow, in his mind the image of Ellen had receded, and Marty's dancing eyes and wayward curls had taken its place.

Part of him felt guilty about that, as if somehow he was betraying Ellen. But Ellen was gone. What good did it do her, or him, or anyone, for him to cling to her memory and refuse to live? He would always love Ellen, just as Marty would always love Clem. Neither of them would want to change that in the other, he was sure—but there was room for more love than just the one that was lost, just as there had been room in his heart for Clare beside Missie, and would be room enough if someone else were to come along.

Clark felt a pang at that thought. In the sudden intense longing for another child, one that would be Marty's and his together, he understood that more than appreciating her hard work, more than desiring her as a woman, he loved her. Loved her deeply, for who she was—for the curiosity she felt, for the way she had folded Missie into her heart, for the quiet way she had taken on the difficult task of stepping into another woman's life, for the way she had deepened and enriched that life and made it hers as well. He loved her and he treasured her.

And it didn't matter, because she was set to leave him, to return to the East and take the children with her. She hadn't said anything about it, but he could see it in her eyes on occasions when he slipped and talked about the future, that wariness that said she was worried he had forgotten his promise.

The very idea hurt his heart. How could he let her go, much less the children? How could he remain here in this empty house, working a farm that would never feed anyone but himself? And somewhere deep inside him he wondered where he had gone wrong, if she hadn't learned to love him the way he had learned to love her. He watched her at mealtimes and as she rocked young Clare and played with Missie and bent down over the little sprouts in the garden, touching them so tenderly, hoping to surprise a look on her face or a glance from her eyes that would tell him she was struggling with these feelings the same as he was.

But he never did. When she caught his eye, she would look away hastily, flustered, smoothing her apron or fidgeting with something on the table. He tried to tell himself that was about him, but it was just as likely that it was about her knowing how he had come to feel and not knowing how to tell him she didn't feel the same.

Every day that went by was a day closer to him losing everything he held dear, and Clark didn't know what to do about it. He wanted to beg her to stay, to give him a chance, but fear held his tongue still. If she didn't feel the same, if she was upset by his love for her, if he asked her to stay and she went anyway—he could hardly bear the thought, much less dare the reality.

Still, she hadn't spoken of leaving. It was always possible that she had come to love the land, and the neighbors, and their life together, enough to keep her here. It was a good life they led, if he did say so himself, and he told himself that if this was all there ever was—the two of them in their separate bedrooms, raising their children from their first spouses—it would be enough. He would make it enough, he determined, even though his heart and body clamored for more. If she mentioned leaving, he would ask her to reconsider, ask her to retain their current arrangement and stay with him, keep the family together.

And in the meantime, he would wait, and he would hope, and he would pray—and he would hold young Clare and little Missie close every chance he got, just in case the worse should come to pass and she really did leave him.