An Excerpt from Waiting for Hope

Waiting for Hope
by Karen J. Hasley

I expected to feel apprehensive, even frightened or anxious, my first night in that run-down cabin in the middle of a Wyoming plain with no other human beings around for miles, but I didn't experience one troubled moment. For a woman who had been surrounded by buildings and people all her life, it seemed I would take to homesteading like a duck to water.

After boiling melted snow for tea water and opening some tins of food for supper, I lit my lamp and wearing a heavy nightshirt and Lou Davis's coat, crawled into my bed roll to spend some time commemorating the day in my journal, blowing on my fingers to keep them warm as I did so. Then after putting out the lamp, I lay there in the cold, thick darkness for only a moment before falling soundly and dreamlessly asleep.

I woke the next morning with only the tip of my nose cold and lay there a moment, still amazed that I, Hope Birdwell, was sleeping in my own house. Maybe it had a dirt floor and maybe chinks of light shone through the walls where the logs didn't quite touch each other and maybe there was a rustling in the chimney as if some creature had taken up housekeeping here ahead of me, but it was still my house. That reality would take some getting used to, and I thought to myself, Isn't life something?

Outside, the morning air was cold enough to show my breath, but a bright rising sun that held the promise of coming warmth was peeking over the hilltops. At the rear of the cabin, behind the stand of trees, murmured Wildflower Creek, a convenient stream that flowed from the foothills in the distance, ran through my back yard, then meandered west until it was lost out of sight amid the tall grasses. As far as I could see were rolling hills of meadow grass merging into the high dark hills that stretched into the distance. The view took my breath away.

"Thank you." I spoke aloud to no one in particular. Then I stopped and looked up and said it again, only louder. "Thank you, wherever you are."

I couldn't have said who it was I was thanking, whether God or my mother or a man I'd never met named Charlie McKinney, but someone deserved a thank you for this good fortune of mine.

After morning coffee and oatmeal, I decided my first project would be to patch up all the openings between the wall logs. They had let in too much cold air last night, and because I had a natural and plentiful supply of mud, I thought I could improve insulation easily enough.

In the middle of that chore I heard a man's voice call, "Hello," and thought that must be the company Lou Davis had promised. A man with a large gray moustache and curly gray hair was driving a wagon accompanied by two men on horseback. I wiped my hands on my old skirt and stepped outside to wait for them.

One of the riders dismounted and came toward me. He looked so much like a young John Davis that he had to be his son. He carried himself with the same formal dignity as his father, was about as tall with the same lean face and serious expression, only he had black hair and skin still unlined by time. His eyes were his mother's, though, dark gray like smoke. He took off his hat when he met me, obviously surprised.

"Are you Miss Birdwell?" he asked, his tone slightly incredulous.

"Yes. I'm the only person here so I must be." I felt suddenly self-conscious, aware that I was a mess, my hair escaping its kerchief, my smock spattered with mud, and I asked quickly, "Do I have mud on my face?"

"What?"

"I thought I must have something smeared across my face the way you were staring at me. Pardon me if I do." A small smile lit up his face.

An Excerpt from Waiting for Hope

Waiting for Hopeby Karen J. Hasley

Waiting for Hope
by Karen J. Hasley