A Promise for Spring (12 page)

“But how can I live with a stranger who—”

Tildy gave the girl’s hands a shake. “You think you’re the only woman ever married a stranger?” She tilted her head toward the doorway. “That man out there—Ronal’? Him an’ me was strangers when we jumped de broom. Massuh bought him from a plantation in North Carolina an’ brought him to me. Says he’s to be my man.” Remembrances—some good, some bad—tugged at Tildy, but she pushed them aside to stay focused on Emmaline and Geoffrey.

“I took one look at him an’ thought, ‘Mm-hmm, Massuh be thinkin’ a tall man an’ a wide woman make some sturdy field hands.’ But I say nothin’, just jump dat broom an’ take Ronal’ to my cabin like I’s told. Didn’t feel nothin’ for him at first, but jumpin’ dat broom meant I was his an’ he was mine. We was
committed
to each othuh. No ma’am, didn’t feel nothin’ at first, but after a heap o’ prayin’ an’ the Lawd answerin’ . . .”

Tildy closed her eyes for a moment. Then, looking at Emmaline again, she placed her hands over her heart. “Over time, that man become my whole world.” She touched Emmaline’s pale cheek. “That kind o’ feelin’ don’t come on right away, Miss Emmalion, but it do come on when you look to the good Lawd to help you honor a commitment.”

Emmaline pulled back and rose from the chair. Turning her back on Tildy, she said, “So you will not assist me in reaching Moreland?”

Tildy sighed. Hadn’t the girl listened to anything she’d said? “No, Miss Emmalion, neither Ronal’ nor me is gonna help you break a vow . . . even if it ain’t a weddin’ vow.”

“Very well, then. I shall walk.” Emmaline strode purposefully to the door. She bent over to grasp the handle on the carpet bag, but then she jerked straight up, looking outside. Geoffrey Garrett’s wagon pulled into the yard. Emmaline jumped behind the doorjamb. “Please! I will not ask anything else of you ever, but please do not tell him I am here!”

Her desperate whisper pierced Tildy’s heart.
Lawd, what do
I do?

TWELVE

G
EOFFREY SET THE brake and hopped over the side of his wagon. The sheets flapping on the clothesline meant Tildy was home, and the wagon beside the barn indicated Ronald’s presence. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Ronald? Tildy?”

Ronald stepped from the barn, and a moment later Tildy emerged from the house. Neither wore their usual welcoming smiles, but that suited Geoffrey today. He didn’t have time for chitchat. The worry that struck when he had returned to the ranch house at noonday and found Emmaline missing still held him in its grasp. He had to find Emmaline.

She must have gone for a walk and gotten lost. He could think of no other explanation. While hitching the team to the wagon and scanning the countryside on his way to his friends’ house, he had prayed constantly for her safety.

Geoffrey strode forward to meet Tildy. “Emmaline’s gone. I looked everywhere on the ranch, but I couldn’t find her. I hoped you might agree to—”

Tildy and Ronald exchanged an uncomfortable look that made Geoffrey’s mouth go dry. He reached out and grasped Ronald’s forearm. “You know something. Tell me.”

Ronald extracted his arm and scratched his head, glancing at his wife. “You tell ’im, Tildy.”

“What?” Geoffrey barked the word, fear honing a sharp edge to his tone.

Without speaking, Tildy waved her thick palm toward the house. Geoffrey looked past her shoulder. A shadow moved inside the door. Emmaline! Dashing past Tildy, he charged through the door and swept Emmaline into his arms.

“Oh, thank the Lord . . .” He pressed his face to her hair and inhaled. The sweaty smell from her hair spoke of hours in the sun. She must have wandered aimlessly before stumbling upon the Senger homestead. Sympathy rolled through him. “I feared you were lost. . . .”

She squirmed in his arms. He released her but then caught her shoulders and peered into her face. “In the village of Wortley you had the freedom to venture wherever you pleased, but you are no longer in Yorkshire County.” His voice rose as he considered all the things that could have happened to her as she roamed across the prairie. “From now on you will remain at the house unless I accompany you off the property.”

Emmaline jerked free of his hold and moved away, stepping over a carpet bag. The carpet bag from the closet at the ranch. The buttoned collar beneath his chin seemed to tighten. He jammed a finger toward the bag. “What is the meaning of this?”

Emmaline folded her arms across her chest and looked to the side. The stubborn set of her jaw stirred Geoffrey’s ire. Before he could insist she answer him, Tildy and Ronald entered the house.

“Tildy and Ronald, please leave Emmaline and me alone.”

“Uh-uh.”

Tildy’s refusal reminded him of Emmaline’s defiance. Geoffrey spun to face Tildy.

She caught his arm and tugged. Her gravelly voice rasped directly into his ear. “You go easy on Miss Emmalion. She didn’t come to harm, an’ you needs to be grateful ’stead o’ raisin’ Cain.”

“Tildy . . .” Geoffrey groaned the name.

“You be ’memberin’ what the Good Book says ’bout how we is to love. Seems to me there be a verse ’bout a man lovin’ his woman the way Jesus loves the church. Would Jesus be a-hollerin’ right now or would He be tender?”

Tildy’s admonition pricked Geoffrey’s conscience, but it didn’t remove his determination to understand why Emmaline had packed a bag and set out. He gave Tildy’s hand a pat and moved to Emmaline’s side. Aware of his audience, he tempered his voice.

“Emmaline, please explain why you left the ranch this morning.” Emmaline sent Tildy a pleading look, and Tildy stepped to Emmaline’s side and slipped her thick arm around the younger woman’s waist. “Now, now, you know sometimes we do thangs afore thinkin’ ’em all the way through,” she said to Geoffrey. “Reckon Miss Emmalion’s moseyin’ off today was just one o’ them thangs.”

Geoffrey waited for Emmaline to substantiate or refute Tildy’s statement, but she remained stubbornly silent.

“You take her on back to Chetwyn’ Valley now an’ let her rest up from her wanderin’ in the sun. Then this evenin’ ”—she gave Geoffrey’s arm an emphatic pat—“you two have a nice talk. Pray together. Things’ll come out right in the end.”

Geoffrey gritted his teeth. “Oh yes. We shall certainly have a talk this evening.” He held out one hand toward his errant bride-to-be. “Come along, Emmaline.”

She stepped past his hand, hefted the bag, and walked out to the wagon without a word or a glance in his direction. He clamped his jaw and followed.

Emmaline sat stiffly upright on the wagon seat, clutching the bag in her lap as if it might give her strength to face whatever waited when they reached the ranch. Geoffrey’s firmly set jaw and stiff shoulders told her how upset he was with her. She tried to tell herself she didn’t care—why should it matter if he were upset? It was his foolish action that had precipitated her desire to leave. She was the innocent victim.

Yet, deep down, guilt pricked. The image of his relieved face when he had spotted her in the Sengers’ house played through her mind. Her skin tingled when she recalled the warmth of his embrace. His emotionally voiced gratitude to the Lord rang in her ears and stirred something inside of her. In that moment when Geoffrey had swept her into his arms, she had regretted her hasty departure. Now, the remembrance of those fleeting snippets of time kept her from giving full vent to indignation.

She risked a quick sidelong glance at his stern profile. She saw little of the young man she remembered in the firm line of his jaw and tanned skin. Lines fanned the corners of his eyes, making him seem older than his twenty-seven years, and an etched V between his eyebrows gave him the appearance of one who had weathered much and emerged stronger and able to conquer whatever difficulties came his way. Even his hands, clenched around the reins so tightly his tendons stood out like rope, had a chiseled hardness alien to the hands of the average English gentleman.

She stared at her own hands wrapped around the handle of the bag. Mother had always admonished her to protect her skin—to keep it white and smooth, as a lady should. Would time in this country make the same changes in her skin that she witnessed in Geoffrey’s? Would time here build in her an inner strength?

Geoffrey pulled the reins, guiding the horses to turn the wagon in at their lane. “Whoa . . .” He drew the horses to a halt, wrapped the reins around the brake handle, and finally turned to face her. Despite the bright sun overhead, his steely gaze chilled her to her toes. “Please go into the house, Emmaline, and prepare a decent supper. The men and I did not have lunch since we were seeking you. After supper, we will discuss today’s . . . activities.”

Although the words were uttered in an insipid tone, they rode on an ominous current. A flash of rebellion lifted her chin. “Yes, we shall discuss today’s . . . activities.” She carefully emulated his tone. His accusation from the morning still stung, and she expected an apology. She shifted the bag to the seat before climbing over the side of the wagon. She tugged her skirt free of the rough wood and then reached for the bag. Geoffrey handed it to her. She stumbled backward with its weight when he released it.

Through clenched teeth, he said, “Are you all right?”

In spite of the situation, Emmaline nearly laughed. As angry as he was, he still attempted the role of considerate suitor. She offered a brusque nod.

“Very well. I shall see you at suppertime.” He slapped the reins down on the horses’ backs, and the wagon rolled around the house.

“Thank you for the meal, Miss Emmaline.” Chris wiped his mouth with his napkin and dropped it over his plate.

Emmaline glanced up from her own plate. Her best efforts had produced a charred-on-the-outside-but-raw-in-the-middle pork roast, soggy potatoes, and half-cooked carrots. From the lumps beneath the napkin, she knew Chris had eaten little of the meal. His polite statement shamed her.

“I am sorry it was not more . . . palatable.” She dabbed her mouth with her napkin, flicking her gaze around the table to include all three men in her apology. “I was not given many opportunities to cook at home.” Certainly this dismal meal proved how ill-equipped she was for this place. Why couldn’t Geoffrey just allow her to go home? With a sigh, she added, “It may be necessary for Geoffrey to hire a cook lest we all starve.”

Geoffrey scowled. “And who might you suggest?”

Emmaline offered a one-armed shrug. “Perhaps Tildy?”

The V between his eyebrows deepened. “Tildy is our friend, not our servant.”

Chastened, Emmaline lowered her head. A movement caught her eye, and she peeked to witness Jim Cotler scooping another serving of potatoes onto his plate. With a bold grin, he carried a forkful of the deplorable mess to his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. Then he patted his stomach, waggling his eyebrows. Emmaline’s lips twitched as she fought the urge to bestow a big smile of thanks on the young ranch hand. His impish behavior reminded her of a colt frolicking through a meadow. With a light giggle, she said, “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Jim, but you will surely get a stomachache from consuming so much of this sorry meal.”

Jim raised his shoulders in a shrug and continued eating. When he finished, he and Chris carried their plates to the sink. Jim glanced over his shoulder at Geoffrey and then Emmaline. “Would you like me to help with the dishes, Miss Emmaline?”

Chris gawked at the boy. “You never wanted to wash—” Then a knowing look crossed his face. He grabbed the back of Jim’s neck and tugged him toward the kitchen door. “Come on. We have chores waiting in the barn.”

With their departure, Emmaline and Geoffrey were alone. She jumped up and began clearing the table.

Geoffrey sat back in his chair, his coffee cup hooked on one finger. His eyes followed her every movement. She found his silent observation unnerving. Her ineptitude in cooking equaled her lack of skill in housekeeping. She wished he would leave her to struggle through the tasks without an audience, but she couldn’t find the courage to ask him to leave. She stacked all of the dirty dishes on the counter beside the sink, then reached for the pump.

In seconds, Geoffrey was at her side. “You must use hot water or the dishes will not be clean.” He directed her to the reservoir on the side of the stove. Using a dipper, he ladled several scoops of water into the sink. Steam rose from the tin basin.

Emmaline hesitated at putting her hands into that steamy water, yet the dishes must be done. She lifted a stack of plates and started to place them in the sink.

Once more, Geoffrey intervened. “You need
soap
, Emmaline.” The impatience in his tone raised her defenses. Plunking the plates onto the counter with a noisy clatter, she spun to face him. “As I said at suppertime, I have not been given the opportunity to learn housekeeping. At home, I did not cook. I did not clean. I did not sew or sweep or . . . or wash dishes. If you want these tasks done to your satisfaction, then do them yourself or hire someone. But do not expect perfection from me!”

They glared at each other, their noses only inches apart. Emmaline saw her own angry reflection in Geoffrey’s pupils. She marveled at her behavior—she had never so boldly rebelled against anyone. Perhaps this unforgiving land was already molding her into someone new.

Geoffrey lifted his face to the ceiling and drew a long breath. When he looked at her, the irritation in his expression was gone. “I do not wish to fight with you, Emmaline.”

Gathering her newfound courage, Emmaline drew her shoulders back. “Then kindly do not find fault with everything I do. As you told me before bringing me here, I have much to learn to become a rancher’s”—her throat went dry—“wife.” She swallowed hard and crossed her arms. “I now see that you have much to learn about being a husband.” The downthrust of his eyebrows gave her pause, but she finished her thought. “You cannot claim to love me and then distrust me. Love and trust are inseparable, Geoffrey. Your accusation this morning . . .” She paused, the remembrance of his harsh words stinging anew. Lifting her chin, she said, “I am not a trollop.”

“I did not say you were a trollop.”