A Promise for Spring (16 page)

His stomach growled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten breakfast. Noon would come soon, but despite his hunger, he wasn’t sure he would go to the house for lunch. He wasn’t ready to face Emmaline. Her leave-taking carried the sting of betrayal. He had never expected, when he brought Emmaline here, that she would abandon him. Like his mother had. And his father, too, for all practical purposes.

Geoffrey flipped to his stomach and swam upstream several yards, pumping his arms and kicking as hard as he could, but the frenetic burst of energy didn’t expend the hurt in his heart. He could swim to the ocean and never escape the feelings of worthlessness that plagued him. Would anyone ever choose to remain permanently in his life?

Water spewed in all directions as he shook himself off on the riverbank. On bare feet, he walked to his clothes. He scanned the land around him. At least he would always have the ranch and his sheep. If everyone left him, this land would remain. He was not unworthy on this piece of land. He was successful. Respected. Several mills—including the one owned by Jonathan Bradford— depended on him. He would not disappoint them.

A thought struck him as he reached to pick up his shirt. Jonathan Bradford depended on fleece from Geoffrey’s sheep. The man would suffer if Geoffrey suddenly decided to ship his wool to another mill. If Jonathan Bradford suffered, his family would suffer. Emmaline would never intentionally cause her mother distress. If he were to give Emmaline an ultimatum, perhaps she would be more willing to remain on the ranch where she was safe.

It may not be ethical, he decided as he swung onto his horse’s back to ride to the site of his half-completed ditch, but it would be effective. And right now effective would be enough to keep her from harm.

Geoffrey carried the carpet bag into the house when he came in for supper. He had peeked in it, and he marveled that she had made it so far with that big rock in the bottom of the bag. It was a foolish decision to carry a rock for protection, but he was grateful she had done it. No doubt it had slowed her enough for him to catch up to her.

When he stepped through the door, the aroma of fresh-baked bread nearly turned his stomach inside out with desire. Saliva pooled in his mouth, and he swallowed twice. The loaves—three of them, nicely browned—sat in a straight row across the stovetop. A fourth one, sliced, waited in the center of the table, which was set with four place settings. He tossed the bag into the corner and crossed to the table. Picking up the crusty heel, he bit into it with fervor. He nearly groaned with pleasure.

A pot bubbled on the stove, the lid gently bouncing. Still chewing, he lifted the lid and sniffed. The mingled odors of cabbage, onion, carrots, and tomatoes greeted his nose. He took another long draw and could almost taste the soup on the back of his tongue. As he straightened, Emmaline entered the kitchen from the outside door. She used her apron as a pouch to carry something lumpy. When she saw him her brown eyes widened and she jerked the fabric higher, as if hiding its contents.

After a moment’s pause, she shifted her gaze away from him and advanced into the room. She lifted a wedge of cheese and lump of butter from her apron and placed them on saucers that waited on the counter. She said nothing.

Geoffrey cleared his throat. “Is supper ready?”

She carried the plates of cheese and butter to the table. As soon as she set them down, she nodded.

“Then I shall ring the dinner bell.” Geoffrey’s zealous tug of the bell brought Chris and Jim running.

Despite Geoffrey’s hunger, he had difficulty swallowing the well-seasoned soup and fresh bread. Emmaline ate silently, her eyes downcast. Chris, apparently sensing the animosity between Geoffrey and Emmaline, ate quickly and excused himself on the pretext of fixing some loose shingles on the sheep barn roof. Even Jim abandoned his attempts at chatter when no one responded.

“You want help with the dishes?” Jim asked Emmaline after he’d slurped the last of his soup.

“No,” Geoffrey and Emmaline said at the same time. They looked at each other, and Geoffrey saw a flash of irritation in her eyes. He added, “Thank you, Jim, but I shall assist Emmaline this evening.”

The boy shrugged, carried his dishes to the sink, and then slipped out the back door.

Emmaline lifted her chin. “I do not require assistance with the dishes.”

“I am aware you are capable of handling the chore alone,” Geoffrey said, “but we can talk while we put the kitchen in order.”

Emmaline cast a furtive glance in his direction, but she didn’t argue. He waited until they had cleared the table and she had filled the sink with soapy water before speaking again.

“Emmaline, we must talk about last night.”

Her hands paused momentarily in the water, and then she began scrubbing with earnest.

“Leaving in the middle of the night was a very foolish thing to do. We have wild animals—coyotes, bobcats, even a rare panther or bear. You could have encountered any of them, and you would have been powerless to protect yourself . . . even with that big rock.”

Her chin jerked in his direction, but she quickly focused on the dishes again.

“Animals aren’t the only danger. What if you had wandered off the road in the dark? You could have stepped in a hole and broken your leg, or maybe even fallen into a ravine.”

She set a dripping bowl on the counter, her hand trembling as she released it.

“When I asked you not to leave the ranch, it was for your own protection. Yet you chose to ignore my warnings. Your imprudent decision put you in peril, so now I must decide how to keep you from harm.”

Her shoulders rose as she drew in a deep breath. “I—”

“I am not finished.” Geoffrey took hold of her shoulders and turned her to face him. One of her hands still rested in the dishwater and the other curled around the lip of the sink. He peered directly into her eyes. “It pains me to do this, but you’ve left me no choice. If you do not remain on the ranch, I will contact your father and tell him my wool is no longer available to his mill.”

Emmaline’s eyes grew round. Color drained from her face. “You would blackmail me?”

“It is not blackmail. It is a consequence.” He let his hands slip from her shoulders, and she spun to face the sink. “You must decide whether or not you will honor your commitment to remain here until winter’s end. If you choose not to honor it, then
all
agreements between our families will end.”

Emmaline’s chin quivered, but she remained silent.

Geoffrey sighed. “I didn’t want to resort to this, Emmaline. You forced my hand.” He waited, but she still did not respond. He pushed away from the counter. “Will you attempt to leave the ranch again?”

Very slowly she shook her head left then right. Her eyes shot fiery darts of fury.

“Good. Would you like me to carry your bag to the sleeping room?”

Thrusting both hands into the water, she said stiffly, “I can do it myself.”

“Very well.” He started to leave the kitchen, but before stepping out the door, he turned back. “Did you truly expect to be able to protect yourself with the rock in the bag?”

She didn’t answer for so long that he thought she had ignored his question. But at last she replied, “It is an English rock.”

An English rock? “You brought it from England?”

“Yes.” She smacked a bowl onto the counter. “Mother sent it with me to serve as a reminder of my homeland.”

“But why carry it with you?”

She dipped her chin toward her shoulder. “I did not believe it should remain here in Kansas.”

She so hated this land—
his
land—that she would not even leave a rock from England behind?

“But do not worry, Geoffrey,” Emmaline continued, her voice low and even. “My rock and I will not leave your property. Your threat will keep me here.” She lifted another bowl from the water and placed it with the others. Turning her head to meet his gaze, she finished in a steely tone, “At least until winter’s end.”

Emmaline stood at the window of her sleeping room. She had extinguished the lantern, cloaking the room in darkness. She stared at the bunkhouse windows, her lower lip caught between her teeth. When would the men finally go to bed?

The nighttime stars were bright in the black sky, and the moon cast a whitish path across the ground. As soon as the glow in the bunkhouse windows was gone, she would perform her task. She knew exactly where she wanted to hide the dowry money sent by her father to give to Geoffrey. As a child, playing hide-and-seek with her brother, Edward had always managed to elude her. Once when she had complained loudly about the length of time she’d spent searching, he had laughed at her. “I was under your bed the entire time,” he’d said. “You never once searched your own room, because you did not expect to find me in such an obvious place.” His chuckle had infuriated her. “To be successful at hide-and-seek, Emmaline, you must think like the seeker and do the opposite of the expected.”

Remembering her brother’s statement, Emmaline had heeded his advice. If Geoffrey were to look for the money, he would expect her to hide it in her sleeping room or the parlor or kitchen—places of familiarity for her. Never would he suspect she would choose one of
his
areas of familiarity.

So as soon as the men were asleep, she would sneak to the barn and hide the tin box of money. Then, when spring came, if Geoffrey refused to honor his promise to send her back to England, she would have her own money to use.

The window on Geoffrey’s side of the bunkhouse finally went dark. She blew out a breath of relief. Tucking the tin box against her ribs, she headed on tiptoe to the front door and crept out beneath the moonlight.

SEVENTEEN

B
Y A
UGUST
, E
MMALINE
had fallen into a housekeeping routine that offered a predictable structure but little joy. She adopted Tildy’s pattern of washing on Monday, ironing on Tuesday, mending on Wednesday, baking on Thursday, and housecleaning on Friday. On Saturday she prepared additional food for Sunday’s use, ensuring that Sunday would remain a day of rest.

On Sunday afternoons she wrote long, newsy letters to her mother. At times Emmaline saw herself as noble, sparing Mother the truth of her aching loneliness and cheerless life; other times she berated herself for her dishonesty. A part of her longed to pour her heartache onto the page, yet given the distance between England and Kansas—and Mother’s inability to fix any of the problems—she couldn’t bear to cause Mother anxiety. So she wrote of the land, the sheep, the many duties . . . but nothing of her heart.

Every day included garden chores—watering, weeding, picking. Her crooked rows of beans, tomatoes, carrots, peas, corn, turnips, and beets grew fruitful in spite of the withering sun and dry, blowing wind.

She chose to work in the garden first thing in the morning, before the sun got too high. Even in the early-morning hours, sweat would dampen her hair and make her black dress stick to her chest. She had resorted to wearing her dress over a simple, Tildy-made cotton shift and pantaloons. Her mother would be mortified to know Emmaline had discarded her corset and layers of petticoats, but her mother had never lived on the prairie.

Afternoons were hot enough to fry an egg on the tin roof of the springhouse—as Jim had proven. He thought it a clever trick, but Emmaline had been appalled. Ever since she had watched the egg bubble and pop on the roof, the heat had seemed even less bearable.

On this morning, Emmaline collected new potatoes to boil with green beans and ham for lunch. She pushed her hand through the soft mound of dirt beneath a potato plant and blindly sought potatoes. Tildy had taught her she shouldn’t uproot the plant, but merely borrow a few small potatoes from each root. Then other potatoes were left to grow. Those would carry them through the winter months.

Emmaline pulled two or three egg-sized potatoes from beneath each plant, placing them in her basket on top of the tumble of fresh green beans. She had a difficult time keeping up with the green beans—she picked the plants clean each day, but always the next morning, more would be ready to pick. She disliked the sticky feel of the leaves against her hands.

She plopped the last potato in the basket, and her gaze fell on her hand. Holding it up, she examined it front and back. Her nails were chipped and rimmed with dirt, and her skin was brown from its exposure to the sun. She barely recognized the hand as her own. Touching her cheek, she wondered if her face was equally as tanned.

Pushing to her feet, she lifted the basket and scuffed her way to the house. She blamed her sluggish movements on the heat, but she realized there was a deeper reason. Everywhere she looked, all that greeted her eyes was brown grass, brown dirt, brown rock. The sky was as blue as a bluejay’s wing, but she couldn’t pluck a piece of the sky and carry it with her. Her soul longed for color.

She entered the kitchen and dumped the vegetables into the sink. She splashed water over the beans and potatoes and began to scrub them clean of dirt. As she worked, in her mind’s eye, the potatoes became colorful rocks from the garden at home and the beans flower stems heavy with fragrant blooms.

Sitting at the table, she began snapping the beans, discarding the tops and throwing the edible portion into a large pot that already held the clean potatoes. She watched the growing mound in the pot, thinking of the picked vegetables stored in the springhouse and cellar. Tildy had promised to teach her to preserve the vegetables so they would keep through the winter months, but first Geoffrey would have to purchase jars for her. When he came in for lunch, perhaps she would ask if she might accompany him to town when he made the purchase.

She thought back to the day he had retrieved her from the train. He had promised she could order items from a catalog or go into Moreland to buy some bric-a-brac to make the house more cheerful. But that promise remained unfulfilled. She’d spent every day on this dry, brown ranch.

She snapped the last bean, carried the heavy pot to the stove, and ladled water over the vegetables. Automatically, she added salt, pepper, dried onion, and a ham hock and gave the mixture a quick stir with a wooden spoon. With a satisfied nod, she placed the lid over the pot and looked around the kitchen. Amazingly, nothing else required her attention.