A Promise for Spring (17 page)

As she stepped to the doorway to catch a bit of the breeze, the sound of moving water captured her attention. The gentle song of the Solomon River. How wonderful it would feel to immerse herself in the cool water. She didn’t have time for a swim, but perhaps she could soak her feet. Quickly, before some chore tugged her thoughts elsewhere, she skipped out the front door and headed for the river.

Jim rounded the corner of the main house and swept his gaze past the garden plot that filled the side yard. Each day, Emmaline labored under the morning sun, clearing the weeds from the squiggly rows of vegetables. He’d grown fond of the sight of her neatly coiled hair shimmering nigh red in the sun. Red, he’d decided, was his favorite color.

He smacked his hat against his thigh in disappointment when he found the garden empty. But then he noticed a spot of black along the edge of the Solomon. She sat with her back to him. Her shoes lay side by side next to her hip.

Indecision held Jim in place for a moment. Mr. Garrett had instructed him to swing by the house and make sure Emmaline was all right. Ever since the night she had wandered off—sending Mr. Garrett down the road in a state of panic—the boss had kept a watchful eye on Emmaline. Jim thought it foolish, but he did what he was told without asking questions. He should go back to the north pasture and let Mr. Garrett know she was safe and soaking her toes in the water. The boss’s instructions hadn’t included talking to her—but neither had they prohibited it.

Adjusting his hat, he strode across the hard ground. Eagerness sped his footsteps, and when he arrived at her side, he was panting. As he stepped into her line of vision, he smiled broadly, tipping his hat as he’d seen a gentleman in Moreland do toward a lady. But then he realized her eyes were closed.

She slept with her head tipped to the side. Her hands rested, palms up, in her lap. Against the black fabric of her rumpled skirt, her skin seemed pale. Jim crouched beside her, and his boot heel came down on a small twig. At the snap, her head swiveled and her eyes flew wide. When their gazes collided, her face flooded with pink.

“Jim!” She yanked her feet from the water, turned her back on him, snatched up her shoes in one hand, and stumbled to her feet. “I . . . I’m so sorry.” She looked around, as if expecting someone to jump out of the bushes at her. “Is it lunchtime? I had better go in.”

Jim held up both hands, shaking his head. “It’s not lunchtime yet. Another hour probably.”

She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Good. I have some time, then. . . .” Suddenly she jerked her shoulders back and lifted her chin high. “But I suppose you came to check on me.”

Jim frowned. The harsh undertone in her voice didn’t match her soft appearance.

“Well.” She thumped her leg with her shoes. “You may return to Geoffrey and tell him I have obeyed his orders to remain close to the house.”

Uncertain how to respond, Jim gave a hesitant nod.

Emmaline’s expression turned penitent. “Please forgive me. I’m not angry with you, Jim.”

“That’s all right, Miss Emmaline.” Jim wished he could hold her hand. She was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen—softer and sweeter than a baby lamb. “Sometimes I don’t like being told what to do, either. But my brother says that as long as I’m drawing a wage, I do what the boss says.” He added in a conspiratorial whisper, “Even checking up on you.”

Her brow crinkled. “I suppose I should understand why he sends you. He does not trust me after I . . .” She looked across the river, the muscles in her jaw twitching. “I should not be speaking to you this way. It is far from proper.”

Jim reached out and allowed his fingertips to brush her sleeve. “It’s all right. I won’t tell. Who else would you talk to?”

For long moments she stared into his face, her full lips pursed into a scowl of uncertainty. “You’re right. There is no one else with whom I can share my thoughts now that Tildy doesn’t come each day.”

“You miss Tildy?”

“Oh yes. I enjoyed her company very much.”

“Well . . .” Jim scratched his head. “This afternoon I’ll be taking the wagon over to the Sengers’ place to pick up the shears Ronald sharpened for us. Maybe Mr. Garrett would let you go along.”

A smile curved her lips, making Jim’s heart patter wildly. “Maybe he would,” she said.

“Do you want me to ask him?”

“No, I shall ask. Then, if he grows surly, you will be spared.”

Jim clasped his hands together. She wanted to protect his feelings. Did that mean she liked him? “All right. You can tell me after lunch.”

“Very well. But I have dawdled beside the water long enough. I have a lunch to complete. Do you prefer corn bread or biscuits?”

Jim licked his lips. “Biscuits. With butter and honey.”

She smiled. “Very well, then. Biscuits. I shall see you in less than an hour.” She turned and ran to the house, her bare feet flashing beneath the hem of her full skirts.

Sitting atop the wagon seat next to Jim and heading down the road, Emmaline couldn’t deny a sense of freedom. Never had Geoffrey allowed her to leave the ranch with anyone but him. Maybe—she hardly dared allow the thought—this meant he was beginning to trust her. If he trusted her, perhaps he would allow her to venture out on her own one day. How she longed to roam unheeded, filling her arms with wild flowers and maybe even making a trip into town.

Jim jabbered away, his hands wrapped around the reins and his elbows resting on his bony knees. She listened with half an ear, nodding on occasion, but oblivious to the meaning behind his words. She had decided over her months of listening to his prattle that he enjoyed hearing himself talk and needed no encouragement to continue his endless flow of words.

From atop the wagon seat, she glimpsed a splash of yellow amidst the dry grasses. She pressed her hands against the seat to raise herself higher. Her eyes feasted upon a veritable sea of bright yellow flowers with round, brown centers, and she gasped in surprise.

Jim stopped mid-story. “What?”

Emmaline eagerly turned to him. “May we stop? I should like to pick some of those flowers.”

Jim drew the team to a halt and squinted across the landscape. “You want those sunflowers?”

“Sunflowers . . .” Indeed, their color and their round faces were as bright and cheerful as the sun that blazed overhead.

“Why do you want them?” His tone reflected disgust. “They’re weeds—a real nuisance. They’ll take over a field if you let them.”

Emmaline turned to him in shock. “But they are lovely! They are like a large yellow daisy. I must have a cluster.” Before he could voice an argument, she leaped over the side of the wagon and dashed into the field.

“Miss Emmaline! Miss Emmaline, wait!”

Jim’s panicked voice slowed her for a moment, but then she resumed her pell-mell race across the ground, her skirts held high so they wouldn’t get caught up in the stiff grass. She reached the flowers, wrapped her hands around one tough stem, and tugged as hard as she could.

Jim pounded to her side. “Miss Emmaline, you should never run out into a field like that!”

The stem broke loose, and she stumbled backward slightly as the hard ground released the plant. “Oh?” She traced one brightly hued petal with her finger, smiling.

“No, ma’am. There are snakes in the pastures, and they don’t like to be surprised. If you frighten a snake, it strikes.”

The boy’s obvious fear penetrated Emmaline’s senses, and a bit of trepidation leaked in. “Have you been bitten?”

He gulped and turned away from her. “I know someone who got bit. He . . . died.”

Emmaline had never seen the affable youth so jittery. She battled between worry about snakes and the desire to collect more sunflowers. The stem she had plucked held half a dozen blooms. If she cut them loose from the main stem, she would have a small but pleasant bouquet. She could be satisfied with that. “All right. If you’re concerned, we can go back to the road.”

“Stay behind me,” Jim ordered, his voice cracking on the last word. He set off at a slow pace, setting his feet down with deliberation. Not until they reached the road did his shoulders relax. He helped her into the wagon, and for the next few minutes they rode in silence.

She clutched her hard-won flowers. How cheerful they looked! To draw Jim out of his silence, she said, “Thank you for letting me pick these. I plan to save the blooms and let them go to seed. Then I can plant them at the corner of the house, right in front of the porch. Having their happy faces on the property will be almost be like having a garden of daisies.”

Jim sent her a low-browed look. “Mr. Garrett won’t let you plant weeds in front of the porch.”

“Oh yes, he will.” Emmaline crushed the flowers to her chest. Geoffrey would not deny her the pleasure of adding color to the barren yard, would he? Her heart lifted as she looked again at the cluster. Their odor was not pleasant, but their cheery appearance more than compensated for the pungent smell.

She lifted her attention from the flowers and peered down the road, but her attention slid to something billowing on the eastern horizon. A cloud—churning and rolling, changing from black to the green of a frog’s underbelly and then black again. Might rain fall today?

Pointing, she said, “Jim, look. I believe we may get rain.”

Jim looked, but his face didn’t light with pleasure. Instead, his brow furrowed. “That’s a cloud, all right, but I’ve never seen one like it. I don’t like the looks of it, either.”

“Do . . . do you think it might be a terrible storm?” Emmaline had remembered the stories about tornadoes that ripped apart houses and carried people from one county to the next.

“It’s not a tornado, but . . .” Jim shook his head. “I don’t know for sure, but we better get to the Sengers’. Yah!” He cracked the reins twice, and the horses began to run.

EIGHTEEN

G
EOFFREY CUT HIS horse gently to the left, smiling as the flock turned with him and headed for the watering ditch. Their curly coats were growing back following the early-summer shearing. He counted a number of bulging bellies, grateful for the promise of new life in another few weeks. Lambing season was the busiest time of the year and, to Geoffrey, the most rewarding. He gloried in each lamb bleating for its mother because it represented profit and the continued success of his ranch.

The sheep nosed the air, their baas becoming more insistent as they neared the water. After a morning of feeding, they were ready for a long drink and then a rest before a second feeding. Part of the Twenty-third Psalm played through Geoffrey’s mind: “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.” He only wished the pastures were more green than brown. Yet the sheep were willing to eat.

As he watched the woolly backs that resembled a sea of cotton, he let his thoughts wander. Should he have allowed Emmaline to accompany Jim to the Sengers’? The boy was smitten with her— that was obvious. Surely Emmaline realized it. Would she use his affection to convince him to take her past the Sengers’ and on to Moreland and the train station?

He pushed the thought aside. Jim would never go against him that way. Besides, Emmaline knew he would follow through on his threat to sell the wool elsewhere.

On the opposite side of the flock, Chris turned backward in his saddle. “Boss?” He kept his voice low in deference to the sheep’s penchant for being easily startled. “What is that?”

Geoffrey shifted, his saddle creaking with the movement. A thick cloud of . . . something . . . advanced upon them. As he stared, an unfamiliar sound carried over the whistling wind—a hum that reminded him of the song of cicadas yet was lower-pitched. He squinted, trying to make sense of the undulating mass, and something hit him. Hard. Before he could register what it was, the cloud descended, filling the air with flapping, buzzing, whirring insects.

The sheep disappeared from view under the deluge, but their frightened bawls filled the air, adding to the confusion. Geoffrey’s horse snorted and bucked, and he nearly lost his position. Ducking low over the beast’s neck, he urged the horse to spin and gallop away from the flock. The insects—grasshoppers, he now realized— rained from the sky. Some pelted him and bounced off, but others took hold, their sticky feet attaching to his clothes.

Had the Old Testament come to life right here in Kansas? His scalp prickled; his skin crawled. Using his hat, he slapped at himself, but the bugs landed on his head, tugging his hair. He shook his head wildly and then smacked the hat back in place. “Yah! Yah!” he urged his horse onward, hoping the animal wouldn’t step in a hole and break a leg or throw him from the saddle.

He finally cleared the whirring horde and slowed to look back. The sight baffled and horrified him. Sheep, their coats covered with green shimmering insects, milled in noisy confusion. The ground appeared to move and shift on its own, buried an inch thick by the insects. The hoppers coated every bush, tree, and fence post, their continual buzz drowning out all other sounds. More stirred the air, their wings flashing under the sun.

Chris broke free of the melee and joined Geoffrey. He panted as if he’d just run a mile-long race. “What do you make of it?” he yelled over the deafening whirr of wings.

“I don’t know. I’ve heard of such a thing, but I never believed I’d see it.” Geoffrey plucked more bugs from his clothes and tossed them as far as he could. He gaped at the plaid fabric covering his arms. “They ate holes in my shirt!”

“What do we do about the sheep?”

Geoffrey’s heart ached at the fear the poor, dumb animals were experiencing. “We can’t do anything until the hoppers clear.”

“When do you think they’ll go?”

Through gritted teeth, Geoffrey said, “When they’ve eaten their fill.” Suddenly he remembered Emmaline and Jim taking off toward the Sengers’. He spun toward Chris. “Stay here. As soon as you can, start rounding the sheep back to the barn. I’ve got to see to Emmaline.”

He raced down the road at a reckless pace. Evidence of the grasshoppers’ devastation greeted his eyes everywhere he looked. Fields of grass, knee-high and waving only that morning, were gone. Trees appeared denuded, patches of bark eaten away. Dust clouds rose over the ground, unhindered now with the loss of vegetation. Geoffrey’s chest tightened. What about the farmers’ crops? Their garden? And the fields he’d allowed to go to hay so he could harvest it for winter feed? Could anything be salvaged?