A Promise for Spring (32 page)

Suddenly, he recognized the crumpled figure on the ground. He dashed forward, forgetting to hop-skip. The flowers fell from his hand as he bent over her still frame. “Emmaline? Wake up! What’s wrong, Emmaline?”

He rolled her onto her back and touched her cheek. The heat of her flushed skin made him jerk away. She was really sick! “Miney,” he ordered, pushing to his feet, “you stay! Stay!”

The dog hunkered down, whimpering, with his nose pressed to Emmaline’s neck.

“Stay!” Jim ordered one more time. “I—I’ve got to get the doctor.” He turned and raced to saddle a horse.

THIRTY-THREE

T
HE MOON CAST sufficient light to make safe progress toward home, but Geoffrey had no desire to bounce the deer from its position on the litter, so he kept his horse to a walk. Beside him, Chris nodded in his saddle, fighting sleep, and Geoffrey considered striking up a conversation to keep him awake. But in the end, he remained silent. The canopy of stars over a cloak of gray landscape created a feeling of holiness. While he couldn’t explain it, it seemed that to speak aloud would be to break the sanctity of their surroundings. So he remained silent, allowing the whispering breeze and the soft thud of hooves to provide music for the outdoor sanctuary.

As he and Chris headed across the countryside, the view slowly changed. Despite himself, Geoffrey marveled at the beauty of this predawn hour. Stars glittered overhead in a sky that had faded from dark gray to steel blue. The lighter the sky, the dimmer the stars, until all but the largest were extinguished with the beginning of yellow, pink, and lavender in the east. He was glad he’d decided to head back to the ranch after dressing out the deer, rather than spending the night on the prairie.

Wispy clouds became flashes of brilliance as the slice of white sun appeared on the horizon, tingeing the clouds’ undersides with magenta. This was a time of day he didn’t often see, and his chest welled with the desire to break out in praise for this glorious morning and all its splendor.

Just ahead, shadows took form, and his horse nickered, bouncing its head in an attempt to speed its pace. He chuckled. “All right, big fellow. Go ahead.” He gave the horse his head, and the animal leaped forward.

Chris came to life, digging his heels into his horse’s side. Together, they cantered noisily onto the ranch grounds. As they rounded the house, Chris suddenly pulled back on his reins and called, “Whoa!”

Instinctively, Geoffrey followed suit. “What is it?”

Chris pointed. “That rig. Doesn’t it belong to Doc Stevens?”

Geoffrey frowned at the fringed, two-seat surrey parked right outside the kitchen door. “Yes, it does.” Worry slammed him. Why would the doctor be at his house at this early hour?

Chris shot Geoffrey a nervous look. “You don’t suppose Jim is sick again?”

Geoffrey forced a light chuckle. “Oh, I imagine the doctor just was out all night, delivering a baby or something for one of the neighbors, and saw our kitchen light. He probably stopped for a cup of Emmaline’s tea.”

Chris nodded slowly. “Yes. You’re probably right.”

Geoffrey slid from his horse. “Take the horses to the barn and get started quartering that deer. I’ll check in with Emmaline and then come help.”

With another nod, Chris took hold of the reins from Geoffrey’s horse and headed toward the sheep barn.

Snatching off his hat, Geoffrey entered the kitchen. Expecting to see the doctor and Emmaline at the table, sharing a pot of tea, he was surprised to find a young girl with long yellow braids stirring something at the stove. He’d seen the girl in town, but he couldn’t remember her name.

She looked up when he came in and wiped her hands on Emmaline’s apron, which was tied around her waist. “Mr. Garrett?”

Geoffrey nodded.

“I’m Alice—Doc’s daughter.”

Why was she wearing Emmaline’s apron and cooking at Emmaline’s stove? “Where’s Emmaline?” Dropping his hat on the counter, he headed toward the back of the house before the girl could answer.

The sitting room and spare sleeping room were empty. Geoffrey’s confusion grew when he entered the parlor and spotted Jim slumped in Emmaline’s rocker. The boy jumped to his feet. Without a word to Geoffrey, he dashed to the door of the main sleeping room and said, “Doc, Mr. Garrett is back.”

Geoffrey looked through the doorway as the doctor rose from his perch on the edge of the bed. As Geoffrey’s focus slid to the figure in the bed, his heart leaped into his throat. He burst through the doorway and stood at the bedside. Emmaline lay with her hair scattered across the pillow. Her flushed face told of a high fever. He reached for her but stopped short of actually touching her. He swung to face the doctor. “What happened to her?”

The doc removed his wire-rimmed spectacles. “According to young Jim here, she suffered a cut on her leg from some barbed wire in the tack room. I found the wound, and it’s badly infected.”

Emmaline had mentioned a little scratch. Geoffrey shook his head. “She’s this sick from a scratch?”

“Now, Geoffrey,” the doc said, rubbing the round lenses of his glasses with a white handkerchief, “infection is a funny thing. When it gets into the blood, as this one has done, it can wreak havoc on the person’s entire system.” He slid the springy earpieces over his ears and then pushed the glasses high on his nose. His watery eyes blinked. “This infection is wreaking havoc . . .”

From his spot near the doorway, Jim blurted, “Is she going to die?”

Geoffrey spun around. “Jim!”

The boy shrank back, and Geoffrey took a deep breath. Forcing an even tone, he said, “Go out and help your brother with the deer.”

Jim hesitated for a moment, his gaze flicking between Emmaline and Geoffrey, but finally he nodded and slipped out of the room.

Doc Stevens gave Geoffrey a stern look. “Take it easy on the boy. If he hadn’t come riding in for me like he did, we might have lost her. When I got here, she was unconscious. I lanced the site of the wound—”

Geoffrey’s stomach clenched at the image his words painted.

“—drained it, and cauterized the area. Jim and I have spent the night trying to bring down her fever. Beyond that, there’s not much else to do.” He bent over and picked up his black leather bag. “Now that you’re here, I’ll let you take over.”

As the doctor headed for the kitchen, Geoffrey trailed behind him, aghast. “You’re leaving?”

Doc Stevens shot Geoffrey a firm look. “I just told you, fighting the fever is all that we can do. You can put cold rags on her head and spoon liquid into her as well as I can. I have to get back to town. I can leave Alice, though, if you’d like some extra help.”

Geoffrey gaped. A mere child? What good would a child do?

The doctor put his hand on Geoffrey’s shoulder. “If she should take a turn for the worse, have either Chris or Jim ride in for me.

Just keep the wound clean. I left a roll of bandages and some salve in the bedroom. Get her to drink as much as you can, too.”

Geoffrey swallowed. “When . . . when might I know if she’s going to recover?”

The older man raised one shoulder in a shrug. “I can’t put a time on it. Either the fever will abate or it’ll worsen. If her muscles start to tighten up so she can’t swallow, you come for me right away. But if it gets to that point, well . . .” He shrugged again, his expression sorrowful. No other words were necessary. “Do you want Alice to stay and help?”

Geoffrey shook his head. “No. I’ll care for her myself.” He saw the doctor and Alice to the door and then started to return to the bedroom. But he remembered Doc saying Emmaline should drink, so he prepared a cup of tea for her with the hot water in the kettle. When he entered the bedroom, he discovered Emmaline’s eyes open. He set the cup down on the bedside table and leaned over her.

“Emmaline? You’re awake?”

“Geoffrey . . . you’re back.”

He had to strain to hear her whispered voice. His hands planted on the mattress, he nodded. “Yes. I’m back.” Unnecessary words, but he wanted to talk to her, to reassure himself that she would be fine.

“I thought I was dreaming. . . .”

“No.” He cleared his throat, battling a sting behind his nose. “I’m here. Do . . . do you want a drink?” He reached for the cup.

She shook her head, and her hand slipped from beneath the sheet to cup his wrist. “Geoffrey?”

Slowly he sat on the edge of the bed and turned his hand to clasp hers.

“You never said . . . if you read my samplers.”

Tears pricked his eyes, and remorse smote him. He wanted to thank her for her work. But he couldn’t find words.

She licked her lips, her glassy eyes searching his face. “Without faith, you’re lost, Geoffrey. I want you to find your faith again. Did . . . did the verses help?”

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed its back. “Don’t worry about me. Think about yourself now. Think about getting well.”

Wildly, she shook her head, her hair tangling. “I’m all right. But you . . . you can’t go on this way, fighting against God. You need Him, Geoffrey. Tell me you’ll seek Him again.” Her fingers tightened on his hand; her head and shoulders lifted slightly from the pillow. “Tell me.”

“Emmaline, please . . .”

Suddenly she relaxed, her eyes drifting shut once more.

Geoffrey released her hand and placed it under the covers. He sat for a long while, staring into her still face and listening to her labored breathing. “
Tell me you’ll seek Him again
.” Her words transported him to England and his grandmother’s sitting room, where he sat in the evenings and listened to Grandmother read from the Bible. Grandmother had once told him something very similar: “
A wise man recognizes he has no strength on his own, my dear
boy; a wise man leans on God
.”

All of his life, he’d leaned on God. When his mother had left, he’d relied on prayer to ease the pain of rejection. When his father was harsh, he had soothed himself with the knowledge of a heavenly father’s tender care. The early years in Kansas, while establishing this ranch, constant prayers—requesting strength, expressing appreciation—had hovered on his heart.

He rose from the bed and paced to the window, peering across the grounds of Chetwynd Valley. Emmaline was right. His faith was gone. When had he let it go?
Why
had he let it go?

A weak cough drew his attention. He hurried back to the bed and helped Emmaline sit up. When the coughing fit had passed, he held the cup so she could sip. With his encouragement, she drank nearly half the cup but then, exhausted, fell back asleep. Geoffrey pulled the rocking chair into the bedroom and spent the day at her side, alternately washing her face with cool water and spooning liquids into her mouth when she was too tired to sip.

Each time he changed the bandage on her leg, nausea attacked him, but, just like with the sheep, he did what needed to be done. He must see to Emmaline’s needs.

At suppertime, Chris appeared in the doorway of the sleeping room. “I prepared some deer steaks and made a broth, as well, for Emmaline. Come and eat.”

Tiredly, Geoffrey tugged the sheets across Emmaline’s sleeping frame and placed a cool cloth across her forehead. Pleasant aromas greeted his nose when he entered the kitchen, but he had no appetite for food. His belly was filled with worry.

Midway through the meal, Jim dropped his fork onto his plate with a clatter and pinned Geoffrey with a fierce look. “You don’t believe she will . . .
die
. . . do you?”

Geoffrey grimaced, but he answered truthfully. “She is very sick, Jim. While I hope she will live, we . . . we must face that possibility.”

Chris shook his head. “We have had too much death. . . .”

Geoffrey agreed. He saw tears pool in Jim’s eyes, but Jim quickly blinked them away. The boy stood from the table. “I must go out and . . . and . . .” He dashed out the door.

Chris started to rise and follow, but then he sank back down. His sad gaze met Geoffrey’s. “It will be hard on Jim should Miss Emmaline die. He thinks a great deal of her. It will be like losing his mum all over again.”

Geoffrey understood that all too well. He had lost his mum, too. The thought of losing Emmaline burned red-hot in his soul. His stomach rolled, and he felt as though he would be sick. He pushed to his feet. “Can you keep watch over Emmaline for a few minutes? I must . . . take a little walk.”

Before Chris could answer, Geoffrey bolted to the yard. He stood in place for a moment, his hands on his knees, sucking in gasps of air that brought his queasiness under control. Then he looked around, uncertain what to do or where to go. This ranch, which had always been a place of security and solitude, now offered nothing that would soothe his troubled mind. Inside the house, Emmaline lay dying. His chest began to heave, each breath searing in its release. He needed to escape. But where?

His feet began to move almost of their own volition. He charged across the ground and found himself heading directly for the tack shed. No one would bother him in there. He broke into a stumbling run.

The shed was nearly black inside, an appropriate setting for his despondent mood. He closed himself in the small building and then stood in the middle of the floor, blinking, until his eyes adjusted. Murky shadows took shape—the work bench, a nail keg, tools hanging from pegs on the walls, a square whitish patch near the door. He frowned at the patch. What was that?

Slowly, he crossed to the odd item and leaned forward. Then he jerked back as if stung. One of Emmaline’s samplers! He tipped his body toward the sampler and squinted.

The letters, carefully formed with tiny stitches of black thread, stood out against the white backdrop.
“Thou wilt keep him in perfect
peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee.”

Geoffrey swung away from the sampler, covering his face with one hand. A sob nearly doubled him in two. Peace? He had no peace! He hadn’t had peace for months. “Why, God? Why have You let everything fall apart?” The words tore from his soul. Pain seared his chest.

He dropped to his knees and cried in harsh, hiccupping sobs—sounds the likes of which he hadn’t known could pour from a man. The weeks of heartache, the pain of loss, the worry about Emmaline . . . everything spilled out in a rush. And when he’d spent his last tear, he turned to sit on the hard floor with legs bent, elbows on knees, and his head in his hands.