A Promise for Spring (27 page)
Jim licked his lips and sat up. “Mmm, breakfast. It looks good.”
Her rosy cheeks curved with a smile. “Ma put extra salt and pepper on your eggs, just like you like ’em.” When she leaned forward to place the tray in his lap, her long braids swung forward and grazed the edge of the mattress. She grabbed the braids and threw them over her shoulders as she straightened. “Ma says when you’re done, put the tray on the bedside table—she’ll fetch it after church.”
Jim picked up the fork and stabbed the eggs. “You going to service?” Maybe he could ask her to tell Emmaline to come by.
She nodded, her eyes bright. “Mm-hmm. Soon as Ma gets the twins dressed.” Her shoulders shook as she giggled. “When I came up, she was chasing ’em around the kitchen table.”
Jim grinned, imagining the doctor’s portly wife puffing behind the energetic three-year-olds.
“But I’m dressed and ready.” Alice smoothed her fingers over the collar of her brown calico dress.
Alice’s dress reminded him of the one Emmaline had worn when she came to see him. The fever made the memory fuzzy, but he recalled a lacy-necked dress strewn with flowers. The worry in her eyes had let him know she cared. Cared a lot.
Suddenly Alice’s face flooded with pink. “I better go help Mama with the twins. I’ll see you after service, Jim.” She dashed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
Jim set the tray aside and huffed in aggravation. She’d taken off before he could ask her to deliver the message to Emmaline. He wished he could jump off the bed, get dressed, and go to the chapel, too. He sighed. He shouldn’t complain—Chris and the doctor had repeatedly told him he was lucky to be alive—but he was so tired of being stuck in this room.
Tossing the covers off his legs, he lifted his foot and glared at the ugly wound. The skin around the bite had died and peeled away, leaving a gaping sore. Even if he went home tomorrow, it would be at least another week before he could wear a boot—and how would he navigate that mucky ground on crutches?
He flopped back on the bed and tossed his right forearm over his eyes. When he returned to the ranch, he might end up holed up in another room, in another bed. Of course, it would be
his
room and
his
bed. He smiled. And maybe Miss Emmaline would visit him a lot if he were only a few yards away. . . .
A thought struck him, and he sat bolt upright. All that rain and mud and washed-away dirt—had the gravesite survived the onslaught? Was his money box still buried safely at Pup’s grave?
Could the rain have penetrated the box and ruined the paper money inside?
He had to go home. He had to go home now!
Emmaline closed the Bible and lowered her head. Geoffrey had refused to take her to the little chapel in Stetler this morning, because, as he’d said, they had no wagon, it wouldn’t be fitting for a lady to ride in on horseback, and the road was too muddy for travel. She suspected, however, that even if the roads had been dry and they still had the wagon, he would have made an excuse.
Folding her hands on top of the leather cover, she turned to God in prayer. She began with gratitude for the return of all the horses, though Horace was badly burned. Then she laid her many concerns before God: Geoffrey’s worries; Jim’s health; Tildy and Ronald’s needs, whatever they might be; her family in England; even the poor cooped-up sheep.
She reveled in the feeling of peace that came over her as she prayed. How had she gone so many years without realizing what she needed to feel complete? She had sought fulfillment through gardening, by being a respectful and obedient daughter to her parents, and then by learning the skills necessary to survive on this ranch. But those activities—although good and proper—had never brought her true joy.
Having God in her life brought an element of joy to each and every day, despite the difficulties she faced. If asked to explain how her soul could be at peace in the midst of these trials, she could never put it into words, yet it was true. What a gift Tildy had given her when she shared the truth of God’s love! She offered one last expression of gratitude for Tildy’s friendship and for the strength God had given her before whispering, “Amen.”
Opening her eyes, she rose and moved to the window. Her heart ached for the devastated land, but mostly it ached for Geoffrey. Over the past few days, she had watched bitter resentment take control of him. The eager bounce in his step as he headed for the sheep barn or the pasture no longer existed, nor did happiness light his eyes. The difficulties of the past weeks were, apparently, more than he could bear.
She had tried to encourage him at the dinner table last night by reading her favorite Scripture from Psalm Twenty-three, but he’d chastised her with harsh words:
“My soul will be restored only
when this ranch is restored
,” he’d said. Pacing beside the table, he had run his hand through his hair and scowled fiercely.
“All of my
years of hard work, of being an honest businessman, of avoiding the evils of
drunken, raucous living . . . and how does God reward me for my efforts?
He sends a plague of grasshoppers, withholds blessed moisture, and then
tries to wash the land away! Do not speak to me of some Good Shepherd,
Emmaline. My father was right: God is a fabrication.”
She’d jumped to her feet, eager to provide words of solace, but the firm upthrust of his palm stilled her words. The tense set of his shoulders and the anger on his face had filled her with a feeling of helplessness. If only Tildy were here, she could make Geoffrey see the truth. . . .
“Help Geoffrey, Lord,” Emmaline whispered. “Let him find his way back to You.” She experienced blessed release when she handed her troubles over to Him.
She prepared a simple lunch of cold meat and cheese, bread, and leftover vegetable stew. As she stirred the stew, she considered the stores in the cellar. If only she had dug up the last of the carrots and sweet potatoes before the rains hit. Those vegetables were probably now rotting in the sodden ground. Maybe this afternoon she would put on one of the black dresses—it wouldn’t matter if she ruined it—and try to salvage the remainder of the garden produce.
Close to noon, both Chris and Geoffrey knocked on the kitchen door. Before coming into the room, they removed their mud-encrusted boots. She hid a smile at the sight of Chris’s big toe peeking from his sock. Pointing to it, she said, “I have some darning of my own to do. Would you like me to fix the hole in your sock, Chris?”
The man glanced at his foot and shrugged, then grinned. “Sure, Miss Emmaline, if you don’t mind.”
Geoffrey’s low brows sent a private message, but he didn’t say anything. After they’d all seated themselves at the table, Emmaline looked at him, waiting for him to say grace for the meal. But he simply jabbed a slice of bread with his fork and carried it to his plate.
Emmaline cleared her throat. “Chris, would you bless the food, please?” He had willingly prayed for their meals in Geoffrey’s absence.
Chris shot Geoffrey a quick look before he said, “Of course.”
Emmaline bowed her head and listened as Chris recited a simple blessing. When she raised her gaze, Geoffrey glowered at her from across the table. Choosing to ignore his look of disapproval, she picked up the soup ladle. “Stew, Geoffrey?”
For the next several minutes they ate in silence, the clink of spoons against the soup bowls and the crunch of crusty bread providing the only sounds in the still kitchen. At last Geoffrey leaned back in his chair, wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin, and turned to Chris. “By now my bales of hay have been delivered to Moreland. I’ll need to ride one of the horses into Stetler tomorrow and borrow a team and wagon from the livery.” His dull, tired tone—so different from his former exuberance when discussing ranch business—saddened Emmaline.
Chris nodded. “I can see to the sheep tomorrow.”
“Before I can bring the bales here, we must have a place out of the weather to store them.”
Chris lifted a piece of cheese and munched. “There isn’t room in the sheep barn—not with the horses in there, too. Where are you thinking we should put them?”
Geoffrey’s gaze flicked to Emmaline briefly. “We haven’t much choice right now. The only building, besides the sheep barn, that is large enough to accommodate the bales is the bunkhouse. I plan to use my half of the bunkhouse as storage space for the bales until we can repair the horse barn.”
“Then where will you sleep?” Chris asked the question that hovered in Emmaline’s mind.
Geoffrey looked at Emmaline as he answered. “I shall bunk with you, Chris. I’m putting Jim in the house, in the spare sleeping room. He will not be able to work with the animals until he is free of the crutches, so he can assist Emmaline around the house.”
Emmaline’s heart clamored nervously. Would time with Jim deepen the boy’s affection for her? She certainly didn’t wish to encourage him in his belief that she would be his sweetheart. “Do you think that is wise?”
Geoffrey scowled. “I haven’t any other choice, Emmaline.”
Although she wanted to remind him of his previous warning concerning Jim’s feelings toward her, she swallowed any further protest.
Chris asked, “How long do you think it will take to get the barn rebuilt?”
“I don’t know,” Geoffrey said with a sigh. “Lambing season is nearly upon us. Our yield will be less this year with the loss of those ewes, but without Jim’s help, we will be very busy. I don’t think we’ll have time to repair the barn until after all of the ewes have delivered and the lambs have been shipped to market.”
Chris nodded. “Perhaps you should consider hiring—”
“No!”
At the forceful word, both Chris and Emmaline jumped.
Geoffrey’s jaw clenched so firmly a muscle bulged in his cheek.
“Hiring workers means
paying
workers. I . . . cannot . . . pay anyone. Not now.”
Chris stared off to the side, silent.
Emmaline’s thoughts traveled forward to spring. Geoffrey had promised to purchase tickets and return her to England. Would the sale of lambs earn enough money to cover the fares? Or would this become another neglected promise?
But then she shook her head, relief flooding her. She still had the dowry money. She could rescue it from the barn and give the money to Geoffrey so he could buy tickets—despite the fire, the money should have stayed safe in its metal box, shouldn’t it? Oddly, the thought of leaving Kansas—leaving Geoffrey—brought no pleasure. She would go because she could not stay with a man who did not value her or trust her, but she feared her heart would break when she tore herself from this place.
Geoffrey lifted his cup and drained the last of his tea. “I’m going to start clearing the rubble from the barn.”
Emmaline looked at him in surprise. “It is Sunday!”
He raised one eyebrow in silent query.
“It is a day of rest,” she reminded him. In all of their growing-up years, he had respected the Sabbath. More often than not, he had come to her home following the Sunday service and sat in the parlor with her family, reading poetry or napping with his hands linked on his stomach. Would he set aside that habit now out of spite and frustration with God?
“It is a
day
.” Geoffrey’s tone was more resigned than harsh. “And I cannot waste it. There is much work to be done.” Turning from Emmaline, he addressed Chris. “If you prefer to rest, you may do so.”
Chris sent an apologetic look to Emmaline, but he rose. “I’ll help you, boss.”
Geoffrey nodded, and the two tugged their boots back on. Before stepping out the door, Geoffrey said, “If you have need of me, Emmaline, ring the bell. I shall return.”
With a heavy heart, Emmaline cleaned up the dishes and then moved to the sitting room—the inviting little sitting room where she had hoped she and Geoffrey might sit and chat and rediscover their affection for each other. But why bother now? She would return to England soon, and Geoffrey was no longer the man with whom she had fallen in love.
After all these months, she still didn’t know this man he had become.
A
WEEK AFTER THE barn burned, the ground had finally dried enough for Geoffrey to ride into Stetler and rent a freight wagon from the livery stable. It took four horses to pull the long, boxy wagon, and they seemed to find every newly carved rut in the road that led to Moreland. But he didn’t complain. At long last, he would be retrieving his purchased bales of feed for his sheep. What were a few bumps when compared to meeting the needs of his flock?
On the high, springed seat beside him, Jim sat with his face toward the sun and his bandaged foot propped on the footboard. The pose indicated contentment, but Geoffrey knew the boy fought tears. His happy chatter had stopped after Geoffrey told him about the barn’s burning and Horace’s injuries. To alleviate the horse’s suffering, Geoffrey had been forced to put the animal down.
Geoffrey wondered if he should have waited until they returned to the ranch before he told Jim about the loss of his horse, but the first statement out of Jim’s mouth had been about setting aside his crutches, climbing onto Horace’s back, and riding out to the pasture. Wasn’t it less unkind to end the fantasy quickly rather than allowing him to indulge it, knowing he would be crushed when the truth came out?
Geoffrey’s father had never believed in pampering. Straight-up facts presented in a firm, emotionless tone were what he’d preferred. When Geoffrey’s mother had left, his father had said, “Your mother is gone, and no amount of sniveling will bring her back. So dry up and be a man.” At nine years of age, Geoffrey had learned that being a man meant swallowing one’s sorrow.
He nudged Jim with his elbow. “When we reach Moreland, let’s ask if there are any sheepdogs for sale.”
Jim blinked rapidly. “You never wanted a dog on the property. You said they dig holes and make mischief.” He swiped his hand beneath his nose.
Geoffrey recalled his reaction to the mongrel pup Jim had dragged home. There hadn’t been time to deal with a dog due to all of the other responsibilities of getting the ranch running. “We’ve not had the time to train a dog in the past, but now with you off your feet, you have the time. Do you think you could train a dog to be a good herder?”