A Promise for Spring

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Even before the first fifty head from Spain arrived on the train, Mr. Garrett could tell a person anything he wanted to know about the Merino breed. At night in the dugout, while they wove fibers into rope or built furniture to pass the time, Mr. Garrett had filled his, Chris’s, and Ben’s heads with information about the breed of sheep that would make his ranch the best in all of Kansas. Thick wool! Easy lambing! Flavorful meat! Jim smiled as he remembered how much his boss had praised the Merinos. Yep, Mr. Garrett knew a lot about sheep, there was no doubt about that.

  But it sure seemed like Mr. Garrett didn’t know much about women. Jim’s heart thudded as he pictured Emmaline Bradford’s heart-shaped face and big brown eyes. After all of Mr. Garrett’s descriptions, Jim had expected Emmaline Bradford to be pretty.

  But now that he’d seen her himself, “pretty” didn’t seem like a good enough word to describe her. She was tiny, like a sparrow, and the minute he saw her up close something inside him had wanted to protect her. He’d never experienced such a feeling toward a girl before. Mr. Garrett was a fool not to have married her the moment she stepped off the train. What was he thinking, waiting until next spring?

  Jim rolled fully onto the mattress and faced the wall. He shouldn’t be thinking like this about Miss Bradford. She belonged to Geoffrey Garrett, and the Bible was pretty clear that a fellow shouldn’t harbor possessive thoughts about another man’s intended bride.

  He stared at the shadowed wall. But what if Emmaline didn’t become Mr. Garrett’s bride? A lot could happen in ten months. Maybe Miss Bradford would decide she didn’t want to marry Mr. Garrett. Maybe she’d want to marry somebody else. He sucked in a lungful of air as another thought flitted through his mind. He was growing like a weed these days. Chris complained about having to buy him new britches every other month. Maybe if he were man-sized, Miss Bradford would see him as a man and—

  He shouldn’t think such things! Miss Bradford belonged to Jim’s boss, and a man respected his boss. Slamming his eyes closed, Jim focused on the rhythmic wheeze-rattle of his brother’s snoring. But somehow images of Emmaline Bradford’s big brown eyes and pretty face still crept through.

  Emmaline sneaked back into the house after visiting the washroom. Although it was very early—the sun a mere slit on the horizon— she was wide awake. After examining the selection of frocks in the closet, she chose one of her black traveling dresses. The other items in her wardrobe buttoned up the back, making it impossible for her to dress herself without assistance or contortions.

  Tying her own corset proved challenging, and the strings were not as tight as a maid would fasten them, but it would have to do. The looser corset layered with pantaloons and petticoats made the dress fit more snugly than was comfortable, but she refused to ask any of the men for help.

  Fully clothed, she wound her hair into a braid and twisted it to form a bun on the back of her head. She smoothed her fingers over the coil of hair, assuring herself that it was secure. She must speak with Geoffrey about purchasing a small mirror for her use. In the kitchen, she splashed water from the pump on her face, completing her morning ablutions. Then she stood in the middle of the dusky kitchen with her hands clasped in front of her, wondering what she should do next.

  Geoffrey had indicated she would serve as housekeeper. She assumed this included cooking duties, but what did the men prefer to eat for breakfast? And more importantly, would she be able to prepare it? Her cooking skills were woefully limited. The family cook prepared meals at home, and the woman had been territorial concerning the kitchen. Emmaline could boil eggs and butter bread. Did Geoffrey have eggs and bread available?

  Moving to the built-in cupboards, she opened each door in turn, seeking the needed ingredients to put breakfast on the table. Many of the cupboards were empty, but in one she found a variety of dry goods, including corn meal, flour, sugar, and tea leaves. Pulling out the tin of tea, she opened it and sniffed the dried leaves. The rich aroma enticed her into taking a deeper draw. Her stomach rumbled with desire. She placed the tin on the table so she could steep a pot of strong tea.

  In another cupboard she located a sparse assortment of canned goods—mostly beans. She found nothing that would serve as breakfast fare. Frowning, she turned a slow circle, searching for clues. Where might Geoffrey keep eggs, bread, or meat?

  Suddenly the kitchen door burst open, and Emmaline let out a squawk of surprise when someone rushed into the room. Then she recognized one of Geoffrey’s hands—Jim, the young boy who was the good shearer—and she nearly collapsed in relief. “Oh my, you startled me.”

  A wide, friendly grin broke across his face. “Oh. You are awake.

  I came to light the stove. It’s one of my chores.”

  She grimaced. “Certainly it is my task now. . . .”

  The boy shrugged. His movements were jerky, as if he had more energy than he could contain. “I can do it for you. I don’t mind. Not at all.”

  Emmaline stepped aside. “Please do. I shall watch and learn.”

  With wide strides, Jim crossed to the stove, giving her another big smile as he passed her. Crouching down, he used a small shovel to transfer black lumps of coal from a bucket on the floor into the stove’s combustion chamber. Then he straightened and removed a wooden match from a jar on a shelf near the stove, swished it against the sole of his boot, and placed it on top of the coal.

  Emmaline leaned sideways and watched each step carefully. “That doesn’t appear too difficult. I shall manage it tomorrow.”

  The boy rose to his feet and whisked his hands together. Long and lanky, he stood at least five inches taller than she. “You have to keep adding coal as it’s burnt up.” His gaze bounced from the empty tabletop, to the stove, and then back to Emmaline. “Do you want me to help with breakfast?”

  “Might you show me where to find eggs or some breakfast meat?”

  The boy charged out the kitchen door, and Emmaline followed. He led her to a mound of dirt behind the house. A wood-planked door lay snug against the gentle hill. Grasping a knotted rope attached to the door, he gave a tug. “We keep milk, cheese, and butter in the springhouse, but the eggs, meat, and vegetables are in the cellar. I like going into the cellar. It reminds me of a cave, and it stays nice and cool down here even in the summer.” His grin twitched. “Sometimes, when it’s very hot outside, I like to go down and just sit. It’s a good thinkin’ place.”

  Emmaline stared into the dark hole. A musty smell rose from the cavern, and she wrinkled her nose. Despite the warmth of the morning, she had no desire to enter that black hollow. “Food is stored down there?”

  “Yes, miss. Stay here. I’ll go get some eggs and salt pork.” He turned and hurried down the dirt steps, disappearing below ground. After a few moments, he emerged with four speckled eggs cradled in one hand and a lumpy cloth-wrapped item tucked beneath his elbow.

  Emmaline glanced around the yard. She saw no chickens. “From where did the eggs come? Do you hunt for prairie chicken eggs?”

  The boy laughed. “Prairie chickens? No, miss.” Jim headed for the kitchen with a rapid gait, and Emmaline was forced to trot to keep up. “Mr. Garrett barters for things we need. We get eggs and milk from the Sorensons and pork from the Martins. Sometimes we trade for vegetables, too.” They entered the kitchen, and Jim placed the eggs and pork on the counter. “But now that you’re here, Mr. Garrett says you’ll do the gardening and we’ll have our own vegetables.”

  Emmaline gave the boy a dubious look. She enjoyed gardening, but she preferred to raise roses and nasturtiums. What did she know of carrots and potatoes? “Do you eat prairie chickens?”

  Jim cocked one hip and slipped his hand into his front pocket. “We never have. Chris brings down geese whenever he can, and he shot some quail one time—they were real good with rice.” The boy smacked his lips. “But mostly we eat mutton and pork and deer meat. Why?”

  She pointed to the crock bowl in the sink. “There was some sort of dark, flavorful meat in this bow
l. I ate it for supper last night. I thought it was chicken.”

  Jim shook his head. “No, that was maw stew. You chop up the organs of a sheep—the heart, lungs, and liver—and cook them in the sheep’s stomach.”

  Emmaline’s stomach rolled. “The . . . the organs of a—”

  “Of a sheep,” Jim repeated, his cheerful voice a direct contrast to the vile feeling his words conjured. With a short laugh, he added, “We use every part of the sheep except the baa, Mr. Garrett says.”

  The room seemed to tilt. She clutched her belly.

  “Miss Emmaline, are you all right?” Jim grabbed her shoulders and held her upright.

  “Jim!”

  Jim released her so quickly she nearly fell. She grabbed the edge of the sink as Geoffrey came toward them, a fierce scowl on his face. He stopped beside Emmaline and grasped her elbow. “Is he bothering you?”

  She wrenched free, glaring up at him. He had let her eat the lungs of a sheep! She lowered her gaze slightly and her eyes collided with his chest. The top two buttons of his plaid shirt were unfastened, as if he were half dressed. Dark, curling hair peeped from the opening.

  She jerked her chin upward, drawing on fury to chase away the odd feelings that assailed her. “No, he is not bothering me. He is assisting me. He started a fire in the stove and then retrieved breakfast items since you did not advise me.”

  Geoffrey’s gaze dropped to the eggs and meat on the counter. He turned his attention to Jim. “I believe you have tasks to complete before breakfast. Miss Bradford will ring the bell when the food is ready to be served.”

  Jim scurried outside without a backward glance.

  Geoffrey wheeled on Emmaline. “Why were his hands on you?”

  “I . . . I felt sick. I thought about . . .” If she allowed herself to dwell on what she had consumed last night, she might embarrass herself by regurgitating on the kitchen floor. “It isn’t important. He was not doing anything improper.”

  Geoffrey stared at her in silence for several long seconds. Then he folded his arms over his chest and gave her a stern look. “Emmaline, I must ask that you not spend time alone with either of the hands. Chris is trustworthy, and Jim is still quite young, but they are men and susceptible to temptation.”

  “I did not deliberately set out to spend time alone with Jim.” Emmaline’s chest tightened as she defended herself, but she maintained an even tone. “He came to the kitchen and assisted in making the needed preparations to begin cooking breakfast.”

  Geoffrey’s stern expression did not soften. “All the same, kindly exercise caution in the future. It would not bode well for you to—”

  “To entice them? I assure you, that is not in my nature, and I resent your implication.”

  Geoffrey’s shoulders rose and fell with his great intake of breath. “I was not accusing you, Emmaline, but merely—”

  Emmaline picked up one egg and threw it forcefully into the sink. The shell shattered, the contents exploding against the enameled sides of the basin. “While residing here, I will by necessity come in contact with the ranch hands. If you are concerned about the situation, perhaps you should arrange different living accommodations for me.” She spun to leave but then turned back and added, “And kindly button your shirt in the presence of a lady!”

  Anger propelled her through the house to the sleeping room. Geoffrey called her name, but she ignored him and slammed the door behind her. She stared at the door. There was no lock. Would he enter uninvited?

  A knock sounded. “Emmaline?”

  Although he did not raise his voice, she recognized an undercurrent of frustration. She scuttled into the corner, refusing to answer.

  “Are you going to prepare our breakfast?”

  She gaped at the door. “Not until you have apologized to me for your ridiculous accusation.” The words burst out, and she held her breath afterward, certain he would break down the door and take her to task. Her father would have never accepted such behavior. But all she heard was her own pounding heartbeat. At long last, the sound of retreating footsteps told her he had departed.

  Standing erect in the corner of the room, she waited for her fury to drain. But it held her captive. Goeffrey claimed to love her, but apparently he didn’t trust her. How could she remain at a place where her movements would be evaluated, always fearful of his jealous reactions?

  Filled with righteous indignation, she grabbed her carpet bag from the floor of the closet and threw it on the bed. She wadded up a dress and jammed it into the bag’s belly. As soon as Geoffrey and the others were away from the house, she would walk all the way to Moreland, if she had to, and board an eastbound train. She would use her dowry money and go home no matter what Geoffrey thought.

  ELEVEN

  EMM ALINE PAUSED ALONG the roadway to swipe her hand over her sweaty face. Anger had carried her this far, but the heat of the shimmering sun had melted her icy fury to a puddle of nagging frustration. Looking down the road, she wondered how much farther to Moreland. Her feet ached, and surely her arm would disconnect from her shoulder if she had to carry the carpet bag another foot.

  She had only packed her travel dresses and personal items, reasoning Geoffrey could ship her other belongings to her. But just before stepping out the door she had removed the stone from the mantel and placed it atop the dresses. Its weight slowed her considerably, but she would not discard it. That stone represented home, and it would return to the garden in England—just as she would return to her home in England.

  Resolutely, she took a few stumbling forward steps. A cramp caught between her shoulder blades. Hissing through her teeth, she released the bag. Dust rose when it hit the ground, drifting across the already grimy toes of her shoes. She stared at the bag, willing herself to lift it and continue her trek. Her weary muscles refused to cooperate.

  “Perhaps a short rest.” Using the bag as a makeshift seat, she sank down, folding her legs to the side. She closed her eyes and let her head drift back. The breeze rustled the tall grass alongside the road and dried the sweat on her neck. A bird called, its song sweetly mournful. Emmaline relaxed, allowing herself to absorb the peaceful sounds of the countryside.

  But the rumble of wagon wheels on hard-packed earth floated toward her. Geoffrey? She bolted to her feet, ready for flight. A ramshackle wagon, pulled by gray-muzzled mules, rolled toward her. It wasn’t Geoffrey on the high seat. The relief collapsed her once more.

  Atop the wagon seat, Ronald Senger held the reins, his brown face wreathed in a friendly yet curious grin. He tugged back on the reins, drawing the mules to a stop next to Emmaline’s bag. “Why, if it ain’t Miss Emmalion. What you doin’ out here by yo’self?” He hopped down from the seat, his wiry body graceful in the dismount, and glanced at her bag. “You goin’ somewheres?”

  Emmaline nodded, licking her lips. “Yes. I . . . I am going to Moreland.”

  The man’s eyebrows shot high. “Morelan’? Why, that be a far piece on foot, Miss Emmalion. Geoffrey tell you to walk it?”

  Emmaline set her jaw. Although an affable man, Ronald Senger was Geoffrey’s friend. He would surely return her to the ranch immediately if he knew she had defied Geoffrey.

  Ronald stared at her, his jaw working back and forth. Finally another grin twitched his cheeks. “You look full ready to melt clean away. A drink sound good?”

  Emmaline licked her lips again, aware of her parched throat.

  Hesitantly, she offered a nod and pushed to her feet.

  Ronald reached into his wagon and withdrew a tan jug. He popped the cork from the narrow mouth and held out the jug to her.

  Emmaline stared at the homey vessel. Desire to quench her thirst battled with distaste at placing her lips on a spout that had previously been used by someone else. She pressed her palms to her stomach.

  He bounced the jug and gave an encouraging nod. “Go ahead, Miss Emmalion. It be ginger watuh. You can drink much as you wan’ an’ no matter how hot ya been, yore tummy’ll hold it down jus�
� fine. No need for worries.”

  But she sucked in her lower lip and locked her fingers together.

  Understanding dawned across his face. He drew himself upright and spoke with great dignity. “I’s sorry, Miss Emmalion, that I gots no cup to pour the watuh in.” His wiry brows formed a brief V before smoothing out. “Reckon a lady like yo’self couldn’t be drinkin’ from no jug.”

  He replaced the cork and thumped the jug back under the wagon seat. Turning, he said, “But if you’s still needin’ a drink, I could tote you on to our place. Tildy’ll fix you up with a cool cup o’ watuh, an’ you could rest a spell outta the sun.”

  Shamed yet uncertain why, Emmaline nodded. “That . . . that would be quite nice, thank you.” She allowed Ronald to assist her onto the wagon seat. He tossed her bag in the back as if it weighed nothing, then climbed up beside her. She scooted to the opposite side of the rough-hewn bench seat, giving him plenty of space.

  Flicking a diffident grin in her direction, he slapped the reins down on the mules’ glistening backs. “Git up now, Fern ’n’ Frank.” After several more brisk whacks with the reins, the mules finally leaned against the rigging, and the wagon rolled forward.

  Tildy slung the bucket of wash water across the soft mounds of soil that made up her garden plot. It sure felt good to have all the seeds in the ground. She smacked her lips, anticipating the first tomatoes and green beans stewed together in an iron skillet and seasoned with chunks of squirrel or rabbit. The prairie could be harsh, but it lent its bounty, too, and Tildy appreciated every offering.

  She glanced toward the road and frowned. Where was that Ronald? He’d promised to restring her clothesline as soon as he got back from delivering the repaired plow to the Sorensons’ place. She shook her head, glaring at the sky. “Lawd, I hates to be complainin’, ’cause I knows You meant the wind for good, but it sure can cause us troubles, too . . .”