“A . . . a present? But what for? It isn’t my birthday or . . . or . . .”
“It’s for the mantel,” Jim said. Then he spun and darted around the house, leaving Emmaline alone with the package in her hands.
She stepped back up onto the porch and crossed to the bench below the stained-glass window. Sitting, she placed the package in her lap. Mixed feelings assaulted her, vying for precedence.
Should she accept a gift from Jim? Surely she would crush the boy’s feelings if she refused it. With trembling fingers, she loosened the string holding the paper in place and peeled the layers away. She lifted a wad of cotton and then gasped when a beautifully painted figure of a lady fell into her hands. By the shiny glaze and the light weight of the doll, Emmaline knew it was crafted of porcelain bisque. Mother had similar figures of bisque in her built-in china cabinets in the parlor at home.
She held it at arm’s length, admiring the sweetly curled hair, the uptilted red lips, and the gown of sunshiny yellow with ripples of white lace. The figure was truly exquisite, and looking at it gave Emmaline a rush of pleasure that was purely feminine. She lowered the figure to her lap as her mind raced. The gift must have taken a sizable portion of Jim’s monthly pay. Why would he buy something like this for her?
He had said it was for the mantel. She remembered him mentioning a doll that rested on the mantel of his mother’s cottage in England. Her heart melted for Jim—in so many ways, he was still a boy in need of a mother’s care.
She rose, cradling the figurine in her palms. How well she understood wishing for a mother’s attentive care—her heart still ached with loneliness for her own mother. She would reach out to Jim in a motherly way.
She carried the little figure into the house and put it in the center of the mantel, where Jim would be able to see it if he peeked through the window during their evening meal. And she would do something kind for him in return.
Jim brought the bushel basket of apples from the cellar, as Emmaline had requested. She’d been depending on him more and more since Mr. Garrett left. And he liked it. If he could, he’d spend his whole day seeing to her needs, but Chris kept him busy. Jim set down the basket and let the cellar door slam. Seemed like somebody was always telling him what to do.
But Emmaline asked kindly. She didn’t order him around like he was just a kid. His affection for Emmaline grew deeper day by day. The longer Mr. Garrett stayed away, the more he would be needed. Maybe Mr. Garrett would stay away forever.
He scooped up the basket. One of the neighbors had traded Emmaline four pumpkins for the bushel of apples. Emmaline wanted apples so she could bake pies—his favorite kind of pie. She planned to slice up the apples and dry them, so she could bake apple pies during the winter, too. They were just crab apples—small and bitter. But if Emmaline wanted to dry them, he wouldn’t argue. Even if the pies tasted terrible and gave him a bellyache, he would eat three pieces without a word of complaint.
He entered the kitchen and stood in the doorway, watching her bustle around as she cleaned up after lunch. She hummed as she worked, her skirts swirling around her ankles. What would she look like in a party dress? Her black dresses looked old and tattered, but she didn’t seem to mind. And—he gulped—even in a worn-out black dress she was too pretty for words.
He cleared his throat to get her attention. “Where do you want the basket?”
She spun from the cabinet. “Oh, good! Just put it on the table, Jim. Thank you.”
He thumped it down, then wiped his hands on his thighs. She’d already said it would be his job to lay out the slices on the tin roof of the springhouse and storage shed. In years past, he had scattered wild grape clusters over the roofs and let the sun shrivel them into sweet raisins. This year there wouldn’t be raisins—the grasshoppers had destroyed the grape vines. No doubt it would take longer for apples to dry than it did grapes, but the late-August sun still burned hot enough to do the job. He wondered if the crows would leave any slices at all. Birds were hungry, and they weren’t bashful.
“You might want to dry your apples in the house,” he said, “or the birds might gobble them up.”
She laughed softly. “Oh, I don’t begrudge the birds a few bites. But I can dry some in the house and some outside. That way I make sure we have enough for your pies.”
His pies? She came right out and said she was making them for him! He took a step backward, nearly tripping. “Well, if that’s all you need, I better go get to work. Chris expects me.”
She opened a cabinet and retrieved a knife. “Go right ahead. I have lots of peeling to do. Enjoy your afternoon.”
Jim scurried out the door, his face hot. Emmaline was making the pies especially for him! He wished he could get her another gift. He couldn’t get to town to buy her another figurine, but she liked flowers so much. The grasshoppers had eaten most of the wild flowers, but maybe there were still some growing somewhere.
He headed for the pasture, his stride long and his arms swinging. His gaze searched far into the distance in both directions as he walked. His boots stirred dust. Two small grouse exploded from some scraggly bush just ahead. He stopped to watch them disappear before setting out again, a happy whistle on his lips.
Too late he heard the warning rattle. He froze, fear making his mouth go instantly dry. His heart pounded so hard he thought it might leave his chest. The rattle came again, from his left. What should he do? His brain raced to retrieve the instructions Mr. Garrett and Chris had given him about what to do if he ever encountered a rattler. But he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember!
With a cry of distress, Jim braced to run, but before he could take a step, the snake lunged. Jim screamed when the fangs connected with his boot, right on the arch of his foot. Just as quickly as it had struck, the snake turned and slithered away. Jim grabbed his foot, the spot burning like a red hot coal pressed to his skin. He screamed again.
Finally he remembered what his brother had told him: hold still. Dropping to the ground, Jim grasped his leg and screamed as loud as he could.
TWENTY- TWO
EMM ALINE CIRCLED THE apple with her knife, and the peel fell away into the slop bucket. She dropped the apple into a pan on the table and reached for another, but as her fingers closed around the red fruit, a screech of anguish reached her ears. Was it an animal? One of the sheep?
She crossed to the door, peering across the yard and listening intently. The scream came again. A chill slid down her frame. The sound was human—not animal. Grabbing her skirts, she began to run. Ahead, past the barn but not quite to the sheep enclosure, she saw something rolling on the ground. Then she recognized the plaid shirt—Jim!
“Jim! Jim!” She puffed with the effort of running while battling her skirts. When she reached him, she dropped to her knees and grabbed his arms. He held on to his foot and moaned. “Jim, what happened? Did you fall and hurt yourself?”
“Snake!” The boy’s terror-filled eyes bore into hers. “A snake! Oh, please, Emmaline, I don’t want to die like Ben!”
Ben . . . She gulped as realization washed over her. How she wished Geoffrey were here! She cradled the boy in her arms. A feeling of helplessness made her want to collapse into wild sobs, but the remembrance of a voice whisked through her mind: “Lean on God’s strength, chil’ . . .” She cried out to the blue sky, “God, help me!”
Steely resolve poured through her. She looked directly into Jim’s white face. “I will not let you die.” A vision of the cross behind the barn flitted through her mind, but she pushed the image away.
“I know Tildy told me what to do in case of snakebite. . . .” She pressed her memory. “Stop the poison from spreading!”
Grabbing the hem of her skirt, she ripped the fabric. “Where is the bite?”
Jim pointed to the top of his foot, his face contorted in pain. “Here. Right here.”
Emmaline yanked off Jim’s boot and thick sock. Two angry red dots marked the place where the snake had bitten him. The flesh
swelled, forcing his toes to splay. She tied the strip of cloth above the bite but below his ankle. “Now lie still. I’ve got to get help. Where is Chris?”
“No! Don’t leave me!” Although man-sized, Jim proved his youth with his tearful plea and his grasp on her arms.
Emmaline pressed him gently backward. He fought against her hands. “Jim, you must lie still! The poison will spread if you don’t!” She yanked off her apron and wadded it into a ball. “Use this as a pillow, but please—lie down.”
Jim slumped back and dropped one arm over his eyes. His body shook with sobs. “Please, Emmaline, I don’t want to die.”
Emmaline took his hand in hers. “You shan’t die. But I must get you some help. I shall bring Chris.”
The boy continued to moan, “Don’t leave me.” No matter how many times she asked, he wouldn’t tell her where to find Chris. Finally, she stood, her frantic gaze searching in all directions. He could be anywhere on the ranch. Clenching her fists in frustration, she cried out, “I don’t know where to look, God!” Emmaline dropped again to her knees. Opening her hands, she held them outward and prayed, “We need help, God. Please, please send help for Jim.”
As she prayed, an idea formed in her mind. She jumped up. “Jim, I shall be right back. Lie very still and pray!” Running as fast as she could, she covered the ground between the barn and the house. She came to a panting halt beside the dinner bell. She grasped the rope and pulled. And pulled. And pulled.
The clang made her ears ring and her head pound, but she continued to yank, all the while scanning the grounds. Geoffrey had said no matter where he was on the ranch, he would always hear the dinner bell. Surely Chris would hear it, too. “Let Chris hear the bell, God!”
Just as she had hoped, a horse pounded toward the house with Chris in the saddle. “Emmaline—what’s wrong?”
Emmaline raced to his side. “It’s Jim—a snake bit him.”
Chris went pale. He held out his hand. “Take me to him.”
She placed her hand in his and he swung her behind him. Emmaline directed him to the area behind the barn. Without taking time for questions, Chris lifted Jim onto the saddle then climbed up behind him. He supported the boy by wrapping one arm around his middle. Jim slumped against his brother’s chest.
“I’m taking him to the doctor in Stetler, Emmaline. Can you see to the sheep?”
Emmaline had never cared for the sheep before, but she had no other choice. She stared at Jim’s pale face and nodded. “Go quickly!”
Chris whipped the reins against the horse’s neck, and the horse shot off toward the road.
Emmaline found Jim’s horse ground-tethered beside the sheep barn, still saddled from his day’s work. Seeing that saddle slumped her shoulders in relief—she didn’t know how to saddle a horse. She would ask Geoffrey to teach her when he returned. After leading the horse to the fence, she managed to clamber aboard. Her feet didn’t reach the stirrups, so she clamped her legs against the horse’s warm belly, grasped the saddle horn with one hand, and held the reins with the other.
Her head spun when she looked down—the ground seemed so far away! The horse whickered, tossing his head. She presumed her skirts upset him, and she released the saddle horn to tuck them in as best she could. Then, as she’d seen the men do, she tugged on the reins and bounced her heels on the horse’s tawny hide.
With a slight snort, the horse trotted forward. “Please go to the sheep,” she commanded. Emmaline held tight to the saddle horn, wincing with every jolt of the horse’s hooves against the ground, but to her relief the horse headed for the open pasture. By the time she reached the grazing flock in the far northern pasture where the grasshoppers had left a few blades of grass behind, her thighs ached from the effort of remaining in the saddle. But she hadn’t yet begun to work. “What do I do?” she asked aloud. A few sheep lifted their heads, eyeing her with curiosity, their jaws working in circular motions. Emmaline sat high in the saddle and surveyed the contented flock. Despite her worry for Jim, despite her concerns about bringing the sheep safely home, a feeling of peacefulness washed over her. In that moment, she understood why Geoffrey liked being out in the pasture with the sheep.
But she couldn’t leave them out here. Geoffrey always brought the sheep to the barn at night. Once more, she voiced the question, “What do I do?” The horse pawed the ground, softly blowing air. Emmaline wished he could understand her and answer, and then the thought of a horse replying made her giggle. At her laughter, several sheep gave a start. One leaped forward, three others following.
“Oh!” Emmaline waved her hands. “No, do not leave!”
But it was as if a silent message had been passed through the flock. Like a rolling tide, the sheep began to move, heading in the opposite direction of the sheep barn. And Emmaline sat, helpless to stop them.
Suddenly, to her surprise, the horse bounded into action. She grabbed the saddle horn with both hands and bounced in the smooth leather seat as the horse galloped along the outer edge of the moving throng of wooly creatures. When it reached the front of the flock, it angled sharply left, and the sheep turned with it. Her mouth open in amazement, Emmaline simply held on as the horse turned the entire flock and prodded them toward the barn.
With a series of bleats and quavering baas, the sheep made their progress across the pasture. The horse trotted back and forth at the rear, nosing at the occasional straggler and preventing any from leaving the group. The sheep barn waited ahead, its doors open. Emmaline stared in amazement when the sheep fell into line and entered the structure without any prompting.
When all of the sheep were safely inside, the horse stopped outside the doors and tossed his head. Emmaline slid from his back, her aching legs nearly collapsing when her feet met the ground. She held to the horse’s reins until her quivering muscles stilled enough to support her weight, then she gave the beast several pats on his glossy neck. “Good job, boy. Thank you. You did a good job.” The horse turned his head, snuffling against her neck, and she laughed. “I shall give you a treat after I figure out a way to make sure the sheep stay in the barn.”
Leaving the horse standing along the fence, she tugged a few empty barrels into the doorway as a makeshift barrier. She felt certain the barrels would do little to prevent the entrance of marauding animals, yet she had no idea what Geoffrey did to ensure the sheep’s safety at night. The barrels would have to do until Chris returned.
With the thought of Chris, a pang of worry shot through her. Had Chris been able to locate the doctor? Might Jim lose his foot . . . or his life? She shook her head. Worrying would accomplish nothing. “Lay it all at Jesus’ feet. . . .” Tildy’s reminder rang through Emmaline’s memory. Grasping the horse’s reins, Emmaline closed her eyes and whispered a prayer for Jim’s well-being.
The prayer complete, she gave the reins a tug. “Come with me. I have something special for you.” She fed the horse two crab apples, laughing at his obvious enjoyment of the fruit. He nosed her hands, searching for more. “Now, do not be greedy. We must leave some of these apples for Jim. I’m to bake him pies, you know.”
Baking would be the perfect way to keep herself occupied, she decided. She wished she knew how to remove the saddle from the horse, but that task would have to wait until Chris returned. She spent the next hour slicing apples, preparing a crust, and putting together two well-filled apple pies with extra cinnamon and sugar. That boy had such a sweet tooth.
While the pies baked, filling the room with the aroma of apples, Emmaline chopped vegetables for a stew. She could keep a pot simmering, and Chris and Jim could eat whenever they returned.
The evening stretched endlessly while she waited, alone. She filled the time by peeling the remainder of the apples, slicing them, and hanging the slices on twine that she stretched across the parlor. Jim had planned to dry the slices on the roof of the springhouse, but she didn’t know when he might be well enough to do that. Thinking of Jim made tears prick behind her eyes. Lowering her head,
she began to pray once more.
Geoffrey jolted awake when someone tapped his shoulder. He blinked, clearing his vision, and peered into the face of the conductor.
“You asked me to wake you when we were within a half hour of Moreland.” The man tapped his watch. “We’ll pull in at five-oh-five—twenty-five more minutes.”
Geoffrey sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Thank you.”
The conductor waddled off.
Geoffrey glanced out the window. The familiar rolling landscape filled him with pleasure—home was so close now! He removed his hat, dropped it on the empty seat beside him, and ran his hand through his hair. His weeks on the trail hadn’t allowed time for bathing or shaving. Emmaline might turn up her nose at him when he arrived. His heart rate quickened at the thought of seeing her soon. How he had missed her over the past two weeks.
Often, alone beneath the stars, he had thought of that last night, sitting next to her, talking quietly. She had listened, and her expression had been serene, not scared or defensive. They might have been in her parents’ sitting room in England, sharing their thoughts with each other. That evening had given him hope that they could recapture what they’d shared while living in the little village of Wortley—a deep friendship, a tender love. . . .
He drew in a deep breath, and the packets in his shirt pocket crinkled. He slipped the packets free and counted them. Three packs of flower seeds—bachelor buttons, daisies, and black-eyed Susans. The merchant in Nebraska had assured him they would last until spring if he kept them in a warm place.
These were wild flowers—not the roses that grew in her mother’s garden back home—but they would survive on the plains where roses would surely wither and die. Besides, Geoffrey knew Emmaline loved any kind of flower. If it would make her feel more at home, he would harvest wild flowers for her. And if they were growing near the house, she would have no reason to venture out onto the prairie in search of flowers. She would be safe.
A Promise for Spring Page 17
