A Promise for Spring Page 5

  Dropping to her knees, she gathered up the remnants and held them in her lap. She couldn’t put the letter back together again, but she could put her life back together—if she returned home. Father would be cross, without a doubt, but Mother would welcome her. Even if Father cast her out, she could find a job—perhaps sorting books at the newly constructed library or clerking in one of the shops. Menial jobs, to be certain, but respectable. In time, she could put this ordeal behind her and move forward as if Geoffrey Garrett and his ridiculous scheme to build a life in Kansas had never included her.

  Geoffrey swallowed the last bite of beans, wiped his mouth, and pushed away from the table. He glanced at the plates in front of his ranch hands—nearly empty, too. Carrying his plate to the washbasin, he said, “Jim, I believe it’s your turn to do the dishes.”

  Jim Cotler made a face. “Mr. Garrett, I’ll be awful pleased when this wife of yours finally arrives and takes over the household chores.”

  Jim’s brother, Chris, cuffed the younger boy on the back of the head. “Don’t be insolent.”

  The youngster picked up his plate and dragged his heels against the floor as he walked to the washbasin. “I apologize, Mr. Garrett. But I have washed dishes so many times, my hands are as soft as a nursemaid’s!”

  Chris rose from the table, chuckling. “You could wash dishes from now until the turn of the century, and they would never be that soft.”

  “Well . . .” The boy scowled, cranking the pump handle up and down. “I still don’t like to wash dishes.”

  “One more time, Jim,” Geoffrey said, “and then Emmaline will take up those chores.” He had allowed Chris and Jim to assume Emmaline’s train was delayed rather than admit she’d refused to accompany him to the ranch. The deceit pricked his conscience, yet he couldn’t bring himself to confide the truth even to those who had labored with him to build this home for her.

  Chris said, “If you like, I’ll do the dishwashing today, and you can see to my chore.”

  Jim’s face lit with hopeful interest. “What’s your chore?”

  Geoffrey and Chris exchanged a smirk. Geoffrey answered, “Chris is going to de-worm the ewes today.” De-worming consisted of forcing the animal to ingest a mixture of ground charcoal, oil, vinegar, and cloves. Geoffrey hadn’t yet encountered a sheep that willingly surrendered to the treatment.

  Jim elbowed Chris away from the washbasin. “No, sir! I’ll wash dishes!”

  Geoffrey and Chris laughed, and Geoffrey gave Jim’s narrow shoulder a light smack. “Very well, Jim. Dishes for you. But when you have completed the job, you will need to join Chris in the barn.” A band of trepidation constricted his chest. “I am . . . going to town.”

  Both of the Cotler brothers nodded in reply, but neither asked any questions, for which Geoffrey was grateful. Heading to the horse barn, he reflected on his restless night. He had battled with himself, alternately cross with and concerned for Emmaline. Finally, on his knees, he had laid the situation at Jesus’ feet, and with that release he had discovered a tenuous peace.

  He loved Emmaline. Even as a boy in knickers, he had loved her. Memories of her pretty face had carried him through the long, lonely days in Kansas. Desire to provide for her had motivated him to make his ranch a successful one. Even though they had resided thousands of miles apart, in his heart they had been a team. They were meant to carve a life together here on the plains.

  I pray Emmaline spent her night remembering the dreams we shared before I left her to build this ranch.

  When Emmaline awakened again, sunshine no longer streamed through the little window, although the room was still light. She presumed the time to be midafternoon. Crossing on tiptoe to the door, she pressed her ear to the hard surface and listened. No sounds came from below, and her heart lifted in hope. If the Stanfords were gone, she would be able to slip out of the house unnoticed.

  A plan formed quickly in her mind. Locate a local farmer or a community member and offer him a small token for transportation to the Moreland train station. Use the dowry money to purchase a ticket to the coast and then book passage on a ship. A daring plan, but it was her only option. She could not marry a man she no longer knew, no matter how adamant Father was.

  The decision made, she spent a few precious minutes straightening the covers on the bed and disposing of the shredded letter. She grabbed the leather handle of her trunk and tugged the cumbersome box across the floor to the stairway. She couldn’t lift it by herself, so she continued dragging it, cringing with each hard thud as it bounced down the stairs.

  At the bottom, she rubbed her lower back and panted from the exertion. Could she drag the trunk all the way to town? Resolve brought her upright. She had to.

  Taking hold of the handle once more, she yanked the trunk across the floor of the foyer to the front door. She reached for the doorknob, but to her surprise, it turned on its own and the door swung wide open. Reverend Stanford stood on the stoop. Geoffrey was right behind him.

  SEVEN

  WHEN GEOFFREY SPOTTED Emmaline’s trunk beside the front door, his spirits lifted. Obviously she had brought it down in readiness for her drive to the ranch. He smiled and stepped past the reverend to take her hand.

  “Emmaline. How good to see you looking well rested. Shall we—” His enthusiasm faltered when he realized she wore the same black, dusty frock she had worn yesterday. “Why have you not put on your wedding dress?”

  She jerked her hand free of his grasp and buried it in the folds of her skirt. Without a word she blinked up at him, her lips pursed.

  Reverend Stanford cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should sit for a chat. Miss Bradford, you may leave the trunk there.” He gestured to the small room that served as a parlor. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

  Geoffrey waited until Emmaline moved stiffly into the room and perched on one end of the sofa. He followed and sat at the opposite end. Reverend Stanford chose the wooden rocking chair in the corner.

  The reverend bounced a smile toward both of them. “My wife will return from the schoolhouse in an hour or so. At that time we can go over to the chapel and complete your wedding service.”

  “An hour?” Geoffrey repeated. “That should give Emmaline time to change.” He looked at her, expecting her to rise and retrieve the yellow dress from her trunk.

  But Emmaline lowered her gaze to her lap. She linked her fingers together with such force it appeared the knuckles might snap. “I shall not change.”

  “You intend to be married in . . . that?”

  Emmaline’s jawline tensed for a moment. Then, in a barely audible voice, she said, “I do not intend to be married.”

  The quietly phrased statement of rebellion brought Geoffrey from his seat. “What?”

  Reverend Stanford put out a quieting hand. “Geoffrey, sit down, please.”

  Drawing a lengthy breath through his nose, Geoffrey slowly lowered himself to the sofa. He cupped his hands over his knees and sat ramrod straight, biting down on the tip of his tongue to hold back the words of protest that fought for release.

  “Miss Bradford.” Reverend Stanford waited until Emmaline lifted her head. “Did you not travel to America for the purpose of marrying Geoffrey?”

  Her chin quivered. “My father sent me for that purpose, yes.”

  “But you—” Geoffrey started.

  “Did you not agree to this union?” Reverend Stanford asked.

  Emmaline’s gaze flitted briefly to Geoffrey before jerking back toward the minister. She licked her lips. “Y-yes, sir. When I was a mere girl. But now . . .”

  Geoffrey’s chest ached so fiercely he feared his heart would be torn in two. “Emmaline—” The word croaked out. He swallowed hard and started again. “Emmaline, have you found someone else?”

  She gaped at him. “No!”

  “Then what—”

  “I do not know you!”

  At her hysterical exclamation, Geoffrey slumped against the stiff back of the sofa. The ridiculousness
of the comment should have made him laugh. But instead fury bound his chest.

  Reverend Stanford leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Miss Bradford, please help me understand. My impression from Geoffrey is that your families are well acquainted—that you and he grew up together.”

  Emmaline turned her face to peer at Geoffrey. He sat still under her scrutiny, but it felt as if her gaze left behind a fiery trail as it ventured from his hair to his whiskered cheeks and all the way to his worn brown boots. He should have changed into his polished black boots before coming to town.

  Her appraisal complete, she looked at the minister and blinked in innocence. “So much time has passed. . . . When he left, he claimed we would wait a year—two at most—to be wed.” A hint of defiance colored her tone. “And he never wrote to me—not once. He sent me sporadic messages through my father. How can I know him? Over the years, he slipped away from me. . . .”

  Geoffrey stared at her sweet profile, silently railing against her words. He hadn’t wanted to wait so long. But the land had resisted his efforts to tame it. The government had insisted on five years of occupancy. When he wrote to Jonathan Bradford, the man had assured Geoffrey the delay would merely increase Emmaline’s desire for him and would give her an opportunity to mature into the kind of wife who would embrace life on the Kansas prairie. All these years, he had envisioned her eagerly anticipating the moment their hearts would join as one. How could he have been so wrong?

  Emmaline lifted her chin and said, “I do not wish to hurt you, but I cannot marry you. I should never have come.”

  Geoffrey sat in stunned silence. Wouldn’t the town gossips enjoy discussing this indignity? Everyone knew how excited he had been to bring Emmaline to America. Everyone knew of his plans to be wed. He had built a reputation in the area as a man of honor—a man of his word. What would they think of him now that the woman he claimed to love had jilted him? People would disdain him the way they had his father when his mother left their family.

  “You will marry me, as we planned,” he growled. The words contained a menacing note that surprised even him. He never spoke so forcefully, not even to the ranch hands who served under his leadership. But he had never experienced such rebellion from his ranch hands.

  Reverend Stanford cringed. “Geoffrey, I think it might be best if we—”

  “No, sir.” Geoffrey realized his response was less than respectful, but the tension in his middle made polite exchange impossible. “She is to be my wife. For five years, I have waited for her to come. She pledged herself to me, and she will honor her word.”

  Emmaline’s face, devoid of emotion, paled once again. Her white skin against the harsh black of her gown gave her a ghostly appearance. It occurred to Geoffrey that his words were draining the life from her, yet he continued, speaking to Reverend Stanford, even though the message was meant for his intended bride.

  “When we speak our vows, she will promise to honor me. It is best she begin by honoring me now. Her survival on the plains depends on her willingness to listen and follow my directions.”

  Turning to Emmaline, he said, “Please retrieve your wedding dress from the trunk and change for our ceremony. I am going to the chapel, and I will wait for you there.”

  He rose and stomped out the door.

  Geoffrey’s command carried Emmaline back to England, to her childhood and the authoritative father who had raised her. Having been taught unthinking obedience, she stood abruptly. For a moment she wavered, her shaky legs threatening to collapse, but she managed to remain upright. She turned toward her trunk.

  “Miss Bradford?”

  The minister’s tender voice halted her in her tracks.

  “I can assure you Geoffrey Garrett is a good man. He will be an upstanding husband to you and an honorable father for your children.”

  Emmaline swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. “Yes. I have been told he is a good man.” Tildy had spoken highly of Geoffrey, too. Yet Emmaline’s thoughts raged. If he is such a man of honor, why did he not keep his promises to me?

  With resignation, Emmaline lifted the lid of her trunk, removed the dress of yellow lawn, and draped it over her arm. Then she faced Reverend Stanford. “When your wife returns, might she assist me in dressing?”

  “Of course.”

  Emmaline went upstairs to wait.

  Mrs. Stanford insisted on running an iron over the yellow lawn to remove the travel wrinkles before helping Emmaline dress. She also combed out Emmaline’s hair, braided the long tresses, and coiled the braid into a figure eight on the back of her head. Since the little bouquet of rose verbena had long since wilted, the woman plucked a handful of bachelor buttons from the wild plot between the house and the chapel and tied the stems with a length of yellow ribbon.

  Beaming, she said, “Emmaline, you look lovely.” She stroked Emmaline’s cheek and added, “But a smile would add much to your appearance.”

  Emmaline tried, but her lips refused to curve upward. Her chest felt weighted, as though her trunk rested upon it, and her leaden legs resisted movement. But somehow she followed Mrs. Stanford out of the house and across the yard to the chapel. When they entered, they found the reverend and Geoffrey seated together on a bench near the front. Both men jumped to their feet, and Geoffrey’s face lit—with pleasure or satisfaction, Emmaline wasn’t sure.

  Mrs. Stanford’s hand on her back propelled Emmaline forward, and Geoffrey stepped into the aisle to meet her.

  “You are very beautiful, my bride,” he whispered.

  The words should have delighted her, yet somehow they created a feeling of foreboding. My bride . . . His to own. His to make demands upon. His . . . Emmaline reeled.

  Geoffrey placed his arm around her waist and guided her to the front of the chapel, where they faced the reverend. The clergyman sent a concerned look over the pair, but he opened his little Bible and began to read. “ ‘My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come. . . . Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.’ ”

  Come away . . . Come away . . . The words reverberated through Emmaline’s mind. Geoffrey had asked her, years ago, to come away with him. In the foolish impetuosity of youth, she had agreed. Now the words compelled her to turn and run away, to make her escape as she had planned. But Geoffrey’s firm hand on her back held her captive as surely as if a sturdy rope were tied around her middle.

  Reverend Stanford looked at Geoffrey. “Geoffrey, repeat after me: I, Geoffrey Dean Garrett, take thee, Emmaline Rose Bradford, to be my lawfully wedded wife.”

  Geoffrey peered into Emmaline’s eyes. He opened his mouth, but no words came forth. His eyebrows pulled down and his lips twisted into a grimace. He jerked his head to face the minister. “I . . . cannot.”

  Emmaline released her held breath in a mighty whoosh. She stared at Geoffrey’s profile, certain she had misunderstood. Had her prayer for deliverance been answered? Might Geoffrey release her from her previous commitment?

  Geoffrey’s gaze swept over the reverend and his wife. “Could Emmaline and I have a few moments of privacy, please?”

  The reverend stepped past them, took his wife’s elbow, and led her from the chapel.

  Geoffrey guided Emmaline to the nearest bench and sat, tugging her down next to him. “Emmaline, I find that I cannot proceed as planned.”

  Her breath escaped in little spurts. Sweet words of liberation!

  “Yet I love you, and I cannot simply let you go.”

  “But—”

  “Please, Emmaline. I believe I have a compromise that will benefit us both. Will you listen?”

  Miss Tildy had mentioned compromise. The remembrance lured Emmaline into nodding in agreement.

  “You said you don’t know me any longer. As much as I regret it, my agreement with your father—to write to him rather than to you—has added to t
he distance between us.” He made a rueful expression, giving a slight shake of his head. “I should have shared the past years with you, but your father was convinced the difficulty of establishing my ranch would frighten you. It would seem too harsh a landscape for you. So I yielded to his request to write to him and allowed him to share whatever information he deemed acceptable. In so doing, I alienated you. For that, I am truly sorry.”

  Emmaline knew her father well enough to know Geoffrey spoke the truth. Father had maintained control of everything. “I understand.”

  A quick smile graced his face before he continued in a serious tone. “As for the amount of time that has transpired between my leaving England and now . . .” He sighed, looking to the side for a moment. What was he reliving in those seconds of introspection?

  “My immaturity and inexperience misled me. The task was larger than I expected.” His gaze bored into hers once more. “Years slipped by quickly in the midst of hard work, but I never lost my desire to be your husband. I never stopped loving you, Emmaline.”

  Deep emotion blazed in his hazel eyes. Mesmerized, Emmaline nodded.

  “But you . . . you stopped loving me.”

  For the first time, Emmaline experienced a stab of remorse. Until that moment, her thoughts had centered on herself—her sorrow at leaving England, her fear of this new place, and her resentment over Geoffrey’s broken promises. But now she saw what the years had cost him, and although she fought against it, compassion filled her.

  She searched for a gentle way to make him understand. “The change in my feelings toward you did not come intentionally. When we were growing up, you were always there, an extension of my own family. It was only natural that I would love you, as I loved the others who spent much of their time with me.”

  He ducked his head, his brow furrowed. “Did . . . did you ever really love me . . . as a woman loves a man?”