A Promise for Spring Page 6

  Emmaline considered the question. How many nights had she sat in the window seat of her bedroom, peering out at the stars and dreaming of how it would feel to be held in his arms? Many fine young men had crossed her path at school, and her brother had frequently brought home friends, but none of the boys had captured her attention and affection the way Geoffrey had.

  His first year away, she had yearned for him with such fierceness, the desire for food had fled and she had cried herself to sleep at night. She had loved him as wholeheartedly as a moonstruck girl could. She answered honestly, “Yes, Geoffrey, I did love you.”

  His head shot up, eagerness lighting his expression. “Then . . . then it is possible that you could love me again?”

  Did love ebb like a tide, retreating and returning? “I do not know.”

  She read displeasure in the downthrust of his eyebrows. But then he wiped his hand over his face, and the frown vanished. “Would you be willing to try?”

  Emmaline licked her lips. “W-what do you mean?”

  “Will you give me ten months, Emmaline? Ten months to win your love and dedication. If, at the end of that time, you still desire to return to England, I shall book passage and return you to your father’s house myself. I shall take full responsibility for the breach in the relationship, and I shall do all I can to mend any disagreements between you and your family before returning to my ranch.”

  Emmaline stared at him. “Why not just send me back now?” Surely it would be less painful, and much less expensive, to end things now and send her back alone.

  “I have neither the time nor the money to pay for another trip right now. I will not have either until I have butchered and sold the fall lambs. By then it will be winter, and winter is not a good time for traveling.”

  “But I could use the dow—”

  “The dowry money belongs to your father until which time we are wed.”

  Emmaline knew Geoffrey could demand the dowry now as payment for their betrothal. His decision to wait to claim the money until they were legally wed pleased her.

  Geoffrey went on, “And I love you. I want to share my life with you.” The sweet words of devotion sent a coil of something pleasant through Emmaline’s frame. He took her hands. “I am willing to allow you time to decide if you want a life with me.

  You carry resentment from past wrongs, and it influences how you look at me right now. I understand your feelings, but I also wish to earn your forgiveness and trust. Will you give me that chance, Emmaline?”

  His calloused fingertips pressed into her knuckles. “If you choose to stay, the months will be a time of learning for you. Being a rancher’s wife is far different from the life you had in Yorkshire County. We will discover if you have the strength of will to meet the challenges of this land. You can serve as my housekeeper until which time you decide to become my wife, if you so choose. So . . . will you stay, Emmaline? Will you stay until next spring?”

  Emmaline became aware of his thumbs tracing a circle on the back of her hand. The touch ignited a fire beneath her skin, and she jerked her hands free. “B-but what will my parents say? They sent me here to be your wife, not your housekeeper.”

  He pinched his lips together. “It might be best to simply allow them to believe we have wed.”

  Emmaline drew back. “I cannot tell a fabrication to my parents, Geoffrey.”

  He raised one shoulder. “It would be an omission of truth rather than a bold lie.”

  Emmaline considered this. “Where would I live during this time?”

  “You will live in the ranch house.”

  She pressed her hand to her bodice. Her heart pounded beneath her palm.

  Geoffrey shook his head. “We would not share a . . . sleeping room.” Defensiveness colored his tone. “I would make use of the sofa in the parlor or sleep on a shakedown in the spare room.”

  “My mother would be appalled should I live under the same roof with a man who is not my legally wed husband.” Emmaline tried to sound forceful, but her uneven breathing made the statement quaver.

  Geoffrey looked to the side for a few moments, his face wrinkled in thought. “Then I shall live in the bunkhouse with my hands. It is a two-room bunkhouse, and one half is now empty because—” He jolted. Facing her, he continued, “One half is empty. The bunkhouse is well away from the house, so propriety would be observed. When I come to the house for meals or evening visits, the ranch hands will be nearby, so no ill conjecture will mar your reputation while we become reacquainted.”

  “I am uncertain, Geoffrey. . . .”

  He snatched up her hands, pinning them between his broad palms. “We need the opportunity to become acquainted again. In order to do that, we need time together. To have time, we must both be at the ranch.”

  Emmaline carefully extracted her hands and scooted farther away on the bench. “Let me think, please.” Turning away from his pleading gaze, she focused on a cobweb in the corner of the church and tried to make sense of the confusing situation.

  She could still use the dowry money and return to England. Father would be furious, but at least she would be in familiar territory. But, she realized, living under Father’s roof only meant following his dictates again. He would no doubt set out to find her another husband—she was, after all, twenty-two years of age. Perhaps his selection would not meet her approval, and she would have little choice in the matter.

  She turned abruptly and fixed her gaze on Geoffrey. “You will allow me to decide if I become your wife? You will not pressure me?”

  He raised one hand, as if making a pledge. “I shall not ask you again until the winter has passed. At that time, if you choose not to marry me, I shall escort you back to England, just as I promised.”

  A troubling thought struck her, and Emmaline lifted her chin. “How do I know I can trust you? You did not keep past promises.”

  He grimaced, hanging his head for a moment. “I cannot change the past. I can only work to earn your trust again. You will decide what our relationship will be—husband and wife, or . . .”

  Emmaline quietly offered, “Friends?”

  A wistful expression flitted across his features. “Yes. I pray that we should at least part as friends.”

  Emmaline’s heart twisted at his words. A longing to turn back the years washed over her, to regain the fondness she had once held for Geoffrey Garrett. Perhaps she would never grow to love him as she once had, but at least they could part with no animosity between them.

  She drew a deep breath and made her decision. “All right, Geoffrey. I will stay. Until the winter is past.”

  His shoulders dropped in relief, and he grinned at her. “Thank you, Emmaline. Now, let us retrieve your trunk and I will take you home.”

  EIGHT

  EVENING DUSK HAMPERED EMMALINE’S view of her new home. Long shadows fell across the yard, giving the surrounding landscape an eerie appearance. Even the trees—the massive cottonwoods Geoffrey had promised—appeared to send out tentacles of danger. But a lantern burning inside the rock house highlighted an oval stained-glass window, the bright reds and blues incongruous against the black and gray shadows. The window seemed to shine a welcome, and she focused on the colored glass as Geoffrey brought the wagon to a stop inside the iron fence surrounding the front yard.

  “Welcome to Chetwynd Valley, Emmaline.” Geoffrey’s voice, whisper soft, held a hint of melancholy. She knew it wasn’t the homecoming he had envisioned.

  Turning her gaze from Geoffrey, she examined the house. Small and L-shaped, it was built of rough, oblong stone blocks identical to those used to construct Ronald Senger’s barn. A porch sporting gingerbread trim that resembled a row of triangles on point ran the full width of the house. A bay window jutted from the shorter side of the L.

  Geoffrey pointed to the trio of tall windows. “That room is your parlor, Emmaline. I planned it so you would have plenty of light.”

  Emmaline managed to give him a small smile. A parlor was nice, but whom wou
ld she entertain on this barren prairie? Her gaze lifted to the sod roof of the little dwelling, then across the empty yard. Her heart fell as she realized there was nothing growing in the yard—no bushes or flowers or grass. Just dirt. Brown, dismal dirt. She straightened her spine. As temporary mistress of this house, that would be the first change she would make. She would plant grass and flowers immediately. She would not accept the forlorn prairie landscape creeping right up to her doorstep.

  The front door opened and a splash of light fell across the wide wood planks of the porch floor. A tall man, his face as heavily whiskered as Geoffrey’s, stepped into the bright rectangle of light and raised a hand in greeting. “Mr. Garrett, welcome back!” He turned a broad smile in Emmaline’s direction as he moved easily across the ground toward the wagon.

  Emmaline observed he wore tan trousers and a shirt with its top buttons unfastened. She turned her gaze from the tanned wedge of exposed skin beneath his taut neck.

  “And this must be Mrs. Garrett. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”

  Emmaline waited for Geoffrey to explain she was Miss Bradford and not Mrs. Garrett, but Geoffrey simply climbed past her and leaped to the ground. He reached to assist her from the wagon.

  Her hips felt stiff from the bouncing journey, and for a moment she feared her legs would give way. Geoffrey must have sensed her debility, for he kept hold of her arm until she was steady. Then he placed his hand on the small of her back. The familiar gesture sent a shiver up her spine.

  “Emmaline, this is Chris Cotler. He serves as foreman of the ranch.”

  Emmaline moved away from Geoffrey’s touch. “It is very nice to meet you, Mr. Cotler.”

  Cotler gave her another nod and turned to Geoffrey. “Mr. Garrett, I left lanterns burning for you and a supper in the hob. It’s nothing fancy—just a maw stew—but if you are hungry, it will fill you.”

  The foreman’s rough appearance did not extend to his speech. His voice was well modulated and proper. Remembering the railroad workers’ and Tildy and Ronald Senger’s rough talk, Mr. Cotler’s formality was welcome to her ears.

  “Thank you, Chris,” Geoffrey returned. He pointed into the back of the wagon. “I will prevail upon you to carry Emmaline’s trunk into the house. The horses will need caring for, and then you may turn in for the evening.”

  A prickle of trepidation crept over Emmaline’s scalp as she listened to Geoffrey’s orders. His ease in delivering commands sounded too much like Father—too much like the man who had ordered her to don her wedding dress earlier that day. Might he turn into that man again and deliver more orders to her?

  “Certainly, Mr. Garrett,” Chris agreed amiably. But first he put two fingers in his mouth and blew a shrill whistle.

  Another man came around the corner of the house at a trot. This man, too, was casually attired in tan dungarees and a plaid shirt, but he bore no whiskers on his face. As he neared, Emmaline realized he was a boy of perhaps fourteen. When he spotted Geoffrey and Emmaline, he grinned and came to a stumbling halt directly in front of Emmaline. “Welcome to Chetwynd Valley, Mrs. Garrett! It’s very good to have you here! It seemed as though you would never arrive, but now here you are. Did you have a good trip?”

  Emmaline pressed a hand to her throat. How should she respond to the affable lad?

  Geoffrey cleared his throat, his cheeks twitching with silent laughter. “Emmaline, please meet Jim Cotler. Jim is Chris’s younger brother, and also one of my hands. Although he still has some growing to do, he’s the best shearer around. And, as you have no doubt already realized, he is not timid.”

  Jim remained close to Emmaline, his face split with a friendly grin.

  Chris released a low-toned chuckle. “Now, Mr. Garrett, you know after all the talking you’ve done, we feel as if we already know Mrs. Garrett.” He smiled broadly at Emmaline, his teeth a flash of white in the waning light.

  Heat suffused Emmaline’s cheeks. She hoped the sun was low enough that it would hide her embarrassment.

  Chris moved to the tail of the wagon. “Come over here, Jim, and help me carry in Mrs. Garrett’s travel box. Then we must leave these newlyweds alone.”

  Newlyweds! Emmaline’s heart clamored at that word. “Oh, please, Mr. Cotler and . . .” How should she address the youngster who was also a ranch hand? “Jim—”

  “Come along, Emmaline.” Geoffrey hurried Emmaline toward the house with his hand at the small of her back.

  The pressure of his warm palm rendered her speechless once more. She stood uncertainly in the middle of the planked floor and watched the two ranch hands carry her trunk over the threshold.

  They dropped the big box with a thud, and then each gave a nod of good-bye.

  Geoffrey turned to face Emmaline with an unreadable expression. Why hadn’t he explained their arrangement to the Cotler brothers? Suddenly, she realized she was miles from any town, at the mercy of whatever Geoffrey chose to do to her. What if he chose not to honor their agreement? What if he began issuing commands?

  On shaky legs, she moved to her trunk and pressed her knees against the solid wood. She wished she could open the lid and cower beneath her folded clothing. Geoffrey cleared his throat, and she held her breath waiting for him to speak.

  “Would you like to see the house?”

  Her jaw dropped at this unexpected, gently toned question. Slowly she turned to face him. He stood near the door, his hat in his hands, his face hopeful. Instantly, a long-buried memory surfaced. In her mind’s eye, she saw Geoffrey and her brother, Edward, walking down the stone-lined pathway toward her home while she sat on the stoop, her skirts exposing her slippered feet and thin legs. As the boys entered through the open gate, Geoffrey’s gaze lit upon her. His laughter stopped. He paused, an odd expression flitting through his eyes before he smiled. He then moved briskly toward her, leaving Edward smirking at the gate. Holding out a small brown cone of paper, he asked, “Would you like a sweet?” Emmaline wrapped her arms around her knees and shook her head so adamantly her braids flopped. Geoffrey’s face had fallen in disappointment.

  Now, looking at his hopeful expression, she was twelve years old again with the power to please or disappoint. For reasons she could not fathom, she did not want to disappoint. She gave a small nod and licked her dry lips. “Yes, please.”

  A smile broke across his face, bringing a lift to her heart. He swept his arm to indicate the room in which they stood. “This is, of course, the sitting room.” Moving past a pair of matching, straight-backed chairs, which fit snugly against the wall, he walked to the fireplace. He ran his hand across the smooth top of the mantel. “I ordered the marble and oak mantel from the Montgomery Ward catalog a year ago. I have not placed bric-a-brac atop it. You will have that privilege.”

  She wondered if she would order the bric-a-brac from the catalog, as well. He looked at her expectantly, obviously awaiting a response. “It is quite pretty. Smaller, of course, than the fireplaces at home, but I’m sure it is sufficient for heating this room.”

  A brief scowl marred his brow, and Emmaline wondered what she had said to upset him. But then his expression smoothed and he nodded. “Yes, it is quite sufficient.” He held out his arm to indicate a doorway. “In here is the kitchen.”

  Emmaline stepped through the opening, her heels clicking softly against the wood floor. The kitchen was rectangular in shape, half the size of the sitting room, with one wall of built-in cabinets. A huge iron stove filled the near corner, and an unfamiliar yet pleasant aroma—no doubt left over from supper—teased her nostrils. The wall opposite the stove held a built-in, hip-height cupboard with a square, four-paned window above it. A red iron pump stood on the counter next to a deep enamel sink. Geoffrey rounded a scarred table in the center of the room to take hold of the pump’s handle, his eyes as bright as a child’s on Christmas morning.

  “Look, Emmaline.” He worked the handle vigorously. A stream of water gushed forth, splashing into the sink and spattering the surroun
ding wood countertop. “Running water, right in the house.”

  That was impressive, Emmaline had to admit. She had presumed she would carry buckets from a well, the way Miss Tildy and Mrs. Stanford did. The pump was a welcome surprise.

  “Tomorrow I shall show you the springhouse,” Geoffrey continued, plucking a sheet of toweling from a nearby peg and drying the countertop. “It is just outside the kitchen.” He pointed to a door that presumably led outside. Then, cupping his hand over the pump, he said, “We have a spring that runs right under the house, so we are never without water.” His face clouded for a moment. “God certainly provided for me with the spring, since we have had no rain this season at all. Others depend on the Solomon for their water supply.”

  “No rain?” Emmaline found a spring season without rain hard to believe.

  Geoffrey nodded seriously. “We need to pray for that provision.” He gestured back toward the sitting room. “The house has three more rooms. Let us go to your parlor, shall we?”

  Emmaline followed Geoffrey through the sitting room to a pair of paneled pocket doors. He slid one open, revealing a small, plain room. “This will be a sleeping room one day, but it serves as a storage space for now.”

  The room held everything from tools to a funny-looking bench holding an upended boot on a peg. Obviously Geoffrey did his own cobbling. Once more she was struck by the isolation of this ranch.

  Geoffrey didn’t pause to allow her to explore but passed directly through the room to a single pocket door across from the double doors. This, too, he opened, and then turned a huge smile in her direction. “Your parlor.”

  Emmaline sensed his pride as she stepped past him to enter the room. The bay windows, devoid of curtains, looked out on the front yard. Two tall, narrow side windows, their sashes high to allow in the night breeze, faced the Solomon River. In the gloaming, Emmaline could not see the river, but she could hear the gentle sound of water moving. A peaceful sound.