A Promise for Spring Page 7

  She moved deeper into the room. A large secretary stood between the side windows. Emmaline crossed to it and touched the fold-down desktop. The attached china cupboard held no ornaments, but paper and envelopes filled the cubbies of the desk. A pen and a fat jar of ink awaited use. Her fingers itched to make use of the pen and paper. Tomorrow she could write a letter to Mother and tell her she had safely arrived. But she must word her letter carefully lest she let slip this unusual arrangement, which would certainly displease her parents.

  She turned away from the secretary and spotted a spindled rocking chair in the corner beside a square parlor table that held an oil lamp. A perfect place to sit and embroider—if Geoffrey allowed her to purchase muslin and floss.

  “I am certain you will want other furnishings eventually.” Geoffrey remained in the doorway, his eyes following her as she investigated the room. “But I felt you would like to choose those yourself. We will go to Moreland one day soon and allow you to order things from the catalog.”

  Emmaline clasped her hands behind her back and turned to Geoffrey. He had tried so hard to make this house her home, and his expression seemed to beseech her to offer assurances for the future. Yet uncertainty sat like a rock in her belly. She blinked back tears. “I-it is a v-very nice parlor, Geoffrey. Thank you.”

  He nodded silently, biting down on his lower lip. Then he turned to another raised panel door, this one on hinges. He cleared his throat, and the nervous sound caused the fine hairs on the back of Emmaline’s neck to prickle.

  “And here,” Geoffrey said, swinging the door wide, “is our— your sleeping room.”

  NINE

  EMM ALINE WAS AS skittish as a canary in a room full of cats, her brown eyes huge in her colorless face. Geoffrey felt his pulse beating in his neck, and he hoped it didn’t show. He forced himself to breathe shallowly when Emmaline entered their sleeping room. As she passed him, she tucked her skirts close to her legs and pressed against the opposite side of the doorframe.

  He couldn’t deny a feeling of deep disappointment. In his dreams, he had carried her through the doorway, placed her gently on the bed, and pressed his lips to hers. He shook his head to dispel the idea. They were not wed. They might never be wed. Until the end of the getting-reacquainted period, he must curtail such thoughts or go mad.

  He watched her move to the center of the room and stop with her back to him. Her arms remained pressed to her sides, and she did not turn her head to peer around in curiosity as she had done in the parlor. The muscles in her back quivered, and he longed to reach out and curl his hands around her narrow shoulders, to assure her that he meant her no harm. But fearful of what might happen if he touched her, he plunged his hands into his pockets instead.

  Silent seconds ticked by while she stood motionless beside the bed and he hovered in the doorway. Then, deciding someone must take action, he cleared his throat. She jumped at the sound and spun to face him. Her cheeks wore two bright banners, and he was certain his own face blazed red, too. “Before I retire for the evening,” he said, “I will bring your trunk in here so you will be able to put away your clothing.”

  She finally looked around the room. “Where is the wardrobe?”

  “No wardrobe. Rather, you have a closet.” He moved past her to the corner and opened a door.

  Tentatively, she stepped toward the open doorway and peered in. She swung her startled gaze to his face. “Why, it is so large! It is like another room!”

  Geoffrey smiled. English closets were narrow cubbies since large closets were taxed like a room. But in America a person could have as large a closet as he wanted. He looked down at Emmaline, admiring the golden flecks in her brown eyes. “Will it be large enough to hold your clothing? If not, I can purchase a wardrobe for you.”

  She moved backward a few feet, putting more space between them. “The . . . the closet is sufficient. You needn’t bother with a wardrobe.”

  He nodded and closed the door. He toyed with the middle button of his jacket as silence filled the room once more. “Well . . .

  I will . . . retrieve your baggage so you may . . . prepare yourself for bed.”

  At the word “bed,” Emmaline stumbled sideways to lean against the bedpost. Then, as if the wooden post burned, she jerked away from it, covering her mouth with trembling fingers.

  Was there any way he could assure her that she needn’t fear him? “Emmaline, I—”

  “Why did you not tell Mr. Cotler and Mr. . . . Jim that we are yet unwed?”

  Could her skin be any whiter? Surely no blood remained in her face.

  He stepped forward. “I thought to spare you the embarrassment of sharing something so personal in front of strangers. I shall go to their bunkhouse and tell them tonight.”

  No rosy hue lit her cheeks, but she no longer appeared ready to crumple. When she didn’t respond, Geoffrey ventured, “You do understand, Emmaline, that I will honor my word to keep my distance until you make your decision?”

  She licked her lips, then gave a little nod. Clasping her hands at her waist, she whispered, “I . . . I understand. Thank you.”

  There was one more issue to discuss before he allowed her to turn in for the night, one that would cause discomfort. But he was also certain she was in need of this particular knowledge. So he swallowed once more, squared his shoulders, and said, “Emmaline, I will now show you . . . the washroom.”

  Emmaline hung the last dress on a hook in the closet. Geoffrey’s clothes hung there also, although she assumed he would remove them in the morning. She stood for a moment, transfixed by the sight of their clothes side by side. An intimate image. An uncomfortable image. Quickly, she stepped back. Her nightgown—the one her mother had sewn as part of her bridal trousseau—rested across the bed in an inviting tumble of ruffles, ribbons, and lace. A great lump of sorrow filled Emmaline’s throat as she gazed at the white cotton gown.

  “Oh, Mama, how you labored over this gown.” She lifted the beautifully embellished gown and crushed it to her chest. “Your tears stained the fabric as you stitched. So much love went into this piece of clothing—so much hope for my happiness. But now . . .” Sighing, Emmaline peered around the large room; the blank walls and empty space mocked her. “Now I am alone.”

  She couldn’t wear this nightgown tonight. She might never wear it, and that thought saddened her. Almost with reverence, Emmaline folded the gown and returned it to her trunk. As she did, her knuckles grazed the remaining item in the bottom of the trunk. A smile toyed at the corners of her lips.

  With both hands, she lifted out a smooth gray rock. Slightly smaller than a loaf of bread, the rock was heavy in her hands and felt cool to the touch. She held it up toward the lantern’s glow. Two striated lines of tan formed an uneven pathway all the way around the roughly oval shape. Emmaline closed her eyes, remembering her mother plucking this rock from their garden at home.

  “Take this with you, daughter,” Mother said, “and let it serve as a reminder of your homeland.” Mother’s eyes had shimmered with tears as she’d said the words, much the way the rock shimmered with tiny bits of minerals.

  Emmaline stood for long moments, looking at the rock but seeing Mother’s face. When she couldn’t bear the loneliness a moment longer, she started to put the rock back in the trunk. But then, instead, she carried it to the front room where the fireplace mantel waited, empty of ornamentation. She placed the rock in the center of the highly polished mantel and stepped back to examine her handiwork. The rock seemed an appropriate adornment for the surroundings.

  She drew in a satisfied breath. “A tiny touch of home in this new, rugged land.”

  As she inhaled, the same aroma that had caught her attention in the kitchen earlier filled her nostrils. Her stomach gave an answering lurch, reminding Emmaline how little she had eaten that day. She followed the enticing scent and discovered a green-striped crock bowl covered with a square, blue-checked cloth in the warming hob of the stove.

  She lifted a corner of
the cloth and peered into the bowl. Chunks of some sort of dark meat swam in a thin gravy. Curious, she grasped a piece of meat between her fingers and carried it to her mouth. She chewed, her forehead pinched in thought as she tried to recognize the flavor. The closest comparison she could find was chicken, yet the chunks did not resemble a chicken’s pale meat. She pressed her memory—what had Mr. Cotler called the dish? A maw stew? The name had no meaning for her.

  Perhaps, she reasoned as she located a fork in a tray in one of the cabinets, the meat from prairie chickens had a different appearance than domesticated fowl. She would ask Geoffrey in the morning. Regardless, the meat was tasty, and hunger encouraged her to devour the contents of the bowl. When she finished, she rinsed the bowl with water from the pump, washed her hands, and extinguished the wick on the lantern.

  Her stomach full, she moved through the heavily shadowed house to the sleeping room. The echo of her feet against the wood floor sent a shiver of unease down her spine. Inside the sleeping room, she closed the door and then stood in the middle of the floor, hugging herself to ward off the chill of fear. She gave herself a little shake. Hadn’t she traveled across the ocean and then on to Kansas without benefit of a chaperone or companion? Why was she so fearful now, in this sturdy rock home with Geoffrey and his ranch hands nearby?

  Yet as she traveled, there had always been others around. On the ship, she had shared a suite with Uncle Hedrick; on the train, even after her uncle’s death, other passengers filled the berths. Here, she was truly and completely at the mercy of the three young men sleeping in the bunkhouse.

  “Stop being a ninny,” she scolded herself, speaking aloud to cover the unfamiliar sounds the wind carried through the open windows. “Get into your nightclothes and go to bed.”

  But following her own directive proved more difficult than she’d expected. At home, and even while traveling, there had always been a willing pair of hands to assist with dressing and undressing.

  She certainly couldn’t ask Geoffrey to unbutton her frock! Finally, by twisting her arms in directions she didn’t know they could go, she managed to unfasten enough of the multitude of buttons up the back of her dress to wriggle out of it.

  As she hung the dress of summery lawn on a peg in the closet, a question flitted through her mind: How different might this night have been had she not refused to exchange marriage vows?

  Her heart skipped a beat. She understood little of the intimacies between men and women. Stepping forward, she touched the bright patchwork quilt that lay across the foot of the bed—the one Miss Tildy had given to her and Geoffrey.

  Emmaline pressed her trembling fingers to her lips. Would she and Geoffrey be happy as a married couple? Flinging herself away from the bed, she wished she had shared a long chat with Mother before departing for America. Then she would have some idea of what to expect when . . . or if . . . she finally decided to become a wife.

  She crossed to the lantern and extinguished the wick, plunging the room into darkness. Then, dressed in her undergarments, she wiggled between the sheets—sheets that had previously cradled Geoffrey’s body. The thought brought a rush of embarrassment, and she scrambled out of bed again.

  For a moment she stood beside the bed, contemplating changing the sheets. But where would she find clean ones? Miss Tildy’s advice echoed through her mind: “Compermize . . .” With a decisive nod, she lay down on top of the covers. Even though the room was dark and she was without an audience, she felt exposed with no covering. She reached down and tugged the quilt across her body. The weight was too much for the warm weather, but Emmaline found comfort in the soft fabric and the remembrance of the kind woman who had sewn the patches together.

  Closing her eyes, she listened to the lullaby of the whispering wind combined with the gentle gurgle of flowing water. “The song of the Solomon,” she murmured, finding the thought soothing. A smile formed on her lips as she awaited blessed sleep.

  In the darkness, Geoffrey stood beside the small porch that fronted the rock bunkhouse and explained the arrangement he had made with Emmaline. His words faltered occasionally, testament to the mixed emotions that swept through him, but he concluded, “Next March she and I will either be wed, or I shall accompany her back to England. But until then, we will treat her as if she were the hired housekeeper on the ranch.”

  Jim dropped his feet from the top edge of the porch railing, his boot heels thudding against the planked porch floor. He stared at his boss with his mouth open. It seemed the garrulous boy had, for once, been rendered speechless.

  Chris remained in a relaxed pose with his ankle propped on his opposite knee, his hand curled around the bowl of his pipe. “So you have postponed your wedding, and you are going to be staying in the bunkhouse . . . for almost a year?” His tone clearly displayed confusion.

  Geoffrey clamped his hands over the railing that fronted the porch. The sweet-smelling smoke from Chris’s pipe drifted past his nostrils and made him cough. He would never understand the pleasure some men took in pulling smoke into their lungs.

  “That is correct.” He grimaced and turned his head to avoid the next lingering puff of smoke. “I assure you, I understand your consternation.”

  The bunkhouse, divided down the middle into equal portions, had been built to accommodate four people. Jim, who roomed with his brother, had begged to be allowed to move into the second half now that Ben Mackey was no longer with them. Chris had also made the request in a bid for privacy. Geoffrey had given permission for Jim to make the change on his fifteenth birthday, which was only a few weeks away. But now with Geoffrey moving into Ben’s former half, the Cotler brothers would be forced to continue to bunk together for nearly another year.

  Geoffrey waited for either Chris or Jim to complain about his going back on his promise. If either of them expressed a great deal of displeasure, he would reside in the dugout, but he hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. The four of them, including Ben, had shared the primitive dwelling for the first three years on the ranch. His memories of that time—the cramped space, the earthy odors, the uncleanliness—were far from pleasant. He preferred to use the dugout as a storm shelter rather than a residence, but he also wanted contented workers.

  He examined each man’s face carefully, searching for signs of rebellion. “The time will go quickly,” Geoffrey said to assure himself as much as them. “Can you manage to share a room for another few months?”

  Chris and Jim exchanged looks. A silent message seemed to pass between the brothers. Chris pulled the pipe from between his lips. “Of course, boss. As you said, time goes quickly.” He flashed a crooked grin. “The past five years rushed by, didn’t they?”

  Geoffrey raised his face to the star-speckled sky. Their first years in America had disappeared swiftly, filled with hard work and dreams for the future. All of those dreams had centered around Emmaline and how this ranch would eventually become her home. Now she was here, but his dream still remained as distant and unreachable as one of the bright stars overhead.

  Chris mused, “It seems a strange agreement to me, having her here but not marrying her.”

  Geoffrey sucked in a calming breath, once more filling his senses with the odor of Chris’s pipe. The smell transported him back to evenings spent in his father’s study while the man drilled him on his schoolwork. Perfection—Father had always demanded perfection. Yet the man had not exercised that standard himself.

  Geoffrey coughed again. “I admit, the situation is less than ideal. Of course I would prefer to have married Emmaline immediately. But a gentleman does not force himself on a lady.”

  He stared up at the sky. “She needs time to reacquaint herself with me and to become accustomed to this new land. She waited five years for me; I can now wait for her.”

  Chris stepped off the porch, turned his pipe upside down, and tapped it on the railing. Bright embers fell to the ground and scattered. He stomped out the glowing coals. “Will you need us to move anything from the house out to the bunk
house for you?”

  Geoffrey thought of his large bed and feather mattress. He would leave that for Emmaline. “I shall make use of Ben’s bed and dresser.”

  Jim stood, shaking his head. “I sure looked forward to getting my own room. . . .”

  “Hush, Jim,” Chris snapped. “You just mind the boss.”

  The boy fell silent, but he jutted his chin sullenly. He stomped through the open doorway to his side of the bunkhouse.

  Geoffrey, watching him, frowned. The boy was obviously annoyed. He didn’t like the arrangement either, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Eventually Jim would accept the situation, just as Geoffrey had. They would do it for Emmaline.

  TEN

  JIM COTLER FLOPPED onto his lumpy rope bed but left one bare foot dangling on the floor. After almost two years of sleeping on the straw-stuffed mattress, it fit his frame like his worn, broken-in boots fit his feet. Across the room, Chris broke into a rattling snore. Jim stared at the ceiling and let out a huff.

  Mr. Garrett had promised him his own room. He did a man’s work, but he earned a boy’s wage. Having his own room would have made earning less money a little more tolerable. He should have argued. He should have said, “Mr. Garrett, you promised me my own room and, by thunder, I’m going to have my own room!” He punched the air with his fist, finding release in the fierce jab. But as quickly as it rose, the rebellion dissolved. He lowered his arm to the crackly mattress and sighed.

  Jim knew better than to argue. His father—God rest his soul— had taught him and Chris that a wise man respected authority. Whatever the boss commanded, Jim obeyed. Geoffrey Garrett was a fair man, but he was also a man who didn’t mince words when it came to giving orders.

  Mr. Garrett made pretty good decisions. In his five years of living with the man, Jim couldn’t remember a time Mr. Garrett had given an order that turned out to be a mistake. Even though Mr. Garrett didn’t have any experience with sheep ranching when he came to America, he had prospered at it. Jim didn’t know anybody smarter than Geoffrey Garrett.