A Promise for Spring (11 page)

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

E
MM 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 . . .”

She needed to get the sheets hung before they dried in a rumpled mess in the basket. Plucking the line from the ground where it lay like a lazy snake, she shook the dust from it. Should she fetch a stool, climb up, and reattach it herself? Heaven only knew when that slow-moving man of hers would return. She lifted her apron to wipe her brow, and when she lowered it she spotted a rise of dust from the road. Finally!

Dropping the line, she trotted forward to meet the wagon. “You git to jawin’ wit’ the Sorensons an’ forget where you live?” Then she spotted Emmaline, and her aggravation with Ronald fled. “Why, you brung Miss Emmalion for a visit! Git on down here, honey!”

Ronald assisted Emmaline to the ground, and immediately Tildy wrapped her in a hug. “Mm-mm-mmm, you look as bedraggled as a tomcat at sunrise.” She gave the younger woman a gentle nudge toward the house. “Git in the shade, chil’, an’ splash yo’ face wit’ watuh from that barrel.”

Emmaline eagerly scooped water from the barrel that sat next to the front door and doused her face and neck. Water spattered the front of the girl’s dress, leaving dark splotches behind.

Tildy shook her head. Foolish English girl, wearing dark material in this heat. “You cain’t be wearin’ black in the summertime. That sun’ll plumb roast you to nothin’.”

Emmaline shot her a sharp look, but she didn’t argue.

Clucking her tongue, Tildy pointed to the open doorway of the house. “Now let’s git some watuh inside ya.”

Tildy refilled the tin cup three times before Emmaline stopped reaching for more. Once the girl’s thirst was slaked, Tildy pushed her into a chair at the table and plunked herself down across from her. “Well, Miss Emmalion, it be mighty nice to have some comp’ny. But I gotta say, I’s surprised to see you. You ain’t even had time to hardly settle in at yo’ new home, an’ here you is a-visitin’.”

Emmaline opened her mouth as if to speak, but then she clamped her jaw closed again.

Tildy scowled. “Somethin’ eatin’ at you, chil’? You can tell me. Ol’ Tildy’s got some good listenin’ ears.”

The girl’s gaze darted to the doorway. Ronald stood in the opening. An unfamiliar carpet bag dangled from his hand. He hefted it, his eyes on Emmaline. “What you want me to do wit’ your bag, Miss Emmalion?”

So that’s the way the wind blows.
Tildy fixed Emmaline with a knowing stare. “You come to stay, did ya?”

Emmaline shook her head wildly and jumped up from the table. “No!” Spinning to face Ronald, she tangled her hands together. “Just put it down. I . . . I shall . . .”

“Ronal’—” Tildy sent her husband an “I’s-meanin’-it” look— “drop the bag an’ go hang that line foh me. Toss them sheets over it once you got it hung, too. Emmalion an’ me’ll sort things out.”

His dark face puckered as though he’d bit down on a sour pickle. “When we gonn’ eat our dinner?”

Tildy huffed. “We eat when I says we eat! You just go on an’ do what I tells ya.”

With a shrug, Ronald thumped the bag onto the floor and left.

Tildy pointed to the chair. “Sit, Miss Emmalion. Reckon you an’ me is gonna have us a talk.”

Stubbornness flared in the girl’s dark eyes. “I have nothing about which to speak.”

Tildy chuckled at her bravado. “Even wit’out you speakin’, that bag ovuh there says plenty.” She nodded toward the chair. “Sit down.”

The girl remained upright, staring at the bag.

Tildy smacked the tabletop. “I says, sit down, Miss Emma-lion.” With a startled look, Emmaline quickly sat.

Tildy reached across the table and patted Emmaline’s hand.

“Good. Now, let’s hear it.”

Emmaline stared, wide-eyed but silent.

Giving the girl’s slim hand another pat, Tildy said, “Had you a disagreement, did you?”

Tears welled in Emmaline’s eyes. She offered a slow nod.

“Uh-huh, them men . . . always doin’ somethin’ to upset us womenfolks.” Tildy made sure her voice carried sympathy. She clucked her tongue. “So what was it, chil’?” She leaned forward, tucking her chin low. “He give you a whack? ’Cause ain’t no woman gots to put up wit’ a man like dat.”

Emmaline reared back. “Certainly not! But—but he let me eat something deplorable, and he said I was not to speak to the hands on the ranch. He behaved as though he expected me to . . . to flirt with them.”

“So you packed up an’ plan on leavin’?”

The girl stuck out her chin. “Yes.”

“Well . . .” Tildy traced a circle on the tabletop with her finger, gathering her thoughts. Youngsters could be brash, and it appeared this one was as headstrong as the man who’d fetched her from across the ocean.
I sho’ could use some help here, Lawd.
“I reckon he acted foolish ’cause he was jealous. You’s a plumb purty little gal, an’ it’d be hard-pressed for them workers on the ranch not to notice. An’ that Geoffrey, he’s been waitin’ a long time to have you here. Reckon he’s a-wantin’ you all to his own self.”

Emmaline protested, “The ranch hand in question is a mere boy.”

Tildy raised her hand. “Now, I’s not defendin’ him, mind you, just tryin’ to help you see his side o’ thangs. You bein’ young like you is, an’ newly married”—Emmaline’s face turned bright pink—“it’s gonn’ take some time to learn ever’thang ’bout each othuh. You jus’ keep assurin’ him, an’ he’ll soon see you got eyes for nobody but him.”

The color in the girl’s cheeks deepened to a scalding red. She turned her gaze to her lap.

Tildy sighed. “Men is jealous creatures, chil’, so we’uns just do what we can not to worry ’em. Things’ll get better by an’ by.”

Emmaline whispered something.

Tildy couldn’t hear the words. “What you say, chil’?”

Emmaline raised her head. “I said . . . we’re not married.”

Tildy jerked backward, her spine connecting sharply with the back of the chair. “You ain’t married? But—” Hadn’t she given those young’uns a wedding gift? Why, the girl had drove off holding on to a wedding bouquet!

“After all the time that has passed, I feel as though he is a stranger to me! How could I marry a stranger?” The girl planted her palms on the table and leaned forward. “So we made an agreement for me to stay in Kansas until winter’s end so I can learn how to be a rancher’s wife and to try to rediscover the love I once held for him. I agreed in the hopes that things would go well, but . . .”

Shaking her head wildly, Emmaline exclaimed, “I cannot honor the agreement! Not if meals consist of the organs of an animal cooked in that very animal’s stomach. Not if it means being told to whom I can and cannot speak. Why, he treated me as though I were nothing more than his property!” She clamped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. “Oh! I did not mean—”

Tildy flapped her hand. “Now, no need for apologizin’. Truth is, me an’ Ronal’
was
property, an’ it ain’t a pleasurable thang. So’s I understan’ better’n most what you’s sayin’.”

Emmaline’s shoulders slumped. Her face slowly returned to its normal color. She licked her lips and sent a hopeful look across the table. “Since you understand, will you and Ronald help me?

Will you take me to Moreland so I can purchase a train ticket and go home?”

Tildy rose and paced the length of the house. “Now, chil’, I understan’ how you’s feelin’, but that don’ mean I’s gonna help you run off.”

Emmaline’s face fell. “But why?”

“ ’Cause a person’s word’s gotta mean somethin’.” Tildy crossed to the table and took hold of Emmaline’s hands. “If you an’ Geoffrey made an agreement, then you gotta stick to it.”