A Promise for Spring (3 page)

Emmaline barely nodded in return. Geoffrey slapped the reins on the horses’ rumps, and they obediently lurched forward.

THREE

A
S
G
EOFFREY GUIDED THE WAGON through the center of Moreland, he waved at townspeople and called out greetings. Emmaline only stared straight ahead, her hands clasped in her lap. To fill the awkward silence, Geoffrey told her about the little town. “Moreland was originally a railroad town, but it has grown into a nice community. It already has its own newspaper, called
The Progress
, a post office with rural delivery, and two banks in addition to a school and three flourishing churches.”

Although she didn’t reply, Emmaline’s gaze followed the rows of businesses—everything from a dry goods store to a millinery shop.

“I wish we had time to let you explore a bit before heading to Reverend Stanford’s.” Even as he spoke the words, he realized she was in no state to be entering any places of business. Her filthy appearance would make the other ladies view her with disdain, and he didn’t want that for his Emmaline. He hid his smile as she turned nearly backward in the seat and watched the town disappear behind them.

Of course, he also had to admit she was in no state to be standing before a minister and reciting wedding vows. She needed a bath and a change of clothes. Where could they stop along the way to see to that need?

“Um, Emmaline?”

She brought her wary gaze from over her shoulder and fixed it upon Geoffrey.

“I—” He cleared his throat. “I wondered if you came prepared with . . . appropriate attire . . . for a wedding.”

Emmaline tucked her chin and her cheeks blazed with pink. “Mother arranged a bridal trousseau.” Her voice sounded hoarse. The Kansas wind tossed a loose strand of hair across her cheek, and she brusquely anchored it behind one ear. “So we are . . . we are to be married . . . today?”

Geoffrey nodded. “Yes. I realize you have only just arrived. But, Emmaline, I . . . I cannot take you to my home without . . . without the benefit of a clergyman’s blessing.” He intensely disliked his own stammering. He gave her a sideways glance, feeling certain the heat in his face had nothing to do with the warm May sun. He desperately hoped Emmaline would understand his message.

Apparently she did, for the color in her cheeks deepened and she abruptly changed the topic. “Tell . . . tell me about the ranch, please, Geoffrey.”

It was the first time she had spoken his name without encouragement. The sound of it on her tongue made Geoffrey’s heart rise up in his chest and beat rapidly.

“I have written of the ranch in my letters to your father,” he said, noting that her hand once again ventured to her hip. “How much has he shared with you?”

Emmaline shook her head and an odd expression crossed her face—a mix of defiance and helplessness that Geoffrey didn’t understand. “Very little,” she answered. “Father told me that you had a lucrative business—in wool, on which he has come to depend—and would provide well for me.”

Geoffrey wondered why Jonathan Bradford hadn’t given Emmaline more information. He had kept the man up-to-date over the years, describing every hardship and triumph in lengthy letters intended to keep Emmaline involved in his life. At Bradford’s insistence, he had sent the letters to her father so he could choose what to share and what to withhold. Bradford had always been protective of his only daughter.

Injecting a great deal of enthusiasm into his tone, Geoffrey began his explanation. “Your father was right, Emmaline. You will want for nothing, I can assure you. My ranch is situated on some of the choicest sections of Sheridan County, right on the south fork of the Solomon River. In fact, the river runs less than thirty yards from the north side of the house. The sound of the water is peaceful and it reminds me of Psalm Twenty-three—‘He leadeth me beside the still waters’—you know the reference, I’m sure.”

Sweat dribbled down his forehead, and he reached inside his jacket to retrieve a handkerchief and wipe the moisture away. He chuckled as he looked skyward and squinted into the sun. “I confess a dip in that water would be refreshing right now. It is unseasonably hot for this time of year.” He returned the handkerchief to his pocket. “Several large cottonwoods stand beside the river and offer a welcoming spot of shade when the temperature is high.”

Emmaline linked her hands and placed them in her lap. “I saw few trees on the prairie as I traveled. I am pleased to know that your property is not without shade trees.”

“Granted, the trees are few in number,” Geoffrey felt obligated to clarify. “But I believe you will appreciate the size of those standing. They are truly magnificent.”

She gave a small nod. “So your business is in wool?”

“Yes.” Geoffrey straightened his shoulders, pride filling him. “I raise Merino sheep. Hardy animals, well suited to the Kansas landscape, with a thick coat. Last year I shipped half a ton of fleece to your father’s textile mill—nearly one-quarter of all the fleece from Kansas. In addition, I butcher nearly eighty lambs a year and sell the meat.”

“How much land do you own?”

“The Homestead Act allowed me to purchase one hundred sixty acres. Each of the men who accompanied me to Kansas from England also purchased one hundred sixty acres with my money. Then, last year, I bought the claim from a neighboring couple who had need of the money, but I’ve allowed them to remain on the property. The man is a blacksmith, and he repays me in horseshoes and tools. Altogether, I own six hundred forty acres—a sizable holding.”

“Father spoke of wars between cattle and sheep ranchers.”

“Your father is correct that battles do take place, but not in Kansas,” Geoffrey said. “That is mostly in Texas. Our neighbors who don’t raise sheep raise crops. Corn and barley mostly, so we are not in competition with one another.” Satisfaction filled him when he envisioned his property—more land than he could ever have hoped to own in England. “It has taken much effort, but it has been well worth the hard labor. Chetwynd Valley is the most successful sheep ranch in all of northwestern Kansas.”

“Chetwynd Valley?” She sounded surprised. “You named the ranch for your grandmother?”

“A fitting memorial, I believe.” He smiled, remembering the warm, loving grandmother who provided a safe haven during the years his father battled with the demon rum. Grandmother’s estate would have been Geoffrey’s had Franklin Garrett not gambled it away. “When you witness the serene setting, I believe you will agree that the ranch was aptly named.”

“May I ask a question that is s-somewhat personal in nature?”

“You are to become my wife. You may ask me anything you like, Emmaline.”

Her cheeks filled with color again, but she continued. “You were so familiar with your father’s business of ale making. Why did you not choose to establish a similar business here in America?”

Geoffrey cringed inside. Emmaline had been young when he left England. Obviously she was unaware of the falling-out between him and his father over his father’s business. He had no interest in establishing a business that led to men imbibing alcohol and becoming drunkards. Geoffrey still carried the burden of his father’s weakness.

He had no interest in dredging up that portion of his past, even with his new bride. So he chose an abbreviated version of the truth. “Emmaline, I am quite isolated here on the prairie. A business in ranching is a much better choice for this land than establishing a brewery. Besides, providing your father with wool for his factory allows me to give something back to him for the . . . help . . . he gave my family.”

“I see.” Her fine eyebrows pinched together. “How much farther is it to your ranch?”

Geoffrey hoped her question indicated an interest in reaching the ranch soon. “Chetwynd Valley is seven and a half miles west of Moreland, near the town of Stetler. Stetler is much smaller than Moreland, but the citizens are quite friendly and welcoming, so I believe you will find it to be a community in which you will feel at home.”

Emmaline took a deep breath, plucking the wind-tossed hair from her face again. “Oh, I would enjoy a place that feels like home.”

Geoffrey heard an undercurrent of sadness, and he reached out to place one hand on her clasped fists. “Emmaline, I want you to know that I understand your loneliness. I felt much the same when I arrived here five years ago. But Chetwynd Valley has now become my home. You will soon feel the same way about it.”

He pictured the ranch’s little rock house and the nearby springhouse, the indoor pump, and the garden plot all tilled and fenced, ready for Emmaline’s attention. He knew it was far smaller than the home in which Emmaline had been raised, yet he’d built it all with Emmaline in mind.

As he’d built his home, stone by stone, he had envisioned the delight on his bride’s face when she would see how it resembled the stone cottages of their native England. When he placed his hands beneath the first cold rush of water from the pump in the kitchen, his chest had swelled with pride, knowing he would be able to tell his Emmaline that theirs was the only home in Stetler with running water. Oh, how he hoped she would approve of the little rock house beside the river. He wanted her to feel at home within its sandstone walls.

Beside him, Emmaline suddenly stiffened on the seat and pointed with a trembling finger. A large dust devil, nearly twenty feet high and six feet in diameter, danced along the roadway ahead of them. The horses nickered in protest, and Geoffrey pulled back on the reins, bringing the wagon to a halt. The horses pawed the ground nervously as Geoffrey and Emmaline watched the whirlwind cross the road in its weaving pathway. It skipped across the landscape, tossing bits of dried grass from its moorings until, caught by the tall, waving grasses, it dissipated. Emmaline released a sigh of relief as the dust devil twirled itself out and settled onto the prairie like a tired runner collapsing beside the road.

“Was . . . was that a tornado?” Emmaline’s brown eyes were wide, her face pale.

Geoffrey stifled a laugh. Apparently she had been warned of the perils on the American plains. He hastened to assure her. “No, Emmaline. That was what is known as a dust devil, or whirlwind. They spring up frequently thanks to our flat prairie and endless blowing winds. Most are much smaller. Dust devils can be a nuisance—I have seen large ones knock a sheep off its feet—but they are not generally dangerous.”

Emmaline’s shoulders slumped in obvious relief. She kept her eyes turned to where the dust devil had faded away, as if concerned it might bound to life again. Then her gaze narrowed and she pointed again. “Is that smoke?”

Geoffrey perked up at that question. Smoke on the prairie was never a good sign, especially considering the lack of rain the area had received this spring after a dry winter. He shielded his eyes with his hand, scowled, and then sagged in relief. “Yes, that is smoke, Emmaline—smoke from Tildy Senger’s cook fire.” Suddenly he knew where Emmaline could prepare for their wedding ceremony. He turned to her with a huge grin. “Would you like to meet some friends of mine?”

Emmaline offered a hesitant nod, and Geoffrey slapped the reins on the horses’ rumps again. “Gee up, there,” he called cheerfully. “Let’s go give a greeting to Ronald and Tildy!”

FOUR

E
MM ALINE HELD TIGHT to the jouncing wagon seat as Geoffrey left the roadway and turned the horses across the untamed prairie. The land rose gently, leaving a view of only a thatched roof with a thin spiral of smoke rising upward from a rock chimney. As they crested the top of the rise, the entire dwelling came into view, and Emmaline wrinkled her nose in distaste when she got a close-up look at the house belonging to Geoffrey’s friends. Why, it appeared to be constructed of blocks of mud and was little more than a shack! The barn behind it seemed more sturdy than the house. A resounding
clang-riiiiiing, clang-riiiiiiing
echoed from the depths of the monstrous limestone barn. The blacksmith must be hard at work.

A half dozen scrawny chickens pecked in the dirt in front of the house, but they scattered when Geoffrey drove the wagon onto the grassless yard. Geoffrey wrapped the reins around the brake handle and hopped down, calling cheerfully toward the house, “Is anyone home? Tildy?”

Before Emmaline could alight, the warped plank door of the ramshackle house opened, and a large black woman emerged into the sunshine. At first her hands rested on her beefy hips in a pose of aggravation, but when she spotted Geoffrey, her broad face broke into a huge smile. “Why, Geoffrey Garrett, as I live an’ breathe!” She threw her arms open wide. “Git on over here, boy, an’ give ol’ Tildy a hug!”

Geoffrey obliged while Emmaline remained on the wagon seat, watching in disbelief.
This
was Geoffrey’s
friend
? An elderly Negro woman? While the woman continued to hold Geoffrey in her massive embrace, she rolled her chin sideways and bellowed, “Ronald! Ronald Senger, git yo’self out here! We gots comp’ny!”

The clang-and-ring stopped, and a tall, rail-thin man stepped out of the barn. His dark brown face glowed with perspiration, and his white smile stretched as wide as Tildy’s. He ambled across the yard, forcing the sleeves of his long johns above his elbows.

Geoffrey disengaged himself from Tildy’s hug and lifted a hand to direct her attention to the wagon where Emmaline sat perched. “Tildy, this is Miss Emmaline Bradford, arrived from Yorkshire County just this afternoon.” He took two steps toward the wagon, his hand extended to help Emmaline down, but Tildy pushed past him and reached her man-sized hands up to Emmaline.

“Oh, what a purty li’l thang,” Tildy gushed in her low-pitched voice. “You come on down from there, honey, an’ let Tildy git a good look at you.”

Emmaline, her stomach roiling with apprehension, stepped from the wagon while Geoffrey and the man named Ronald shook hands. Tildy grasped Emmaline’s wrists and held Emmaline’s arms outward. Her gaze roved up and down unabashedly, and she clucked her tongue. “Lawsy, chil’, but you’s a spindly thang. Don’t they got nothin’ bigger’n nubbins at that there England country? You don’t look hardly half growed!”