A Promise for Spring (31 page)

Geoffrey wouldn’t be able to miss the messages. Smiling, she returned to the house to begin her morning chores.

Geoffrey wrapped the reins loosely over the top rail of the fence and clomped toward the bunkhouse. The wind had picked up since morning, with clouds building in the north. He stared at the sky for a few moments, trying to decide if he should drag the hay out to pasture, as he’d planned, or bring the sheep in to the barn to eat. If it rained, it would ruin the hay. But if he brought the sheep in early, he would need to haul water for them later today.

With a frustrated huff, he stomped onto the porch of the bunkhouse. Indecision—something that had never plagued him in years past—hounded him these days. Indecision showed weakness, an inability to lead. He forced his mind to think. He would drag hay to the pasture, but only enough for one feeding. Then the sheep could eat again this evening in the barn.

The decision made, he entered the bunkhouse and moved toward the bales stacked almost to the ceiling. Something on the narrow slice of wall that wasn’t covered by bales caught his eye, and his steps slowed. Someone had hung a crude wooden frame with some sort of stitch work inside it. Puzzled, he moved to the frame and read the words aloud. “ ‘Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God.’ ”

An image flashed through his memory of Emmaline sitting on the sofa in her family’s parlor with her feet tucked beneath her and an embroidery hoop in her hand. From the time she was a little girl, she had excelled at crafting delicate birds and flowers and poems with colored thread. This particular piece of work was primitive in comparison, yet he knew instantly she had created it and hung it.

Anger pressed upward as he examined the message on the cloth:
hope thou in God
. . .
praise him
. . . He had no reason to praise God. He started to remove the sampler from the wall, but as his fingers closed on the frame, he found he didn’t want to remove it. From the depths of his soul, he wished for hope and peace.

He released the frame abruptly and took a stumbling step backward. For several seconds, he stared at the words; then he blinked and ran his hand over his face. “Get the hay out to the sheep,” he admonished himself.

Turning his back on the sampler and its words of wisdom, he returned to work.

At supper that evening, Emmaline cast sidelong glances at him without speaking. He knew she wanted him to mention the little signs she had scattered in the barn and bunkhouse. Five in all, hung in places where he was sure to see. How pleased would she be if he told her he had hung his jacket over one and a coil of rope over another? He carried another bite of pork roast to his mouth. He needed to get away from the ranch, from the samplers, from Emmaline.

Turning to Chris, he asked, “Have you cleaned the rifles recently?”

Chris tore off a piece of bread. “Last week. Why?”

“I thought we might go hunting. Meat from a deer would stretch our food stores considerably.”

Chris chewed the bread, one eyebrow high. “I agree.”

Jim sat up eagerly. “May I go, too?”

Chris nudged him. “Mr. Garrett wasn’t addressing you, Jim.”

“But I just—”

“Don’t be cheeky.”

At his brother’s admonition, the boy slumped in his seat and poked at his food with his fork.

Geoffrey caught Emmaline’s sympathetic look, and he cleared his throat. “Not this time, Jim. You’re still recovering. Besides, Chris is the best marksman. It’s best that he go.”

Jim muttered something unintelligible, earning another sharp poke from Chris’s elbow. He glared at his brother.

Geoffrey drew in a deep breath. “But I’m leaving you and Miney in charge of the sheep and new lambs while we’re gone.

It will be good practice for Miney, to see if he’s got the ability to help.”

Immediately Jim sat up, grinning broadly. “You’re leaving Miney and me in charge? Yes, sir, we’ll take good care of the sheep. You can count on us, Mr. Garrett.” He bounced to his feet. “May I be excused so I can go tell him?”

Chris snorted, but Geoffrey waved his hand. “You may be excused.” After the boy rushed out the door, Geoffrey turned to Chris. “I hope to only be gone overnight. Do you think you can scout around over the next few days, find some deer tracks? That will shorten the length of the hunt.” Chris linked his elbow over the back of the chair. “Actually, I saw some deer tracks over the fence in the far pasture. Maybe three or four sets. If we go soon, we could catch them before they get too far away from your property.”

“Good. Let’s plan on going tomorrow, then, first thing.”

Geoffrey scooped the last bit of the pork and rice onto his plate, and Emmaline reached for the empty serving dish. As she rose, she winced, and he shot her a sharp look. “Are you all right?”

She shrugged. “Oh yes. I have a little scratch, and it itches when the skin is pulled. But I’m fine.” She moved to the sink and placed the dish in the basin. With a big smile, she asked, “Are you ready for dessert? I baked a gingerbread cake, and I can whip some cream.”

Chris swiped his mouth with his napkin. “That sounds good.”

“None for me, thank you.” Geoffrey finished his last bite and pushed away from the table. Choosing to ignore Emmaline’s disappointed look, he said, “I want to check the lambs one more time and make sure none have developed infections from having their tails docked.”

He hid his smile when Emmaline grimaced. She had stayed far away from the barn when he and Chris had used a small hatchet to remove all but a stub of each lamb’s tail. As he recalled, she’d accused them of being barbaric, but she didn’t realize what a health hazard a tail could be when it became a breeding ground for maggots.

“So you are going to the barn?” she asked.

Her wide-eyed look of disinterest didn’t fool him one bit. He battled between amusement and aggravation. “Yes, Emmaline. The lambs are in the barn.”

At his sardonic response, she colored slightly, but she lifted her chin. “Then I shall bring you a piece of cake with whipped cream later.”

He scuttled out the door before he gave in to temptation to deliver a kiss of thanks right on her rosy lips.

THIRTY- TWO

A
THROBBING PAIN IN her leg awakened Emmaline early the next morning. She rolled to the edge of the bed and pulled her nightgown up. The place on her leg where the wire had torn her skin glowed bright red. She gingerly touched the area around the scratch with her fingertips. It hurt, and she hissed through her teeth.

Rising, she pushed her arms into her robe and padded through the parlor, past Jim’s blanket, and on to the kitchen. She lit a lamp and then ladled water from the stove’s reservoir to soak a rag. After rubbing lye soap into the hot, moist rag, she lifted her gown and scrubbed the area around the scratch, biting down on her lower lip to keep from crying out. The pressure created a tremendous amount of pain, but she knew the importance of keeping a wound clean.

When she’d finished, she rinsed the rag and hung it over the edge of the sink. As she ladled water to fill the teakettle, someone tapped lightly on the kitchen door. She limped over and opened it.

Geoffrey stepped into the room, his gaze sweeping from her bare toes to her unconfined hair. His Adam’s apple bobbed in a mighty swallow. “I saw the light on and was surprised anyone was up. It’s very early. Chris and I are heading out.” Behind him, a rosy glow on the horizon promised the sun would soon appear.

“I suppose you’ll need a lunch packed for your hunting trip.” She kept her voice low to avoid waking Jim. In the boy’s excitement at being left in charge of the ranch, he’d had a difficult time settling down to sleep last night—she’d heard him rustling around for at least an hour.

Geoffrey nodded, closing the door behind him. “Just some crackers, cheese, and jerky will do. If all goes well, we’ll be back tomorrow before sunset.”

“Very well.” She removed an empty flour sack from the cupboard and began filling it. “I can put the leftover gingerbread in your sack, too.” Turning, she bumped her leg against the edge of the stove and cried out.

Geoffrey stepped forward, reaching for her. “What is it?”

Despite the throbbing in her leg, Emmaline laughed. “Oh, nothing. A little twinge. There.” Sweat broke out across her forehead as she tied the sack’s opening into a knot and held it out.

Geoffrey caught her wrist. “Are you sick? Because I can stay if you’re sick.”

She stared at him. Her leg throbbed, and her head spun. She wanted him to stay, but she’d seen their food stores and knew that the deer meat would add greatly to their dwindling supplies.

“Go,” she said. “Perhaps this afternoon, while Jim is managing the ranch on his own—” she grinned widely—“I shall take a short nap. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

He looked into her eyes for long moments, but finally he nodded. “Very well, then. I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.” He crossed to the door and then looked back. “Take care, Emmaline.”

Jim rode at the rear of the flock, one hand holding the horse’s reins and the other grasping the end of the rope he had tied around Miney’s neck. It was a long rope, but it would keep the dog from venturing too far. Pride swelled his chest as the dog trotted behind the sheep, occasionally nipping a heel or delivering a bark that spurred the wooly animals forward. All of their practice with the stuffed sheepskin had paid off.

“You’re doing well, Miney,” he praised. “Good dog.”

The day had gone smoothly, and he had handled everything himself without mishap. His shoulders square, he anticipated the words of commendation Mr. Garrett would bestow when he returned. How many fifteen-year-olds could manage an entire sheep ranch without supervision? And for two whole days! He had posed the question to Emmaline at lunch, and she had replied, “Not many.”

He frowned, remembering how quiet she’d been at lunchtime. Her face had seemed red, too, as if she’d been crying. Chris said women were hard to figure out, and Jim decided maybe Chris spoke the truth. But Jim knew how to make Emmaline happy again. Flowers.

She had been tending the seeds in the flower boxes he’d built. As far as he knew, none had sprouted yet, but surely they would. Then she’d always have flowers close by. Until then, though, it would be nice to find some wild ones for her.

He scrunched his brow, trying to remember if he’d seen anything blooming recently. He gave his forehead a whack when he recalled some tall stems of clover standing in the corner of the far pasture. Why hadn’t he thought to pick them when he first saw them? Luckily the flowers grew outside the fence, or the sheep would have had them for a snack. After he put the sheep in the barn with hay for their supper, he would ride back out to the pasture and pick those stems for Emmaline. He would be a little late coming in for the evening meal, but Emmaline would forget about that when she saw the flowers.

Emmaline placed a wet rag across the back of her neck. The nausea abated, and she blew out a breath of gratitude. All afternoon, she had battled waves of queasiness followed by bouts of chills. Yet, even while she shivered, perspiration soaked through the front and back of her dress.

How she had wished to rest, but who else would do the week’s baking? Five loaves of bread, three pies, and a pan of corn bread now cooled on the counter. As soon as she put supper on the table, she would sit for a spell. Her aching leg turned clumsy as she set out plates, silverware, and mugs for tea. She dragged herself to the stove and gave the pot of beans and pork a stir. The heat from the stove caused sweat to bead on her lip. She needed to cool down.

The rag still dripping on her neck, she stepped onto the stoop outside the kitchen door and let the evening breeze caress her body. Her muscles felt quivery, so she sat down, stretching her legs out in front of her.

The throbbing in her injured leg had given way to a sharp, rhythmic stab that carried from her calf all the way to her hip. After glancing around to be certain she wasn’t observed, she raised her skirt and rolled down the stocking. She gasped at the sight of her puffy, flushed skin. It looked worse than it had yesterday. Hadn’t the frequent soap-and-water washing done any good at all?

She touched her flesh, cringing at the heat that emanated from her skin. Tilting her leg toward the slanting late-afternoon sunlight, she carefully examined the scratch. Oddly, red streaks seemed to run in both directions from the site of the injury. Puzzled, she traced the lines with her fingertips. The gentle touch sent spasms through her leg.

She must wash it again. Pushing her hand against the stoop, she tried to rise, but her leg gave way beneath her. Sweat broke out all across her body. Bile filled her throat. Black dots swam in front of her eyes.

“I must . . . get inside . . .” With quivering muscles, she pressed both palms to the stoop and attempted to stand. The black dots began a wild dance, and a chill shook her entire body. She collapsed, and blackness engulfed her.

“There you are.” Jim dumped a pitchfork full of hay in front of the horse, then hung the fork on its peg. “Enjoy your supper.”

Smiling, he lifted the stems of the clover blooms. “Come on, Miney.” The dog trotted alongside him as he headed for the house. He whistled a cheery tune, anticipating Emmaline’s expression of pleasure at the unexpected gift of flowers for the table. He left the sheep barn and picked up his pace a bit, doing a double hop on his good leg as had become his habit, even though the snake-bit foot hardly bothered him anymore.

Miney whined, looking up at Jim with his tongue hanging out.

“What’s the matter, boy? You hungry, too? Well, Emmaline will give you some leftovers.”

The dog whined again, then dashed ahead, darting beneath the fence rail. Jim called, “Hey! Come back here!” When Miney didn’t return, Jim grunted. The dog wouldn’t be of much use if he didn’t obey.

He rounded the fence and spotted Miney near the kitchen door to the ranch house. The dog had his nose down, nuzzling something that looked like a pile of wash. He frowned. If Miney had pulled the wash line down again, Chris would have his hide! But then he remembered it was Thursday. Emmaline never did wash on Thursday. Then what . . . ?