A Promise for Spring (33 page)

He released one last, shuddering sob, then fell quiet. The silence of the shed enveloped him, and the words from the sampler echoed through his soul. He slowly lifted his head and stared at the square of white.

“ ‘Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee.’ ” He whispered the words, and the truth pelted him like raindrops from heaven. God hadn’t left him. Geoffrey had let his mind slip away from God, and the more he’d turned his mind from God, the harder it had been to trust Him. With the lack of trust, peace had disappeared.

If he were to reverse the process—if he were to turn his mind to God again—would peace return? Burying his face in his hands, Geoffrey groaned with the desire to once more bask in peace. To believe God was in control and would guide him, uphold him, protect him.

Seated on the floor of the tack shed, Geoffrey opened his soul to God and begged Him to draw near.

THIRTY - FOUR

W
ITH HIS HANDS in his pockets, Geoffrey stepped from the tack shed and looked upward where stars peppered the sky. He breathed a heartfelt, “Thank you, Lord . . .” He was still concerned about the ranch, but he felt he had made the first step toward peace. Hope sat precariously on the precipice of his heart, and he trusted that its grip would gain strength as he continued to pray and seek God in the days to come.

As he approached the house, two shadowy figures—one two-legged and one four-legged—rounded the corner and stepped into his pathway. He gave a slow nod. “Jim . . . Have you and Miney thrown hay for the sheep this evening?”

Miney whined at the mention of his name and rose up, but Jim put his hand on the dog’s head. The animal immediately sat back on his haunches and panted up at his master. “Yes, sir. I’ve seen to the evening chores.”

“Good.” Geoffrey started to step past him, but Jim held out a hand.

“I wanted to give this to you.”

Geoffrey squinted. In the dim light cast from the lantern behind the kitchen window, he couldn’t quite make out the item in Jim’s hand. Small and rectangular in shape, it could have been anything.

Jim shifted slightly, and the shaft of lantern light fell across the boy’s hands. He carried a little tin box. Recognition exploded in Geoffrey’s brain and he reached for it.

“I found it a while back, and I hid it,” the boy said. “It has money in it. I planned to use it to take Emmaline and me to England in the spring, but . . .” Tears glittered in the boy’s eyes. “If she dies, buy her one of those fancy carved coffins with the satin all lining the inside, like the undertaker has in his window in Moreland. Don’t just put her in a . . . a pine box. She’s too pretty for that. Then send her to England and let her be buried in your village there.”

Bouncing the box slightly, Geoffrey said, “And what if she lives?”

Jim shrugged. “She can still have it. To go back to England, or to buy lots of flower seeds. I don’t care. Whatever she wants . . .”

Geoffrey held the tin box in his hands. The amount in the box must have seemed a fortune to Jim, yet he was willing to part with it for Emmaline. He placed his hand on Jim’s shoulder. “Thank you, Jim. I know Emmaline will be grateful, too.”

The boy hung his head, and one tear slipped down his cheek.

“I’m going to put Miney in the shed for the night. I . . . I’ll be in later.” Jim shuffled off with Miney at his side.

Once more, Geoffrey started to enter the kitchen, but the sound of horse hooves and wagon wheels approaching shifted his attention to the road. He hoped the visitor was Dr. Stevens, returning to check on Emmaline. But instead of a surrey, a wagon pulled into the lane. Two figures perched side by side on the seat.

He waited at the corner of the house for the wagon to draw near, and a familiar voice called, “Geoffrey Garrett, what for you standin’ wit’ your face all scrunched up ’stead o’ sayin’ howdy? Don’t you got no better manners’n that?”

Geoffrey leaped forward as Ronald drew their mules to a halt in front of the porch. “Tildy! And Ronald!”

The pair beamed down at him, their smiles white in their dark faces. “Yessuh, it’s us, shore as you live an’ breathe,” Tildy said in her gravelly voice. “We tried a-livin’ in a town called Colby, but them folks was already used to their own smithy—Ronal’ couldn’t git ’nough business for us to have a decent livin’. So I tol’ him, let’s go back.”

Ronald leaned forward. “Figure you’s still willin’ to let us live on that piece o’ ground, an’ we’ll jus’ rebuild our soddy an’ I can git back to work. Ruther starve among frien’s than feast among strangers.”

“Of course you’re welcome to stay! It’s so good to see you again.”

Tildy shifted her gaze to the house, her round face eager. “Where be Miss Emmalion? Shore am hankerin’ to have a cup o’ tea wit’ that girl.”

Geoffrey tucked the tin box beneath his arm and reached toward Tildy. “Come down from there, Tildy. I’ll take you to Emmaline. I think you are going to be a very welcome sight.”

After one look at Emmaline lying in the bed, Tildy took control of the household. She shuffled Jim to the bunkhouse with Chris and Geoffrey, instructing Ronald to sleep either with the bales of hay or in their wagon—made her no nevermind, but she would be claiming the bed in the spare sleeping room as her own. The men obeyed her directions to carry in her belongings, and while they stacked boxes next to the bed, she proclaimed, “I’ll be a-carin’ for Miss Emmalion. You men jus’ scoot an’ let me git that girl back on her feet. Mm-mmm, she’ll be sprightly an’ fine afore long or my name ain’t Tildy Senger!”

Despite Tildy’s command to scoot, Geoffrey couldn’t bear to stay away. With Ronald helping with the sheep, he had the freedom to sit on the edge of the bed and keep vigil over Emmaline. When Tildy forced him from the room so she could give Emmaline a sponge bath or see to her wound, he tended Emmaline’s flower boxes. To his delight, tiny green shoots had broken through the soil.

Tildy fussed at him frequently, accusing him of being underfoot. Her husky voice scolded, “Leave her be! Your gawkin’ ain’t gonna change nothin’ in here.” But he ignored her. For too many months he’d let Emmaline be, and his distance had created a barrier between them. He was determined to bridge that gap by showering her with attention now. He told Tildy, “My gawking might not change a thing, but my prayers can . . . and will.” He clung to hope.

Watching Emmaline fight against the infection, he thought of Jonathan Bradford’s claim that she was weak and in need of protection. Bradford didn’t know his daughter very well. Emmaline had faced much in her short time in Kansas, and she had developed a source of strength that belied her small size and delicate nature.

Day by day she grew stronger, fortified by Tildy’s meat broths and the tea poultices that drew the infection from her leg. On the third day after Tildy’s arrival, Emmaline sat on the edge of the bed and Tildy washed her hair. Geoffrey was banished during the procedure, but Tildy allowed him to come in after she’d tucked Emmaline back beneath the covers. When he entered the room, Emmaline said, “Please be seated, Geoffrey,” as formal as if she had asked him to join her for tea in the parlor.

Tildy stood watch from the corner, her arms crossed over her ample chest as Geoffrey sat on the edge of the bed. Emmaline offered her hand, and he took it, holding it between both of his. “You look so much better.”

Her laughter trickled, and she tossed her head. Her long hair, still damp from its wash, tumbled over her shoulders in beguiling disarray. “And I no doubt smell better, too, thanks to Tildy.”

Tildy’s low chuckle rumbled, but Geoffrey kept his gaze pinned to Emmaline. “It is so wonderful to see you looking well. I am quite grateful to Tildy . . . and to God.”

Emmaline’s face lit. “Have you been praying, Geoffrey?”

He nodded, a lump filling his throat when tears flooded her dark eyes.

“Oh, I’m so glad. . . .”

“I am, too. I didn’t realize how much I missed talking to God until I started it up again.” He squeezed her hands. “Thank you, Emmaline, for helping me recover my faith. Hope lives again, in here.” He pressed one hand to his chest. His heart beat in a steady thud beneath his palm.

A tear splashed down Emmaline’s cheek, but her smile never wavered. For long moments, she held his gaze, her tear-filled eyes glowing with pleasure. Then suddenly she shifted, sitting up straight and folding her hands together in her lap. She tilted her head. “Tildy told me Ronald and some men from town have replaced the barn roof.”

Surprised by the change in topic, Geoffrey merely nodded.

“And the same men who fixed the roof have promised to help Ronald rebuild his soddy.”

Geoffrey shot Tildy a startled look. The woman’s knowing smirk made him wonder what she was thinking.

“When their soddy is repaired, Tildy and Ronald will be able to move back into their own home.”

“That’s right.”

Another chuckle sounded from the corner.

Emmaline continued in a conversational tone. “I assume since the barn is repaired, the bales of hay that fill one side of the bunkhouse can be moved to the barn?”

Geoffrey blinked in confusion. He gave one slow bob of his head. “Yes.”

Emmaline tapped her lips with one finger, her forehead pinched in thought. “With the bunkhouse free of bales, a person can once more take up residence in that side. . . .”

Geoffrey looked from Emmaline to Tildy. Tildy’s apple cheeks were puffed, as if she held back laughter. Turning back to Emmaline, he said, “If you’re referring to Jim, then . . . yes. He can return to the bunkhouse.” With a frown, he asked, “Has his presence in the house been a bother?”

Emmaline’s eyes grew wide. “Oh no! He’s been no bother at all.” An impish twinkle replaced the innocent look. “But his departure will make the house seem quite empty.”

“Empty?”

“Yes. This house was not designed for me to reside here all alone, now, was it?”

Geoffrey searched Emmaline’s face. Her brown-eyed gaze, warm and steady, held him captive.

Emmaline’s voice was as soft and sweet as the gentle flow of the Solomon River. “Tildy says my daisies have broken through the soil.”

Geoffrey cleared his throat. “Yes. I’ve been watering them.”

“In the spring, I shall transplant them around the porch and along the pathway to the river. In time, they shall reseed themselves, and we shall have a veritable field of daisies. Will you pick me bouquets then, Geoffrey?”

“Y-yes.” He swallowed. “I shall pick you as many bouquets as you like.”

“Thank you. And I should like it very much if you would build me a little potting shed so I can grow more flowers. I would like my potting shed constructed of stone, just like the house. And it must have a window that looks out over the Solomon. I so love listening to the song of the Solomon. Will you do that for me, Geoffrey?”

He would do anything for her when she looked at him with that adoring gaze. “Of course. I shall start collecting rocks now. By spring, certainly I’ll have enough.”

Her lips curved into a sweet smile. “I can provide the first stone.”

Tilting his head, he raised his eyebrows in silent query. A guffaw blasted from behind him. Geoffrey peeked over his shoulder at Tildy.

She shook her head at him, her eyes sparkling. “That girl done all but said the words. Cain’t you read into what she’s tryin’ to tell you? She’s a-plantin’ her English rock in Kansas soil.” When Geoffrey didn’t reply fast enough, Tildy flung her hands outward and said, “She’s wantin’ to stay, foolish man! But don’t seem proper to keep her here ’less you two gits yo’selves hitched.”

THIRTY - FIVE

S
HO’ ’NUFF SEEMS peculiar to see a handful o’ daisies in your hand, it bein’ Novembuh.” Tildy shook her head, making the robin’s wing sewn to the side of her black felt hat quiver. Outside, a wintry wind whistled, shaking the windowpanes of the little upstairs room in the pastor’s home.

Emmaline lifted the cheery bouquet of daisies to her nose. Although the daisies carried a pungent rather than pleasing aroma, the scent brought back memories of happy times. “Peculiar or not, I’m thrilled to carry a wedding bouquet of daisies. If I had married in England, it’s exactly what I would have chosen, no matter what the gardener had available in the flower pits.”

Tildy fluffed the skirt of Emmaline’s gown with her glove-covered hands. “Mm-mm-mmm, no mattuh what flowers you carry, you gots to be the purtiest bride evuh, Emmalion. Your mama would be right proud. Too bad she cain’t be here. Seems like a girl oughtta have her mama close by when she gits herself married.”

Emmaline touched the flurry of ruffles around her neck, picturing Mother’s hands stitching the rows of delicate lace to the dress’s ruffles. “She’s with me in spirit, Tildy, and having you here means so much to me. You couldn’t take better care of me if you were my mother.”

Tildy flapped her hands. “Oh, chil’, now don’t be makin’ me cry. I wants to see clearly when you an’ Geoffrey exchange them vows!”

Emmaline laughed and embraced her friend. “Very well. Is it time?”

Tildy glanced at the little clock ticking on the dresser top. “Jus’ a few more minutes.” She scowled. “You feelin’ all right? You’s still spindly as a broom handle.”

Although almost a month had passed, Emmaline hadn’t regained all of the weight she’d lost during her sickness. The gown of yellow lawn—custom fit to her measurements prior to leaving England— hung loosely on her frame. Tildy chided her constantly about her hollow cheeks, but Emmaline had never felt better in her life.

“I feel wonderful, Tildy—very happy and content. And quite eager to become Mrs. Geoffrey Garrett.” Her attitude about marriage had changed so much since her last time in this room. God had worked a miracle in her heart.

Tildy patted Emmaline’s cheek with her thick palm. “You’s done a lot o’ growin’ up, chil’.”

Yes, Emmaline had done a great deal of growing. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she peered up at Tildy. “I’ve learned a lot. Hardships will either destroy you or make you stronger. The past months have been
so hard
, yet I wouldn’t change them.”

Tildy sat, too, her heavy bulk causing the mattress springs to protest. “You have had your troubles, mm-hmm. An’ don’ be thinkin’ they’s all done, neither. Every season has its heartaches, but you done learned the most ’portant lesson, an’ that’s that God gits you through. No matter what comes along—when you leans on Him, He gits you through.”