A Promise for Spring (6 page)

Pushing off from the bed, she crossed to the square window that looked out over the town. Geoffrey had said she would feel at home in Stetler, but little about the town resembled an English village. No close-set stone cottages or tall Tudor houses with overflowing window boxes; no narrow cobbled streets. Instead, a wide dirt road separated evenly spaced wood-sided buildings, many of which lacked even a coat of paint.

Yet the morning sunlight bathed the scene in gold, making it appear a cheery place where horses nodded lazily at hitching rails and people moved up and down the wooden boardwalks. The peaceful bustle of the town reminded her that the Stanfords were downstairs waiting.

With a sigh, she turned from the window and looked into her trunk. The only dresses she could don without the assistance of a maid were the identical traveling dresses of black muslin. She lifted the one she’d worn the day before. Her nose wrinkled at the dust coating the frock, but all three traveling dresses were equally filthy.

Her fingers trembled as they fastened the buttons up the front of the dress. The room had no mirror she could use to do her hair properly, so she combed the long locks straight back into a simple tail at the nape of her neck. Then, drawing in a strengthening breath, she made her way down the narrow, enclosed stairway.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she entered a small foyer. A glance to the right showed a meagerly furnished parlor. The doorway on her left revealed the kitchen. Strong scents of fresh coffee, biscuits, and bacon grease made her stomach churn. She pressed her hand to her middle, and her palm brushed the sharp edge of the folded letter still tucked in her dress pocket. Anger swelled, and she spun to race back up the stairs.

“Miss Bradford?” The reverend’s voice brought her to a halt. “Please come in and sit down.”

For a moment Emmaline considered ignoring him, but she had been taught to respect her elders, and especially members of the clergy. Lifting her chin, she turned a slow circle and entered the kitchen.

Mrs. Stanford rose from the table, gesturing toward an open chair. “Sit here, Miss Bradford, and I’ll get you a plate.”

“Oh no, please, I—”

“It’s no trouble.” The woman smiled and moved toward the stove. “Just sit.”

Emmaline slid into the chair opposite the minister, who beamed at her over the rim of his tin coffee cup.

“Did you rest well?” The man took a deep draw of the coffee.

“Um, yes. Thank you.” Emmaline chose not to tell the minister how she had lain awake far into the night, worrying about what today might hold.

“Here you are, dear.” Mrs. Stanford set a plate heaping with fluffy biscuits and thick slices of bacon on the table in front of Emmaline.

Emmaline swallowed a wave of nausea at the sight of the food. When the woman handed her a cup of steaming, aromatic coffee, Emmaline feared she would be sick. Yet looking into the friendly faces of her benefactors, she knew she must at least make an attempt to eat.

The biscuits seemed the most innocuous of the offerings, so she broke off a small piece, dabbed it with butter from a misshapen pat in the middle of the table, and carried it to her mouth. Too late she realized she hadn’t blessed her food. And right under the watchful eyes of a man of God! Shame struck hard, and the bit of bread turned to sawdust in her mouth. She yanked up the cup of coffee to chase the offending bite down her throat. The hot liquid scorched her tongue.

Gasping, she smacked the cup onto the table. Coffee sloshed from the cup and spattered the tabletop. Embarrassed beyond endurance, Emmaline shot out of the chair and ran upstairs. She slammed the door and threw herself facedown onto the unmade bed. The springs hadn’t even stopped twanging before a firm knock sounded on the door.

She raised her face a few inches and called, “I prefer to be alone.” Holding her breath, she waited for a reply. Footsteps retreated down the stairs. With a sigh of relief, she allowed her head to collapse onto the bed. For several minutes she lay with her face pressed to the rumpled sheets. Finally she rolled over and sat up. As she did, the letter in her pocket crinkled.

Frowning, she yanked it out and held it at arm’s length, as if it were a snake that might strike. Words from the page flitted through her memory, each phrase as piercing as fangs.
Dear Mr.
Bradford . . .
Couldn’t Geoffrey have written to her?
Enclosed are
tickets for Emmaline’s transport to America.
He had promised to come for her himself!
Be certain she brings her wedding dress, as we will have
our ceremony at the Stetler Congregationalist Church immediately upon
her arrival.
And what of the promised wedding in England?
She
will want for nothing here.

Emmaline snorted aloud. Rising, she dropped the letter, crossed to the window, and looked out on the dusty street, blinking rapidly to hold back tears of despair. Want for nothing? Why, he and his land called Kansas could provide nothing that compared with England!

Stomping back to the bed, she snatched up the letter, tore it into bits, and scattered the pieces across the floor. Then she planted the toe of her shoe against the largest piece and ground it into the unfinished wooden floor. Although she knew it was a childish action, she couldn’t deny the rush of satisfaction it brought. But when Emmaline shifted her foot aside to reveal the shredded scrap, she realized the tantrum had done nothing to ease her loneliness. Sinking back onto the bed, she stared at the remains of the letter. The scattered pieces painted a picture of her shattered dreams.

Dropping to her knees, she gathered up the remnants and held them in her lap. She couldn’t put the letter back together again, but she could put her life back together—if she returned home. Father would be cross, without a doubt, but Mother would welcome her. Even if Father cast her out, she could find a job—perhaps sorting books at the newly constructed library or clerking in one of the shops. Menial jobs, to be certain, but respectable. In time, she could put this ordeal behind her and move forward as if Geoffrey Garrett and his ridiculous scheme to build a life in Kansas had never included her.

Geoffrey swallowed the last bite of beans, wiped his mouth, and pushed away from the table. He glanced at the plates in front of his ranch hands—nearly empty, too. Carrying his plate to the washbasin, he said, “Jim, I believe it’s your turn to do the dishes.”

Jim Cotler made a face. “Mr. Garrett, I’ll be awful pleased when this wife of yours finally arrives and takes over the household chores.”

Jim’s brother, Chris, cuffed the younger boy on the back of the head. “Don’t be insolent.”

The youngster picked up his plate and dragged his heels against the floor as he walked to the washbasin. “I apologize, Mr. Garrett. But I have washed dishes so many times, my hands are as soft as a nursemaid’s!”

Chris rose from the table, chuckling. “You could wash dishes from now until the turn of the century, and they would never be that soft.”

“Well . . .” The boy scowled, cranking the pump handle up and down. “I still don’t like to wash dishes.”

“One more time, Jim,” Geoffrey said, “and then Emmaline will take up those chores.” He had allowed Chris and Jim to assume Emmaline’s train was delayed rather than admit she’d refused to accompany him to the ranch. The deceit pricked his conscience, yet he couldn’t bring himself to confide the truth even to those who had labored with him to build this home for her.

Chris said, “If you like, I’ll do the dishwashing today, and you can see to my chore.”

Jim’s face lit with hopeful interest. “What’s your chore?”

Geoffrey and Chris exchanged a smirk. Geoffrey answered, “Chris is going to de-worm the ewes today.” De-worming consisted of forcing the animal to ingest a mixture of ground charcoal, oil, vinegar, and cloves. Geoffrey hadn’t yet encountered a sheep that willingly surrendered to the treatment.

Jim elbowed Chris away from the washbasin. “No, sir! I’ll wash dishes!”

Geoffrey and Chris laughed, and Geoffrey gave Jim’s narrow shoulder a light smack. “Very well, Jim. Dishes for you. But when you have completed the job, you will need to join Chris in the barn.” A band of trepidation constricted his chest. “I am . . . going to town.”

Both of the Cotler brothers nodded in reply, but neither asked any questions, for which Geoffrey was grateful. Heading to the horse barn, he reflected on his restless night. He had battled with himself, alternately cross with and concerned for Emmaline. Finally, on his knees, he had laid the situation at Jesus’ feet, and with that release he had discovered a tenuous peace.

He loved Emmaline. Even as a boy in knickers, he had loved her. Memories of her pretty face had carried him through the long, lonely days in Kansas. Desire to provide for her had motivated him to make his ranch a successful one. Even though they had resided thousands of miles apart, in his heart they had been a team. They were meant to carve a life together here on the plains.

I pray Emmaline spent her night remembering the dreams we shared
before I left her to build this ranch.

When Emmaline awakened again, sunshine no longer streamed through the little window, although the room was still light. She presumed the time to be midafternoon. Crossing on tiptoe to the door, she pressed her ear to the hard surface and listened. No sounds came from below, and her heart lifted in hope. If the Stanfords were gone, she would be able to slip out of the house unnoticed.

A plan formed quickly in her mind. Locate a local farmer or a community member and offer him a small token for transportation to the Moreland train station. Use the dowry money to purchase a ticket to the coast and then book passage on a ship. A daring plan, but it was her only option. She could not marry a man she no longer knew, no matter how adamant Father was.

The decision made, she spent a few precious minutes straightening the covers on the bed and disposing of the shredded letter. She grabbed the leather handle of her trunk and tugged the cumbersome box across the floor to the stairway. She couldn’t lift it by herself, so she continued dragging it, cringing with each hard thud as it bounced down the stairs.

At the bottom, she rubbed her lower back and panted from the exertion. Could she drag the trunk all the way to town? Resolve brought her upright. She had to.

Taking hold of the handle once more, she yanked the trunk across the floor of the foyer to the front door. She reached for the doorknob, but to her surprise, it turned on its own and the door swung wide open. Reverend Stanford stood on the stoop. Geoffrey was right behind him.

SEVEN

W
HEN GEOFFREY SPOTTED Emmaline’s trunk beside the front door, his spirits lifted. Obviously she had brought it down in readiness for her drive to the ranch. He smiled and stepped past the reverend to take her hand.

“Emmaline. How good to see you looking well rested. Shall we—” His enthusiasm faltered when he realized she wore the same black, dusty frock she had worn yesterday. “Why have you not put on your wedding dress?”

She jerked her hand free of his grasp and buried it in the folds of her skirt. Without a word she blinked up at him, her lips pursed.

Reverend Stanford cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should sit for a chat. Miss Bradford, you may leave the trunk there.” He gestured to the small room that served as a parlor. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

Geoffrey waited until Emmaline moved stiffly into the room and perched on one end of the sofa. He followed and sat at the opposite end. Reverend Stanford chose the wooden rocking chair in the corner.

The reverend bounced a smile toward both of them. “My wife will return from the schoolhouse in an hour or so. At that time we can go over to the chapel and complete your wedding service.”

“An hour?” Geoffrey repeated. “That should give Emmaline time to change.” He looked at her, expecting her to rise and retrieve the yellow dress from her trunk.

But Emmaline lowered her gaze to her lap. She linked her fingers together with such force it appeared the knuckles might snap. “I shall not change.”

“You intend to be married in . . .
that
?”

Emmaline’s jawline tensed for a moment. Then, in a barely audible voice, she said, “I do not intend to be married.”

The quietly phrased statement of rebellion brought Geoffrey from his seat. “What?”

Reverend Stanford put out a quieting hand. “Geoffrey, sit down, please.”

Drawing a lengthy breath through his nose, Geoffrey slowly lowered himself to the sofa. He cupped his hands over his knees and sat ramrod straight, biting down on the tip of his tongue to hold back the words of protest that fought for release.

“Miss Bradford.” Reverend Stanford waited until Emmaline lifted her head. “Did you not travel to America for the purpose of marrying Geoffrey?”

Her chin quivered. “My father sent me for that purpose, yes.”

“But you—” Geoffrey started.

“Did you not agree to this union?” Reverend Stanford asked.

Emmaline’s gaze flitted briefly to Geoffrey before jerking back toward the minister. She licked her lips. “Y-yes, sir. When I was a mere girl. But now . . .”

Geoffrey’s chest ached so fiercely he feared his heart would be torn in two. “Emmaline—” The word croaked out. He swallowed hard and started again. “Emmaline, have you found someone else?”

She gaped at him. “No!”

“Then what—”

“I do not
know
you!”

At her hysterical exclamation, Geoffrey slumped against the stiff back of the sofa. The ridiculousness of the comment should have made him laugh. But instead fury bound his chest.

Reverend Stanford leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “Miss Bradford, please help me understand. My impression from Geoffrey is that your families are well acquainted—that you and he grew up together.”

Emmaline turned her face to peer at Geoffrey. He sat still under her scrutiny, but it felt as if her gaze left behind a fiery trail as it ventured from his hair to his whiskered cheeks and all the way to his worn brown boots. He should have changed into his polished black boots before coming to town.