A Promise for Spring (7 page)

Her appraisal complete, she looked at the minister and blinked in innocence. “So much time has passed. . . . When he left, he claimed we would wait a year—two at most—to be wed.” A hint of defiance colored her tone. “And he never wrote to me—not once. He sent me sporadic messages through my father. How can I know him? Over the years, he slipped away from me. . . .”

Geoffrey stared at her sweet profile, silently railing against her words. He hadn’t wanted to wait so long. But the land had resisted his efforts to tame it. The government had insisted on five years of occupancy. When he wrote to Jonathan Bradford, the man had assured Geoffrey the delay would merely increase Emmaline’s desire for him and would give her an opportunity to mature into the kind of wife who would embrace life on the Kansas prairie. All these years, he had envisioned her eagerly anticipating the moment their hearts would join as one. How could he have been so wrong?

Emmaline lifted her chin and said, “I do not wish to hurt you, but I cannot marry you. I should never have come.”

Geoffrey sat in stunned silence. Wouldn’t the town gossips enjoy discussing this indignity? Everyone knew how excited he had been to bring Emmaline to America. Everyone knew of his plans to be wed. He had built a reputation in the area as a man of honor—a man of his word. What would they think of him now that the woman he claimed to love had jilted him? People would disdain him the way they had his father when his mother left their family.

“You will marry me, as we planned,” he growled. The words contained a menacing note that surprised even him. He never spoke so forcefully, not even to the ranch hands who served under his leadership. But he had never experienced such rebellion from his ranch hands.

Reverend Stanford cringed. “Geoffrey, I think it might be best if we—”

“No, sir.” Geoffrey realized his response was less than respectful, but the tension in his middle made polite exchange impossible. “She is to be my wife. For five years, I have waited for her to come. She pledged herself to me, and she will honor her word.”

Emmaline’s face, devoid of emotion, paled once again. Her white skin against the harsh black of her gown gave her a ghostly appearance. It occurred to Geoffrey that his words were draining the life from her, yet he continued, speaking to Reverend Stanford, even though the message was meant for his intended bride.

“When we speak our vows, she will promise to honor me. It is best she begin by honoring me now. Her survival on the plains depends on her willingness to listen and follow my directions.”

Turning to Emmaline, he said, “Please retrieve your wedding dress from the trunk and change for our ceremony. I am going to the chapel, and I will wait for you there.”

He rose and stomped out the door.

Geoffrey’s command carried Emmaline back to England, to her childhood and the authoritative father who had raised her. Having been taught unthinking obedience, she stood abruptly. For a moment she wavered, her shaky legs threatening to collapse, but she managed to remain upright. She turned toward her trunk.

“Miss Bradford?”

The minister’s tender voice halted her in her tracks.

“I can assure you Geoffrey Garrett is a good man. He will be an upstanding husband to you and an honorable father for your children.”

Emmaline swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. “Yes. I have been told he is a good man.” Tildy had spoken highly of Geoffrey, too. Yet Emmaline’s thoughts raged.
If he is such a man
of honor, why did he not keep his promises to me?

With resignation, Emmaline lifted the lid of her trunk, removed the dress of yellow lawn, and draped it over her arm. Then she faced Reverend Stanford. “When your wife returns, might she assist me in dressing?”

“Of course.”

Emmaline went upstairs to wait.

Mrs. Stanford insisted on running an iron over the yellow lawn to remove the travel wrinkles before helping Emmaline dress. She also combed out Emmaline’s hair, braided the long tresses, and coiled the braid into a figure eight on the back of her head. Since the little bouquet of rose verbena had long since wilted, the woman plucked a handful of bachelor buttons from the wild plot between the house and the chapel and tied the stems with a length of yellow ribbon.

Beaming, she said, “Emmaline, you look lovely.” She stroked Emmaline’s cheek and added, “But a smile would add much to your appearance.”

Emmaline tried, but her lips refused to curve upward. Her chest felt weighted, as though her trunk rested upon it, and her leaden legs resisted movement. But somehow she followed Mrs. Stanford out of the house and across the yard to the chapel. When they entered, they found the reverend and Geoffrey seated together on a bench near the front. Both men jumped to their feet, and Geoffrey’s face lit—with pleasure or satisfaction, Emmaline wasn’t sure.

Mrs. Stanford’s hand on her back propelled Emmaline forward, and Geoffrey stepped into the aisle to meet her.

“You are very beautiful, my bride,” he whispered.

The words should have delighted her, yet somehow they created a feeling of foreboding.
My
bride . . .
His
to own.
His
to make demands upon.
His
. . . Emmaline reeled.

Geoffrey placed his arm around her waist and guided her to the front of the chapel, where they faced the reverend. The clergyman sent a concerned look over the pair, but he opened his little Bible and began to read. “ ‘My beloved spake, and said unto me, Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away. For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come. . . . Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.’ ”

Come away . . . Come away
. . . The words reverberated through Emmaline’s mind. Geoffrey had asked her, years ago, to come away with him. In the foolish impetuosity of youth, she had agreed. Now the words compelled her to turn and run away, to make her escape as she had planned. But Geoffrey’s firm hand on her back held her captive as surely as if a sturdy rope were tied around her middle.

Reverend Stanford looked at Geoffrey. “Geoffrey, repeat after me: I, Geoffrey Dean Garrett, take thee, Emmaline Rose Bradford, to be my lawfully wedded wife.”

Geoffrey peered into Emmaline’s eyes. He opened his mouth, but no words came forth. His eyebrows pulled down and his lips twisted into a grimace. He jerked his head to face the minister. “I . . . cannot.”

Emmaline released her held breath in a mighty whoosh. She stared at Geoffrey’s profile, certain she had misunderstood. Had her prayer for deliverance been answered? Might Geoffrey release her from her previous commitment?

Geoffrey’s gaze swept over the reverend and his wife. “Could Emmaline and I have a few moments of privacy, please?”

The reverend stepped past them, took his wife’s elbow, and led her from the chapel.

Geoffrey guided Emmaline to the nearest bench and sat, tugging her down next to him. “Emmaline, I find that I cannot proceed as planned.”

Her breath escaped in little spurts. Sweet words of liberation!

“Yet I love you, and I cannot simply let you go.”

“But—”

“Please, Emmaline. I believe I have a compromise that will benefit us both. Will you listen?”

Miss Tildy had mentioned compromise. The remembrance lured Emmaline into nodding in agreement.

“You said you don’t know me any longer. As much as I regret it, my agreement with your father—to write to him rather than to you—has added to the distance between us.” He made a rueful expression, giving a slight shake of his head. “I should have shared the past years with you, but your father was convinced the difficulty of establishing my ranch would frighten you. It would seem too harsh a landscape for you. So I yielded to his request to write to him and allowed him to share whatever information he deemed acceptable. In so doing, I alienated you. For that, I am truly sorry.”

Emmaline knew her father well enough to know Geoffrey spoke the truth. Father had maintained control of everything. “I understand.”

A quick smile graced his face before he continued in a serious tone. “As for the amount of time that has transpired between my leaving England and now . . .” He sighed, looking to the side for a moment. What was he reliving in those seconds of introspection?

“My immaturity and inexperience misled me. The task was larger than I expected.” His gaze bored into hers once more. “Years slipped by quickly in the midst of hard work, but I never lost my desire to be your husband. I never stopped loving you, Emmaline.”

Deep emotion blazed in his hazel eyes. Mesmerized, Emmaline nodded.

“But you . . . you stopped loving me.”

For the first time, Emmaline experienced a stab of remorse. Until that moment, her thoughts had centered on herself—her sorrow at leaving England, her fear of this new place, and her resentment over Geoffrey’s broken promises. But now she saw what the years had cost him, and although she fought against it, compassion filled her.

She searched for a gentle way to make him understand. “The change in my feelings toward you did not come intentionally. When we were growing up, you were always there, an extension of my own family. It was only natural that I would love you, as I loved the others who spent much of their time with me.”

He ducked his head, his brow furrowed. “Did . . . did you ever really love me . . . as a woman loves a man?”

Emmaline considered the question. How many nights had she sat in the window seat of her bedroom, peering out at the stars and dreaming of how it would feel to be held in his arms? Many fine young men had crossed her path at school, and her brother had frequently brought home friends, but none of the boys had captured her attention and affection the way Geoffrey had.

His first year away, she had yearned for him with such fierceness, the desire for food had fled and she had cried herself to sleep at night. She had loved him as wholeheartedly as a moonstruck girl could. She answered honestly, “Yes, Geoffrey, I did love you.”

His head shot up, eagerness lighting his expression. “Then . . . then it is possible that you could love me again?”

Did love ebb like a tide, retreating and returning? “I do not know.”

She read displeasure in the downthrust of his eyebrows. But then he wiped his hand over his face, and the frown vanished. “Would you be willing to try?”

Emmaline licked her lips. “W-what do you mean?”

“Will you give me ten months, Emmaline? Ten months to win your love and dedication. If, at the end of that time, you still desire to return to England, I shall book passage and return you to your father’s house myself. I shall take full responsibility for the breach in the relationship, and I shall do all I can to mend any disagreements between you and your family before returning to my ranch.”

Emmaline stared at him. “Why not just send me back now?” Surely it would be less painful, and much less expensive, to end things now and send her back alone.

“I have neither the time nor the money to pay for another trip right now. I will not have either until I have butchered and sold the fall lambs. By then it will be winter, and winter is not a good time for traveling.”

“But I could use the dow—”

“The dowry money belongs to your father until which time we are wed.”

Emmaline knew Geoffrey could demand the dowry now as payment for their betrothal. His decision to wait to claim the money until they were legally wed pleased her.

Geoffrey went on, “And I love you. I want to share my life with you.” The sweet words of devotion sent a coil of something pleasant through Emmaline’s frame. He took her hands. “I am willing to allow you time to decide if you want a life with me.

You carry resentment from past wrongs, and it influences how you look at me right now. I understand your feelings, but I also wish to earn your forgiveness and trust. Will you give me that chance, Emmaline?”

His calloused fingertips pressed into her knuckles. “If you choose to stay, the months will be a time of learning for you. Being a rancher’s wife is far different from the life you had in Yorkshire County. We will discover if you have the strength of will to meet the challenges of this land. You can serve as my housekeeper until which time you decide to become my wife, if you so choose. So . . . will you stay, Emmaline? Will you stay until next spring?”

Emmaline became aware of his thumbs tracing a circle on the back of her hand. The touch ignited a fire beneath her skin, and she jerked her hands free. “B-but what will my parents say? They sent me here to be your wife, not your housekeeper.”

He pinched his lips together. “It might be best to simply allow them to believe we have wed.”

Emmaline drew back. “I cannot tell a fabrication to my parents, Geoffrey.”

He raised one shoulder. “It would be an omission of truth rather than a bold lie.”

Emmaline considered this. “Where would I live during this time?”

“You will live in the ranch house.”

She pressed her hand to her bodice. Her heart pounded beneath her palm.

Geoffrey shook his head. “We would not share a . . . sleeping room.” Defensiveness colored his tone. “I would make use of the sofa in the parlor or sleep on a shakedown in the spare room.”

“My mother would be appalled should I live under the same roof with a man who is not my legally wed husband.” Emmaline tried to sound forceful, but her uneven breathing made the statement quaver.

Geoffrey looked to the side for a few moments, his face wrinkled in thought. “Then I shall live in the bunkhouse with my hands. It is a two-room bunkhouse, and one half is now empty because—” He jolted. Facing her, he continued, “One half is empty. The bunkhouse is well away from the house, so propriety would be observed. When I come to the house for meals or evening visits, the ranch hands will be nearby, so no ill conjecture will mar your reputation while we become reacquainted.”

“I am uncertain, Geoffrey. . . .”

He snatched up her hands, pinning them between his broad palms. “We need the opportunity to become acquainted again. In order to do that, we need time together. To have time, we must both be at the ranch.”