A Promise for Spring

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Eager to put her at ease, he asked, “Did you have a pleasant trip?”

  “Y-yes, thank you.” She answered primly, still refusing to look at him. The stammer unsettled him. He didn’t remember her stuttering as a child.

  He tried again. “I trust the accommodations on the S.S. Wyoming were satisfactory.”

  Her chin quivered slightly before she replied. “Oh yes. Ququite. Thank you.”

  “Did the ship’s maid assist you as needed?”

  “She was quite helpful, thank you.”

  This conversation was getting him nowhere. He stopped, forcing her to stop, too. He waited until she had turned her uncertain gaze upward. “Emmaline, please tell me what I am doing that frightens you. I do not wish for you to be afraid of me. I have—” How could he summarize all of his plans in such a way that he would not overwhelm her? He had expected a grown woman to step off of that train, but Emmaline behaved very much like a child in need of assurance. His voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “I have been looking forward to your arrival. It has been quite lonely, all these years away from my family. Your lovely face is an exceptionally welcome sight.”

  Emmaline’s gaze darted to the side and her cheeks flooded with color. He noticed her free hand remained pressed tightly against the hip of her dirty dress. The fingers of that hand convulsed. Finally her lips parted and she brought her gaze back to his face. He had to lean forward to catch her airy words.

  “I thank you for your kind welcome. I . . . I will be fine once I become accustomed to things here.”

  She glanced across the dry, rolling prairie. A hot gust of wind caught her skirts, wrapping the full folds around her knees. She released the hold on her hip long enough to straighten the tangled layers of muslin. Then, again, she cupped her hip and finished meekly, “It is quite different from home, is it not?”

  Geoffrey, encouraged by her lengthy speech, squeezed the hand resting in the crook of his elbow. “Oh yes, the landscape and climate are quite different from England’s. But I have adjusted, and I know you will, too.” He gave her hand another pat and started moving again.

  They approached the baggage car, and Geoffrey squinted at the two men unloading goods. One of them climbed into the car, but the second one turned in their direction and swept his battered hat from his head. This gesture revealed the familiar tousled mass of red hair belonging to Max Tolbert.

  Max grinned broadly and called out, “Ho, Geoff! So this is your Emmaline, eh?”

  Geoffrey placed a hand on Emmaline’s back to propel her forward. “Emmaline, I would like you to meet an acquaintance of mine, Mr. Maxwell Tolbert.” They came to a stop before Max, who stood grinning stupidly. “Max, this is Miss Emmaline Bradford from Yorkshire County, England.”

  Max held his hat against his chest. “How do, miss?” He plunked the hat back on his head and, offering a cheeky smirk, poked Geoffrey with his elbow. “But not ‘miss’ for long, eh, Geoff ?”

  Emmaline stiffened, and Geoffrey wished Max had not been so brazen. These men did not understand polite conversation where ladies were concerned. “If you are referring to our wedding plans,” Geoffrey said in a formal tone, “then you are correct. I have made arrangements to exchange our vows before we retire to the ranch this evening.”

  Geoffrey sensed Emmaline’s startled gaze swing to him. From within the car a voice boomed, “Max! Stop jawin’ an’ help me out here!” A crate slid across the wooden floor and nearly sailed through the open doorway.

  Max lost his hat as he dove for the opening. He stopped the crate and then bellowed, “Fool crazy nincompoop! Watch what you’re doin’, Lyle!”

  Lyle hollered back, “I am watchin’ what I’m doin’! You need to be watchin’ ’stead of yammerin’! We got work to do!”

  Max continued to mutter but returned to work. Geoffrey led Emmaline well away from the train car and allowed the men space to finish their tasks. He spotted Emmaline’s wooden trunk marked clearly on its cover with her name, the name of the ship, and her destination of Moreland. Several other crates of varying sizes were removed, and finally a twelve-foot-long brown-paper-wrapped tube emerged. Geoffrey experienced a rush of delight when he spotted this item—his wedding gift to Emmaline.

  “Max, if I bring my wagon round, would you and Lyle load my things for me?” Geoffrey asked as Lyle hopped out of the car.

  “Sure, Geoff,” Max replied good-naturedly while Lyle scratched his head. “You ain’t exactly dressed for haulin’, are you?” Max gave Lyle a jab with his elbow. “Ol’ Geoff is gettin’ married today, Lyle.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I heard.” Lyle shoved Max’s elbow away. His tone turned congenial as he offered, “ ’Gratulations, Geoff. Wishin’ you many years of happy.”

  “Thank you.” Geoffrey took Emmaline by the elbow and steered her back toward the station. He called over his shoulder, “I shall return with the wagon momentarily.”

  Geoffrey helped Emmaline onto the springed seat, then settled himself beside her. She grasped her skirts and pulled them close to her knees. Not even a whisper of fabric touched Geoffrey. He wondered if she held her skirts close to protect his clothing from the coal dust or to keep herself away from him. With a slight scowl, he released the brake and expertly guided the wagon to the waiting boxes. He and Emmaline watched in silence while Max and Lyle loaded everything into the bed of the wagon.

  When the men were finished, Lyle pointed at the long tube that stuck out the end of the wagon. Scratching his head again, he asked, “What is that thing, Geoff? It’s heavier’n the crates o’ books we delivered to the schoolhouse last week!”

  Geoffrey laughed. “That’s a surprise for Emmaline.” He glanced at Emmaline, hoping to see a spark of curiosity in her eyes. She stared straight ahead, seemingly unaware of the exchange between the men. With a disappointed sigh, Geoffrey issued a half hearted invitation. “Come out to the ranch in a week or so, Lyle, and you’ll see what was in there. Bring Clara with you to meet Emmaline.”

  Lyle gave him a gap-toothed grin. “Sure thing, Geoffrey. Me ’n’ the missus’d be glad to come out for a hello. Bye now, Miss Emmaline.”

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

  THREE

  AS GEOFFREY 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

  EMM 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.