A Promise for Spring
Page 9
She needed to get the sheets hung before they dried in a rumpled mess in the basket. Plucking the line from the ground where it lay like a lazy snake, she shook the dust from it. Should she fetch a stool, climb up, and reattach it herself? Heaven only knew when that slow-moving man of hers would return. She lifted her apron to wipe her brow, and when she lowered it she spotted a rise of dust from the road. Finally!
Dropping the line, she trotted forward to meet the wagon. “You git to jawin’ wit’ the Sorensons an’ forget where you live?” Then she spotted Emmaline, and her aggravation with Ronald fled. “Why, you brung Miss Emmalion for a visit! Git on down here, honey!”
Ronald assisted Emmaline to the ground, and immediately Tildy wrapped her in a hug. “Mm-mm-mmm, you look as bedraggled as a tomcat at sunrise.” She gave the younger woman a gentle nudge toward the house. “Git in the shade, chil’, an’ splash yo’ face wit’ watuh from that barrel.”
Emmaline eagerly scooped water from the barrel that sat next to the front door and doused her face and neck. Water spattered the front of the girl’s dress, leaving dark splotches behind.
Tildy shook her head. Foolish English girl, wearing dark material in this heat. “You cain’t be wearin’ black in the summertime. That sun’ll plumb roast you to nothin’.”
Emmaline shot her a sharp look, but she didn’t argue.
Clucking her tongue, Tildy pointed to the open doorway of the house. “Now let’s git some watuh inside ya.”
Tildy refilled the tin cup three times before Emmaline stopped reaching for more. Once the girl’s thirst was slaked, Tildy pushed her into a chair at the table and plunked herself down across from her. “Well, Miss Emmalion, it be mighty nice to have some comp’ny. But I gotta say, I’s surprised to see you. You ain’t even had time to hardly settle in at yo’ new home, an’ here you is a-visitin’.”
Emmaline opened her mouth as if to speak, but then she clamped her jaw closed again.
Tildy scowled. “Somethin’ eatin’ at you, chil’? You can tell me. Ol’ Tildy’s got some good listenin’ ears.”
The girl’s gaze darted to the doorway. Ronald stood in the opening. An unfamiliar carpet bag dangled from his hand. He hefted it, his eyes on Emmaline. “What you want me to do wit’ your bag, Miss Emmalion?”
So that’s the way the wind blows. Tildy fixed Emmaline with a knowing stare. “You come to stay, did ya?”
Emmaline shook her head wildly and jumped up from the table. “No!” Spinning to face Ronald, she tangled her hands together. “Just put it down. I . . . I shall . . .”
“Ronal’—” Tildy sent her husband an “I’s-meanin’-it” look— “drop the bag an’ go hang that line foh me. Toss them sheets over it once you got it hung, too. Emmalion an’ me’ll sort things out.”
His dark face puckered as though he’d bit down on a sour pickle. “When we gonn’ eat our dinner?”
Tildy huffed. “We eat when I says we eat! You just go on an’ do what I tells ya.”
With a shrug, Ronald thumped the bag onto the floor and left.
Tildy pointed to the chair. “Sit, Miss Emmalion. Reckon you an’ me is gonna have us a talk.”
Stubbornness flared in the girl’s dark eyes. “I have nothing about which to speak.”
Tildy chuckled at her bravado. “Even wit’out you speakin’, that bag ovuh there says plenty.” She nodded toward the chair. “Sit down.”
The girl remained upright, staring at the bag.
Tildy smacked the tabletop. “I says, sit down, Miss Emma-lion.” With a startled look, Emmaline quickly sat.
Tildy reached across the table and patted Emmaline’s hand.
“Good. Now, let’s hear it.”
Emmaline stared, wide-eyed but silent.
Giving the girl’s slim hand another pat, Tildy said, “Had you a disagreement, did you?”
Tears welled in Emmaline’s eyes. She offered a slow nod.
“Uh-huh, them men . . . always doin’ somethin’ to upset us womenfolks.” Tildy made sure her voice carried sympathy. She clucked her tongue. “So what was it, chil’?” She leaned forward, tucking her chin low. “He give you a whack? ’Cause ain’t no woman gots to put up wit’ a man like dat.”
Emmaline reared back. “Certainly not! But—but he let me eat something deplorable, and he said I was not to speak to the hands on the ranch. He behaved as though he expected me to . . . to flirt with them.”
“So you packed up an’ plan on leavin’?”
The girl stuck out her chin. “Yes.”
“Well . . .” Tildy traced a circle on the tabletop with her finger, gathering her thoughts. Youngsters could be brash, and it appeared this one was as headstrong as the man who’d fetched her from across the ocean. I sho’ could use some help here, Lawd. “I reckon he acted foolish ’cause he was jealous. You’s a plumb purty little gal, an’ it’d be hard-pressed for them workers on the ranch not to notice. An’ that Geoffrey, he’s been waitin’ a long time to have you here. Reckon he’s a-wantin’ you all to his own self.”
Emmaline protested, “The ranch hand in question is a mere boy.”
Tildy raised her hand. “Now, I’s not defendin’ him, mind you, just tryin’ to help you see his side o’ thangs. You bein’ young like you is, an’ newly married”—Emmaline’s face turned bright pink—“it’s gonn’ take some time to learn ever’thang ’bout each othuh. You jus’ keep assurin’ him, an’ he’ll soon see you got eyes for nobody but him.”
The color in the girl’s cheeks deepened to a scalding red. She turned her gaze to her lap.
Tildy sighed. “Men is jealous creatures, chil’, so we’uns just do what we can not to worry ’em. Things’ll get better by an’ by.”
Emmaline whispered something.
Tildy couldn’t hear the words. “What you say, chil’?”
Emmaline raised her head. “I said . . . we’re not married.”
Tildy jerked backward, her spine connecting sharply with the back of the chair. “You ain’t married? But—” Hadn’t she given those young’uns a wedding gift? Why, the girl had drove off holding on to a wedding bouquet!
“After all the time that has passed, I feel as though he is a stranger to me! How could I marry a stranger?” The girl planted her palms on the table and leaned forward. “So we made an agreement for me to stay in Kansas until winter’s end so I can learn how to be a rancher’s wife and to try to rediscover the love I once held for him. I agreed in the hopes that things would go well, but . . .”
Shaking her head wildly, Emmaline exclaimed, “I cannot honor the agreement! Not if meals consist of the organs of an animal cooked in that very animal’s stomach. Not if it means being told to whom I can and cannot speak. Why, he treated me as though I were nothing more than his property!” She clamped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. “Oh! I did not mean—”
Tildy flapped her hand. “Now, no need for apologizin’. Truth is, me an’ Ronal’ was property, an’ it ain’t a pleasurable thang. So’s I understan’ better’n most what you’s sayin’.”
Emmaline’s shoulders slumped. Her face slowly returned to its normal color. She licked her lips and sent a hopeful look across the table. “Since you understand, will you and Ronald help me?
Will you take me to Moreland so I can purchase a train ticket and go home?”
Tildy rose and paced the length of the house. “Now, chil’, I understan’ how you’s feelin’, but that don’ mean I’s gonna help you run off.”
Emmaline’s face fell. “But why?”
“ ’Cause a person’s word’s gotta mean somethin’.” Tildy crossed to the table and took hold of Emmaline’s hands. “If you an’ Geoffrey made an agreement, then you gotta stick to it.”
“But how can I live with a stranger who—”
Tildy gave the girl’s hands a shake. “You think you’re the only woman ever married a stranger?” She tilted her head toward the doorway. “That man out there—Ronal’? Him an’ me was strangers when
we jumped de broom. Massuh bought him from a plantation in North Carolina an’ brought him to me. Says he’s to be my man.” Remembrances—some good, some bad—tugged at Tildy, but she pushed them aside to stay focused on Emmaline and Geoffrey.
“I took one look at him an’ thought, ‘Mm-hmm, Massuh be thinkin’ a tall man an’ a wide woman make some sturdy field hands.’ But I say nothin’, just jump dat broom an’ take Ronal’ to my cabin like I’s told. Didn’t feel nothin’ for him at first, but jumpin’ dat broom meant I was his an’ he was mine. We was committed to each othuh. No ma’am, didn’t feel nothin’ at first, but after a heap o’ prayin’ an’ the Lawd answerin’ . . .”
Tildy closed her eyes for a moment. Then, looking at Emmaline again, she placed her hands over her heart. “Over time, that man become my whole world.” She touched Emmaline’s pale cheek. “That kind o’ feelin’ don’t come on right away, Miss Emmalion, but it do come on when you look to the good Lawd to help you honor a commitment.”
Emmaline pulled back and rose from the chair. Turning her back on Tildy, she said, “So you will not assist me in reaching Moreland?”
Tildy sighed. Hadn’t the girl listened to anything she’d said? “No, Miss Emmalion, neither Ronal’ nor me is gonna help you break a vow . . . even if it ain’t a weddin’ vow.”
“Very well, then. I shall walk.” Emmaline strode purposefully to the door. She bent over to grasp the handle on the carpet bag, but then she jerked straight up, looking outside. Geoffrey Garrett’s wagon pulled into the yard. Emmaline jumped behind the doorjamb. “Please! I will not ask anything else of you ever, but please do not tell him I am here!”
Her desperate whisper pierced Tildy’s heart. Lawd, what do I do?
TWELVE
GEOFFREY SET THE brake and hopped over the side of his wagon. The sheets flapping on the clothesline meant Tildy was home, and the wagon beside the barn indicated Ronald’s presence. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Ronald? Tildy?”
Ronald stepped from the barn, and a moment later Tildy emerged from the house. Neither wore their usual welcoming smiles, but that suited Geoffrey today. He didn’t have time for chitchat. The worry that struck when he had returned to the ranch house at noonday and found Emmaline missing still held him in its grasp. He had to find Emmaline.
She must have gone for a walk and gotten lost. He could think of no other explanation. While hitching the team to the wagon and scanning the countryside on his way to his friends’ house, he had prayed constantly for her safety.
Geoffrey strode forward to meet Tildy. “Emmaline’s gone. I looked everywhere on the ranch, but I couldn’t find her. I hoped you might agree to—”
Tildy and Ronald exchanged an uncomfortable look that made Geoffrey’s mouth go dry. He reached out and grasped Ronald’s forearm. “You know something. Tell me.”
Ronald extracted his arm and scratched his head, glancing at his wife. “You tell ’im, Tildy.”
“What?” Geoffrey barked the word, fear honing a sharp edge to his tone.
Without speaking, Tildy waved her thick palm toward the house. Geoffrey looked past her shoulder. A shadow moved inside the door. Emmaline! Dashing past Tildy, he charged through the door and swept Emmaline into his arms.
“Oh, thank the Lord . . .” He pressed his face to her hair and inhaled. The sweaty smell from her hair spoke of hours in the sun. She must have wandered aimlessly before stumbling upon the Senger homestead. Sympathy rolled through him. “I feared you were lost. . . .”
She squirmed in his arms. He released her but then caught her shoulders and peered into her face. “In the village of Wortley you had the freedom to venture wherever you pleased, but you are no longer in Yorkshire County.” His voice rose as he considered all the things that could have happened to her as she roamed across the prairie. “From now on you will remain at the house unless I accompany you off the property.”
Emmaline jerked free of his hold and moved away, stepping over a carpet bag. The carpet bag from the closet at the ranch. The buttoned collar beneath his chin seemed to tighten. He jammed a finger toward the bag. “What is the meaning of this?”
Emmaline folded her arms across her chest and looked to the side. The stubborn set of her jaw stirred Geoffrey’s ire. Before he could insist she answer him, Tildy and Ronald entered the house.
“Tildy and Ronald, please leave Emmaline and me alone.”
“Uh-uh.”
Tildy’s refusal reminded him of Emmaline’s defiance. Geoffrey spun to face Tildy.
She caught his arm and tugged. Her gravelly voice rasped directly into his ear. “You go easy on Miss Emmalion. She didn’t come to harm, an’ you needs to be grateful ’stead o’ raisin’ Cain.”
“Tildy . . .” Geoffrey groaned the name.
“You be ’memberin’ what the Good Book says ’bout how we is to love. Seems to me there be a verse ’bout a man lovin’ his woman the way Jesus loves the church. Would Jesus be a-hollerin’ right now or would He be tender?”
Tildy’s admonition pricked Geoffrey’s conscience, but it didn’t remove his determination to understand why Emmaline had packed a bag and set out. He gave Tildy’s hand a pat and moved to Emmaline’s side. Aware of his audience, he tempered his voice.
“Emmaline, please explain why you left the ranch this morning.” Emmaline sent Tildy a pleading look, and Tildy stepped to Emmaline’s side and slipped her thick arm around the younger woman’s waist. “Now, now, you know sometimes we do thangs afore thinkin’ ’em all the way through,” she said to Geoffrey. “Reckon Miss Emmalion’s moseyin’ off today was just one o’ them thangs.”
Geoffrey waited for Emmaline to substantiate or refute Tildy’s statement, but she remained stubbornly silent.
“You take her on back to Chetwyn’ Valley now an’ let her rest up from her wanderin’ in the sun. Then this evenin’ ”—she gave Geoffrey’s arm an emphatic pat—“you two have a nice talk. Pray together. Things’ll come out right in the end.”
Geoffrey gritted his teeth. “Oh yes. We shall certainly have a talk this evening.” He held out one hand toward his errant bride-to-be. “Come along, Emmaline.”
She stepped past his hand, hefted the bag, and walked out to the wagon without a word or a glance in his direction. He clamped his jaw and followed.
Emmaline sat stiffly upright on the wagon seat, clutching the bag in her lap as if it might give her strength to face whatever waited when they reached the ranch. Geoffrey’s firmly set jaw and stiff shoulders told her how upset he was with her. She tried to tell herself she didn’t care—why should it matter if he were upset? It was his foolish action that had precipitated her desire to leave. She was the innocent victim.
Yet, deep down, guilt pricked. The image of his relieved face when he had spotted her in the Sengers’ house played through her mind. Her skin tingled when she recalled the warmth of his embrace. His emotionally voiced gratitude to the Lord rang in her ears and stirred something inside of her. In that moment when Geoffrey had swept her into his arms, she had regretted her hasty departure. Now, the remembrance of those fleeting snippets of time kept her from giving full vent to indignation.
She risked a quick sidelong glance at his stern profile. She saw little of the young man she remembered in the firm line of his jaw and tanned skin. Lines fanned the corners of his eyes, making him seem older than his twenty-seven years, and an etched V between his eyebrows gave him the appearance of one who had weathered much and emerged stronger and able to conquer whatever difficulties came his way. Even his hands, clenched around the reins so tightly his tendons stood out like rope, had a chiseled hardness alien to the hands of the average English gentleman.
She stared at her own hands wrapped around the handle of the bag. Mother had always admonished her to protect her skin—to keep it white and smooth, as a lady should. Would time in this country make the same changes in her skin that she witnessed in Geoffrey’s? Would time here build in her an inner strength?
Although the words were uttered in an insipid tone, they rode on an ominous current. A flash of rebellion lifted her chin. “Yes, we shall discuss today’s . . . activities.” She carefully emulated his tone. His accusation from the morning still stung, and she expected an apology. She shifted the bag to the seat before climbing over the side of the wagon. She tugged her skirt free of the rough wood and then reached for the bag. Geoffrey handed it to her. She stumbled backward with its weight when he released it.
Through clenched teeth, he said, “Are you all right?”
In spite of the situation, Emmaline nearly laughed. As angry as he was, he still attempted the role of considerate suitor. She offered a brusque nod.
“Very well. I shall see you at suppertime.” He slapped the reins down on the horses’ backs, and the wagon rolled around the house.
“Thank you for the meal, Miss Emmaline.” Chris wiped his mouth with his napkin and dropped it over his plate.
Emmaline glanced up from her own plate. Her best efforts had produced a charred-on-the-outside-but-raw-in-the-middle pork roast, soggy potatoes, and half-cooked carrots. From the lumps beneath the napkin, she knew Chris had eaten little of the meal. His polite statement shamed her.
“I am sorry it was not more . . . palatable.” She dabbed her mouth with her napkin, flicking her gaze around the table to include all three men in her apology. “I was not given many opportunities to cook at home.” Certainly this dismal meal proved how ill-equipped she was for this place. Why couldn’t Geoffrey just allow her to go home? With a sigh, she added, “It may be necessary for Geoffrey to hire a cook lest we all starve.”