A Promise for Spring

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “Very well.” He started to leave the kitchen, but before stepping out the door, he turned back. “Did you truly expect to be able to protect yourself with the rock in the bag?”

  She didn’t answer for so long that he thought she had ignored his question. But at last she replied, “It is an English rock.”

  An English rock? “You brought it from England?”

  “Yes.” She smacked a bowl onto the counter. “Mother sent it with me to serve as a reminder of my homeland.”

  “But why carry it with you?”

  She dipped her chin toward her shoulder. “I did not believe it should remain here in Kansas.”

  She so hated this land—his land—that she would not even leave a rock from England behind?

  “But do not worry, Geoffrey,” Emmaline continued, her voice low and even. “My rock and I will not leave your property. Your threat will keep me here.” She lifted another bowl from the water and placed it with the others. Turning her head to meet his gaze, she finished in a steely tone, “At least until winter’s end.”

  Emmaline stood at the window of her sleeping room. She had extinguished the lantern, cloaking the room in darkness. She stared at the bunkhouse windows, her lower lip caught between her teeth. When would the men finally go to bed?

  The nighttime stars were bright in the black sky, and the moon cast a whitish path across the ground. As soon as the glow in the bunkhouse windows was gone, she would perform her task. She knew exactly where she wanted to hide the dowry money sent by her father to give to Geoffrey. As a child, playing hide-and-seek with her brother, Edward had always managed to elude her. Once when she had complained loudly about the length of time she’d spent searching, he had laughed at her. “I was under your bed the entire time,” he’d said. “You never once searched your own room, because you did not expect to find me in such an obvious place.” His chuckle had infuriated her. “To be successful at hide-and-seek, Emmaline, you must think like the seeker and do the opposite of the expected.”

  Remembering her brother’s statement, Emmaline had heeded his advice. If Geoffrey were to look for the money, he would expect her to hide it in her sleeping room or the parlor or kitchen—places of familiarity for her. Never would he suspect she would choose one of his areas of familiarity.

  So as soon as the men were asleep, she would sneak to the barn and hide the tin box of money. Then, when spring came, if Geoffrey refused to honor his promise to send her back to England, she would have her own money to use.

  The window on Geoffrey’s side of the bunkhouse finally went dark. She blew out a breath of relief. Tucking the tin box against her ribs, she headed on tiptoe to the front door and crept out beneath the moonlight.

  SEVENTEEN

  BY AUGUST, EMMALINE had fallen into a housekeeping routine that offered a predictable structure but little joy. She adopted Tildy’s pattern of washing on Monday, ironing on Tuesday, mending on Wednesday, baking on Thursday, and housecleaning on Friday. On Saturday she prepared additional food for Sunday’s use, ensuring that Sunday would remain a day of rest.

  On Sunday afternoons she wrote long, newsy letters to her mother. At times Emmaline saw herself as noble, sparing Mother the truth of her aching loneliness and cheerless life; other times she berated herself for her dishonesty. A part of her longed to pour her heartache onto the page, yet given the distance between England and Kansas—and Mother’s inability to fix any of the problems—she couldn’t bear to cause Mother anxiety. So she wrote of the land, the sheep, the many duties . . . but nothing of her heart.

  Every day included garden chores—watering, weeding, picking. Her crooked rows of beans, tomatoes, carrots, peas, corn, turnips, and beets grew fruitful in spite of the withering sun and dry, blowing wind.

  She chose to work in the garden first thing in the morning, before the sun got too high. Even in the early-morning hours, sweat would dampen her hair and make her black dress stick to her chest. She had resorted to wearing her dress over a simple, Tildy-made cotton shift and pantaloons. Her mother would be mortified to know Emmaline had discarded her corset and layers of petticoats, but her mother had never lived on the prairie.

  Afternoons were hot enough to fry an egg on the tin roof of the springhouse—as Jim had proven. He thought it a clever trick, but Emmaline had been appalled. Ever since she had watched the egg bubble and pop on the roof, the heat had seemed even less bearable.

  On this morning, Emmaline collected new potatoes to boil with green beans and ham for lunch. She pushed her hand through the soft mound of dirt beneath a potato plant and blindly sought potatoes. Tildy had taught her she shouldn’t uproot the plant, but merely borrow a few small potatoes from each root. Then other potatoes were left to grow. Those would carry them through the winter months.

  Emmaline pulled two or three egg-sized potatoes from beneath each plant, placing them in her basket on top of the tumble of fresh green beans. She had a difficult time keeping up with the green beans—she picked the plants clean each day, but always the next morning, more would be ready to pick. She disliked the sticky feel of the leaves against her hands.

  She plopped the last potato in the basket, and her gaze fell on her hand. Holding it up, she examined it front and back. Her nails were chipped and rimmed with dirt, and her skin was brown from its exposure to the sun. She barely recognized the hand as her own. Touching her cheek, she wondered if her face was equally as tanned.

  Pushing to her feet, she lifted the basket and scuffed her way to the house. She blamed her sluggish movements on the heat, but she realized there was a deeper reason. Everywhere she looked, all that greeted her eyes was brown grass, brown dirt, brown rock. The sky was as blue as a bluejay’s wing, but she couldn’t pluck a piece of the sky and carry it with her. Her soul longed for color.

  She entered the kitchen and dumped the vegetables into the sink. She splashed water over the beans and potatoes and began to scrub them clean of dirt. As she worked, in her mind’s eye, the potatoes became colorful rocks from the garden at home and the beans flower stems heavy with fragrant blooms.

  Sitting at the table, she began snapping the beans, discarding the tops and throwing the edible portion into a large pot that already held the clean potatoes. She watched the growing mound in the pot, thinking of the picked vegetables stored in the springhouse and cellar. Tildy had promised to teach her to preserve the vegetables so they would keep through the winter months, but first Geoffrey would have to purchase jars for her. When he came in for lunch, perhaps she would ask if she might accompany him to town when he made the purchase.

  She thought back to the day he had retrieved her from the train. He had promised she could order items from a catalog or go into Moreland to buy some bric-a-brac to make the house more cheerful. But that promise remained unfulfilled. She’d spent every day on this dry, brown ranch.

  She snapped the last bean, carried the heavy pot to the stove, and ladled water over the vegetables. Automatically, she added salt, pepper, dried onion, and a ham hock and gave the mixture a quick stir with a wooden spoon. With a satisfied nod, she placed the lid over the pot and looked around the kitchen. Amazingly, nothing else required her attention.

  As she stepped to the doorway to catch a bit of the breeze, the sound of moving water captured her attention. The gentle song of the Solomon River. How wonderful it would feel to immerse herself in the cool water. She didn’t have time for a swim, but perhaps she could soak her feet. Quickly, before some chore tugged her thoughts elsewhere, she skipped out the front door and headed for the river.

  Jim rounded the corner of the main house and swept his gaze past the garden plot that filled the side yard. Each day, Emmaline labored under the morning sun, clearing the weeds from the squiggly rows of vegetables. He’d grown fond of the sight of her neatly coiled hair shimmering nigh red in the sun. Red, he’d decided, was his favorite color.

  He smacked his hat against his thigh in disappointment when he found the garden empty. But then he noticed
a spot of black along the edge of the Solomon. She sat with her back to him. Her shoes lay side by side next to her hip.

  Indecision held Jim in place for a moment. Mr. Garrett had instructed him to swing by the house and make sure Emmaline was all right. Ever since the night she had wandered off—sending Mr. Garrett down the road in a state of panic—the boss had kept a watchful eye on Emmaline. Jim thought it foolish, but he did what he was told without asking questions. He should go back to the north pasture and let Mr. Garrett know she was safe and soaking her toes in the water. The boss’s instructions hadn’t included talking to her—but neither had they prohibited it.

  Adjusting his hat, he strode across the hard ground. Eagerness sped his footsteps, and when he arrived at her side, he was panting. As he stepped into her line of vision, he smiled broadly, tipping his hat as he’d seen a gentleman in Moreland do toward a lady. But then he realized her eyes were closed.

  She slept with her head tipped to the side. Her hands rested, palms up, in her lap. Against the black fabric of her rumpled skirt, her skin seemed pale. Jim crouched beside her, and his boot heel came down on a small twig. At the snap, her head swiveled and her eyes flew wide. When their gazes collided, her face flooded with pink.

  “Jim!” She yanked her feet from the water, turned her back on him, snatched up her shoes in one hand, and stumbled to her feet. “I . . . I’m so sorry.” She looked around, as if expecting someone to jump out of the bushes at her. “Is it lunchtime? I had better go in.”

  Jim held up both hands, shaking his head. “It’s not lunchtime yet. Another hour probably.”

  She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Good. I have some time, then. . . .” Suddenly she jerked her shoulders back and lifted her chin high. “But I suppose you came to check on me.”

  Jim frowned. The harsh undertone in her voice didn’t match her soft appearance.

  “Well.” She thumped her leg with her shoes. “You may return to Geoffrey and tell him I have obeyed his orders to remain close to the house.”

  Uncertain how to respond, Jim gave a hesitant nod.

  Emmaline’s expression turned penitent. “Please forgive me. I’m not angry with you, Jim.”

  “That’s all right, Miss Emmaline.” Jim wished he could hold her hand. She was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen—softer and sweeter than a baby lamb. “Sometimes I don’t like being told what to do, either. But my brother says that as long as I’m drawing a wage, I do what the boss says.” He added in a conspiratorial whisper, “Even checking up on you.”

  Her brow crinkled. “I suppose I should understand why he sends you. He does not trust me after I . . .” She looked across the river, the muscles in her jaw twitching. “I should not be speaking to you this way. It is far from proper.”

  Jim reached out and allowed his fingertips to brush her sleeve. “It’s all right. I won’t tell. Who else would you talk to?”

  For long moments she stared into his face, her full lips pursed into a scowl of uncertainty. “You’re right. There is no one else with whom I can share my thoughts now that Tildy doesn’t come each day.”

  “You miss Tildy?”

  “Oh yes. I enjoyed her company very much.”

  “Well . . .” Jim scratched his head. “This afternoon I’ll be taking the wagon over to the Sengers’ place to pick up the shears Ronald sharpened for us. Maybe Mr. Garrett would let you go along.”

  A smile curved her lips, making Jim’s heart patter wildly. “Maybe he would,” she said.

  “Do you want me to ask him?”

  “No, I shall ask. Then, if he grows surly, you will be spared.”

  Jim clasped his hands together. She wanted to protect his feelings. Did that mean she liked him? “All right. You can tell me after lunch.”

  “Very well. But I have dawdled beside the water long enough. I have a lunch to complete. Do you prefer corn bread or biscuits?”

  Jim licked his lips. “Biscuits. With butter and honey.”

  She smiled. “Very well, then. Biscuits. I shall see you in less than an hour.” She turned and ran to the house, her bare feet flashing beneath the hem of her full skirts.

  Sitting atop the wagon seat next to Jim and heading down the road, Emmaline couldn’t deny a sense of freedom. Never had Geoffrey allowed her to leave the ranch with anyone but him. Maybe—she hardly dared allow the thought—this meant he was beginning to trust her. If he trusted her, perhaps he would allow her to venture out on her own one day. How she longed to roam unheeded, filling her arms with wild flowers and maybe even making a trip into town.

  Jim jabbered away, his hands wrapped around the reins and his elbows resting on his bony knees. She listened with half an ear, nodding on occasion, but oblivious to the meaning behind his words. She had decided over her months of listening to his prattle that he enjoyed hearing himself talk and needed no encouragement to continue his endless flow of words.

  From atop the wagon seat, she glimpsed a splash of yellow amidst the dry grasses. She pressed her hands against the seat to raise herself higher. Her eyes feasted upon a veritable sea of bright yellow flowers with round, brown centers, and she gasped in surprise.

  Jim stopped mid-story. “What?”

  Emmaline eagerly turned to him. “May we stop? I should like to pick some of those flowers.”

  Jim drew the team to a halt and squinted across the landscape. “You want those sunflowers?”

  “Sunflowers . . .” Indeed, their color and their round faces were as bright and cheerful as the sun that blazed overhead.

  “Why do you want them?” His tone reflected disgust. “They’re weeds—a real nuisance. They’ll take over a field if you let them.”

  Emmaline turned to him in shock. “But they are lovely! They are like a large yellow daisy. I must have a cluster.” Before he could voice an argument, she leaped over the side of the wagon and dashed into the field.

  “Miss Emmaline! Miss Emmaline, wait!”

  Jim’s panicked voice slowed her for a moment, but then she resumed her pell-mell race across the ground, her skirts held high so they wouldn’t get caught up in the stiff grass. She reached the flowers, wrapped her hands around one tough stem, and tugged as hard as she could.

  Jim pounded to her side. “Miss Emmaline, you should never run out into a field like that!”

  The stem broke loose, and she stumbled backward slightly as the hard ground released the plant. “Oh?” She traced one brightly hued petal with her finger, smiling.

  “No, ma’am. There are snakes in the pastures, and they don’t like to be surprised. If you frighten a snake, it strikes.”

  The boy’s obvious fear penetrated Emmaline’s senses, and a bit of trepidation leaked in. “Have you been bitten?”

  He gulped and turned away from her. “I know someone who got bit. He . . . died.”

  Emmaline had never seen the affable youth so jittery. She battled between worry about snakes and the desire to collect more sunflowers. The stem she had plucked held half a dozen blooms. If she cut them loose from the main stem, she would have a small but pleasant bouquet. She could be satisfied with that. “All right. If you’re concerned, we can go back to the road.”

  “Stay behind me,” Jim ordered, his voice cracking on the last word. He set off at a slow pace, setting his feet down with deliberation. Not until they reached the road did his shoulders relax. He helped her into the wagon, and for the next few minutes they rode in silence.

  She clutched her hard-won flowers. How cheerful they looked! To draw Jim out of his silence, she said, “Thank you for letting me pick these. I plan to save the blooms and let them go to seed. Then I can plant them at the corner of the house, right in front of the porch. Having their happy faces on the property will be almost be like having a garden of daisies.”

  Jim sent her a low-browed look. “Mr. Garrett won’t let you plant weeds in front of the porch.”

  “Oh yes, he will.” Emmaline crushed the flowers to her chest. Geoffrey would not deny her th
e pleasure of adding color to the barren yard, would he? Her heart lifted as she looked again at the cluster. Their odor was not pleasant, but their cheery appearance more than compensated for the pungent smell.

  She lifted her attention from the flowers and peered down the road, but her attention slid to something billowing on the eastern horizon. A cloud—churning and rolling, changing from black to the green of a frog’s underbelly and then black again. Might rain fall today?

  Pointing, she said, “Jim, look. I believe we may get rain.”

  Jim looked, but his face didn’t light with pleasure. Instead, his brow furrowed. “That’s a cloud, all right, but I’ve never seen one like it. I don’t like the looks of it, either.”

  “Do . . . do you think it might be a terrible storm?” Emmaline had remembered the stories about tornadoes that ripped apart houses and carried people from one county to the next.

  “It’s not a tornado, but . . .” Jim shook his head. “I don’t know for sure, but we better get to the Sengers’. Yah!” He cracked the reins twice, and the horses began to run.

  EIGHTEEN

  GEOFFREY CUT HIS horse gently to the left, smiling as the flock turned with him and headed for the watering ditch. Their curly coats were growing back following the early-summer shearing. He counted a number of bulging bellies, grateful for the promise of new life in another few weeks. Lambing season was the busiest time of the year and, to Geoffrey, the most rewarding. He gloried in each lamb bleating for its mother because it represented profit and the continued success of his ranch.

  The sheep nosed the air, their baas becoming more insistent as they neared the water. After a morning of feeding, they were ready for a long drink and then a rest before a second feeding. Part of the Twenty-third Psalm played through Geoffrey’s mind: “He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.” He only wished the pastures were more green than brown. Yet the sheep were willing to eat.