A Promise for Spring

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  As he watched the woolly backs that resembled a sea of cotton, he let his thoughts wander. Should he have allowed Emmaline to accompany Jim to the Sengers’? The boy was smitten with her— that was obvious. Surely Emmaline realized it. Would she use his affection to convince him to take her past the Sengers’ and on to Moreland and the train station?

  He pushed the thought aside. Jim would never go against him that way. Besides, Emmaline knew he would follow through on his threat to sell the wool elsewhere.

  On the opposite side of the flock, Chris turned backward in his saddle. “Boss?” He kept his voice low in deference to the sheep’s penchant for being easily startled. “What is that?”

  Geoffrey shifted, his saddle creaking with the movement. A thick cloud of . . . something . . . advanced upon them. As he stared, an unfamiliar sound carried over the whistling wind—a hum that reminded him of the song of cicadas yet was lower-pitched. He squinted, trying to make sense of the undulating mass, and something hit him. Hard. Before he could register what it was, the cloud descended, filling the air with flapping, buzzing, whirring insects.

  The sheep disappeared from view under the deluge, but their frightened bawls filled the air, adding to the confusion. Geoffrey’s horse snorted and bucked, and he nearly lost his position. Ducking low over the beast’s neck, he urged the horse to spin and gallop away from the flock. The insects—grasshoppers, he now realized— rained from the sky. Some pelted him and bounced off, but others took hold, their sticky feet attaching to his clothes.

  Had the Old Testament come to life right here in Kansas? His scalp prickled; his skin crawled. Using his hat, he slapped at himself, but the bugs landed on his head, tugging his hair. He shook his head wildly and then smacked the hat back in place. “Yah! Yah!” he urged his horse onward, hoping the animal wouldn’t step in a hole and break a leg or throw him from the saddle.

  He finally cleared the whirring horde and slowed to look back. The sight baffled and horrified him. Sheep, their coats covered with green shimmering insects, milled in noisy confusion. The ground appeared to move and shift on its own, buried an inch thick by the insects. The hoppers coated every bush, tree, and fence post, their continual buzz drowning out all other sounds. More stirred the air, their wings flashing under the sun.

  Chris broke free of the melee and joined Geoffrey. He panted as if he’d just run a mile-long race. “What do you make of it?” he yelled over the deafening whirr of wings.

  “I don’t know. I’ve heard of such a thing, but I never believed I’d see it.” Geoffrey plucked more bugs from his clothes and tossed them as far as he could. He gaped at the plaid fabric covering his arms. “They ate holes in my shirt!”

  “What do we do about the sheep?”

  Geoffrey’s heart ached at the fear the poor, dumb animals were experiencing. “We can’t do anything until the hoppers clear.”

  “When do you think they’ll go?”

  Through gritted teeth, Geoffrey said, “When they’ve eaten their fill.” Suddenly he remembered Emmaline and Jim taking off toward the Sengers’. He spun toward Chris. “Stay here. As soon as you can, start rounding the sheep back to the barn. I’ve got to see to Emmaline.”

  He raced down the road at a reckless pace. Evidence of the grasshoppers’ devastation greeted his eyes everywhere he looked. Fields of grass, knee-high and waving only that morning, were gone. Trees appeared denuded, patches of bark eaten away. Dust clouds rose over the ground, unhindered now with the loss of vegetation. Geoffrey’s chest tightened. What about the farmers’ crops? Their garden? And the fields he’d allowed to go to hay so he could harvest it for winter feed? Could anything be salvaged?

  When he reached the Sengers’ he found Tildy sitting on the ground, cradling a dead chicken in her lap. He reined in beside her and hopped down, dropping to one knee. She lifted her sorrowful eyes to him.

  “Fool hens. Thought a feast came from heaven. They was eatin’ as fast as they could. Done ate themselfs to death.” Pointing toward the barn, she said, “Ronal’ was out here a-smackin’ at ’em with the shovel. He scooped up as many of the hoppers as he could. He’s gonn’ set ’em afire an’ hope the smoke keeps more bugs from comin’.” She set the chicken tenderly on the ground, shaking her head. “Won’t do nothin’ to help my poor cluckers. . . . Gonna miss seein’ them peckin’ out here of a mornin’.”

  Geoffrey put his hand on her shoulder. “We’ll find you some more chickens.”

  “Oh, law, I knows it. Just seems sad, that’s all.” She pushed to her feet and jerked her chin toward the soddy. “Be easier to get chickens than a new roof. They plumb ate the top off my house.”

  Geoffrey turned and discovered Tildy was right. The roof of the soddy, held together by the roots of dried grass, had collapsed inward. “Oh, Tildy . . .”

  Tildy’s chin quivered for a moment; then she set her jaw. “If I can get to my stove, we’ll have us stewed chicken tonight. Ronal’ always liked stewed chicken an’ dumplin’s. He’ll be right happy for the treat. You take one o’ my clucks home, too, for Emmalion to fix for your supper.”

  Geoffrey looked sharply right and left. “Where is Emmaline?” “In the root cellar. Ronal’ sent her an’ young Jim down soon as they pulled in. When we saw the cloud, we thought it was a storm brewin’. Had no idea . . .”

  Geoffrey trotted to the door of the root cellar and yanked it open. “Emmaline? Jim?”

  Jim emerged first, his eyes huge. “Did you see them, Mr. Garrett? I’d never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. Such noise! The horses didn’t like it at all. I almost couldn’t control them when those bugs started landing on them. Ronald put the team in the barn.”

  Emmaline came out of the cellar with one hand holding her skirts and the other grasping a green stalk only a few inches long. She held it up. “They ate the flowers right off the stem. While I held it.” Her hair was in disarray, and her black dress bore several holes. Her wide eyes and pale skin spoke of shock. “They followed us right under the ground.” She shivered. “Are they gone now?”

  He longed to embrace and comfort her, but his arms remained stiffly at his sides. “They’re moving on, and I don’t think they’ll come back. They’ve eaten everything—there’s no reason to stay.”

  She dropped the little stem and hugged herself. “It was awful. They attacked us. Just fell out of the sky and attacked us.”

  Tildy waddled over and wrapped her plump arms around Emmaline. She rocked gently while glowering at Geoffrey. “They’s all gone now, Emmalion. You’s gonn’ be fine now. You jus’ go on home an’ get some rest. Come mornin’, you’ll be feelin’ bettuh.”

  Geoffrey turned to Jim. “Take Emmaline home, then go to the north pasture. Chris will need some help rounding up the sheep—they scattered when the hoppers landed.”

  “Sure, boss.” Jim took a step, then turned back. “Are you coming, too?”

  Smoke coiled from behind the barn. A foul odor filled the air. Geoffrey looked at Emmaline, who stared straight ahead as if unaware of his presence. “I’ll give Ronald some assistance and then come home. Hurry now.”

  “Yes, sir. Come along, Miss Emmaline.” Jim caught Emmaline’s elbow and propelled her toward the barn.

  As soon as Jim and Emmaline were out of earshot, Tildy propped her hands on her hips. “What be the mattuh wit’ you, Geoffrey Garrett? Don’t you know a woman needs some consolin’ when she’s had a scare? An’ Emmalion just had a good scare.”

  “Not now, Tildy.” Geoffrey marched past her as the wagon emerged from the barn. The horses still looked wild-eyed. They tossed their heads and flared their nostrils. He caught the harness chin strap on the closest horse and held tight. He dared not let Jim try to drive the team when they were still so agitated. “Jim, I’ve changed my mind. You stay here and help Ronald. I’ll go see to the sheep.”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy leaped down and trotted behind the barn.

  Geoffrey climbed up beside Emmaline. She sat with her arms wrapped a
round herself, shivering despite the blistering heat of the day.

  Tildy stood on the ground, looking up at him with a scowl on her face. She hissed through clenched teeth, “You see to Miss Emmalion afore you see to the sheep, you hear me, Geoffrey?”

  Emmaline could scarce believe this was the same expanse of land she and Jim had traveled less than two hours ago. The waving grasses and sunflowers had disappeared, leaving behind only bare ground. Not so much as a single leaf remained on the bushes or trees.

  They pulled into the yard at Chetwynd Valley, and she nearly cried when she saw the huge cottonwoods leafless and with gaping holes in their bark. She ran to the river’s edge to examine the trees; then she shrank back in horror at the sight of grasshoppers floating in the river, their green bellies shimmering. Covering her mouth, she held back a cry.

  Hands descended on her shoulders. “Emmaline,” Geoffrey’s husky voice whispered into her ear. “I need to see to the sheep. Will you be all right?”

  The sheep . . . always the sheep. “I . . . I shall be fine. You go.”

  His fingers pressed tighter. “Are you sure?”

  Oh, if only she could turn and bury her face against his shoulder. If only she could cry and feel his arms surround her, soothing the revulsion of the past hours away. But she shrugged, dislodging his hands. “I am quite sure. I shall see if there is anything left of the garden.” She feared all of her carefully tended plants were gone. For the first time, she was glad she’d had no flower garden. At least she needn’t mourn its obliteration.

  “All right, then. I don’t know if we’ll be back by suppertime. Just . . . hold something for us, please.”

  His decorous bearing was the opposite of what she needed. But she responded with equal formality. “Of course. I’ll keep something warm on the stove.”

  “Thank you.” He strode away.

  Jim arrived almost two hours later astride Geoffrey’s horse. He tethered the horse at the gate and ambled to the garden where Emmaline raked dead grasshoppers into a pile.

  “Is there anything left?”

  Emmaline pushed her hair out of her eyes with her elbow and kept raking. “Not much. The carrots, turnips, beets, and potatoes are safe below the ground, but if I did not have little sticks to let me know that beans, peas, and tomatoes once grew here, I would not know. They ate everything, including the paper signs off the sticks.” She released a humorless chuckle. “To think that only this morning I rued having to pick green beans every day.”

  Jim scratched his head. “Will we have enough food for winter?”

  Emmaline had no answer for that. She had never lived through a Kansas winter. How much food was needed? “The grasshoppers were unable to enter the springhouse, so that food was spared. I haven’t yet been in the cellar.”

  “They couldn’t get in there. The door is too thick.”

  Emmaline sighed. “Thank the Lord.” Maybe they wouldn’t starve. She hoped others in the area hadn’t lost everything.

  “Do you need help burning those?” He pointed to the repulsive pile of insects.

  She had no desire to be involved in the burning. The smell from Ronald’s fire still lingered in the back of her nose. “I’ll ask Geoffrey to do it. You go on and see if he needs help with the sheep.”

  Jim nodded and jogged back to Geoffrey’s horse. In moments he disappeared around the house. Emmaline walked to the shed to put away the rake. The day’s trauma slowed her steps, tiredness slumping her shoulders. She hung the rake upside down from a wooden peg and then stepped back outside. The unchanged sun, hanging high and bright in a blue sky, seemed incongruous against the ravaged landscape.

  Unwilling to return to the house alone, she decided to take a walk and examine the ranch. Had any vegetation survived the grasshoppers’ assault? The sheep must have grass to survive.

  She walked into the empty sheep barn. Its rock construction kept it reasonably cool, and she slowed her steps to better enjoy the respite from the sun’s heat. Musky odors greeted her, and she crinkled her nose. She rarely ventured in this direction. As she passed through the long barn, her eyes drifted across each of the vacant stalls and the loops of rope hanging from the ceiling beams.

  The first time she had entered the barn, she’d questioned the lack of doors and the purpose for the ropes. Geoffrey explained how the men leaned into the ropes to support themselves while they sheared the sheep rather than bending over. She couldn’t imagine that having a rope cut into one’s stomach was more comfortable than bending forward, but she didn’t question it. The reason for the open doors—allowing air to flow through and keep the barn dry for the health of the flock—made more sense. But had grasshoppers come in through the openings? She could see no evidence.

  The sun made her squint when she left the protective shade of the building. She turned to the right, and something caught her attention. Two crosses stood side by side within a hip-high iron fence. Curious, she crossed the ground and opened the gate. She crouched before the crosses. The smaller one had no writing on it, but the second was carved with a name: Ben Mackey.

  A little warning sounded in the back of her head. Where had she heard that name before? She scrunched her forehead, thinking, and finally she remembered. Jim had mentioned the name and then had immediately fallen silent. She stared at the cross, puzzlement tilting her head. Why would the boy try to hide the fact that a man named Ben had died at the ranch? Was something sinister involved in his death? Why didn’t Geoffrey ever speak of Ben?

  “Emmaline.”

  At the sound of her name, she jumped and clutched her bodice. She spun around and found Geoffrey standing outside the iron fence.

  “What are you doing?” He looked as tired as she felt. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and lines pulled his mouth into a frown.

  “I went for a walk and—” She bit her lip. Heading for the gate, she said, “I need to return to the house and fix supper.”

  “No need. It will be well past dark when we come in, and I’m sure we’ll be too tired to eat. Is our garden destroyed?”

  She nodded, sorrow striking anew. “All except what grows far under the ground. Are the sheep all right?”

  He glanced across the pasture. “They’ve scattered, and they’re so frightened they don’t come when they hear my voice. They have always responded to my voice before. I feel as though I’ve failed them.”

  The sadness in his eyes made her heart ache. She had no words of comfort, but she could meet a need. “In case you change your mind about supper, I will prepare something. You shouldn’t go to bed hungry.” She started to hurry past him, but he caught her arm.

  He heaved a deep sigh, his gaze still aimed across the prairie. “Before you go, I must . . .”

  Very slowly he turned, still holding her arm. As he moved, he pulled gently, shifting her to face him. Her hands rose automatically and rested flat against his chest. An odd look flitted across his face—desire coupled with helplessness. Then his arms slipped around her, pulling her snug against his length.

  He smelled of sweat and sheep and smoke, and she inhaled, closing her eyes to memorize the unique potpourri of odors. They stood unmoving beneath the Kansas sun, his arms holding her tight with hers trapped between them. It felt good to finally be in his embrace, but she wanted to wrap her arms around his middle and burrow closer. So she wriggled to free her arms. But at her movement, he released her and stepped back.

  She peered into his somber face, her heart pounding, wondering what had precipitated the hug and what she could do to entice him to repeat it. She leaned toward him. He raised his hand, but instead of reaching for her he ran it over his face. When he looked at her again, the strange longing she had seen earlier had disappeared.

  “If you want to prepare something, you may.” He spoke as if the hug had never occurred.

  “A-all right, Geoffrey.” She battled tears. She would never understand the man he had become here in Kansas.

  “If we haven’t come in by nightfall, go on
to bed. I will see you in the morning.” He turned and headed toward the ravaged pasture.

  NINETEEN

  GEOFFREY LEANED ON the railing of the bunkhouse’s porch and gazed across the ground that separated the bunkhouse from the ranch house. The sheep, safe in their barn, muttered nighttime bleats as they settled down for a night’s sleep. Chris and Jim had already gone to bed. But despite the hour, Geoffrey was not ready to turn in.

  The first two days following the grasshopper plague, neighbors stopped by to compare losses. It pained Geoffrey to admit how much of his pastureland had been destroyed by the insects. His water supply was also severely compromised with the presence of dead grasshoppers—the sheep refused to go where the scent of decaying bugs remained, and he had already lost two expecting ewes to dehydration. Despite his and the Cotler brothers’ best efforts, they had been unable to locate the entire flock. Sixteen head were missing, and he surmised the sheep had either been devoured by animals or adopted by neighbors who needed the meat.

  But he realized it could have been worse. The grasshoppers literally ate the wool off the backs of the sheep. Had the infestation come one month earlier, his entire year’s profit would have been lost. Many of his neighbors were left with nothing of their crops. He still had the promise of lambs to butcher and sell, and the wool would grow back—he would survive better than most. If he could find feed for his flock . . .

  Yesterday at church, a local farmer shared the rumor that the bordering territory of Colorado planned to send hay and other food supplies to help the Kansans who had lost their money crops, but Geoffrey wasn’t willing to wait and see if the rumor proved true. His sheep needed food now. But that meant leaving the ranch for a period of time.

  A light flickered in the window of the sleeping room, where Emmaline, no doubt, was preparing for bed. He stared at the glowing window, envisioning what was taking place behind the muslin curtain she had hung for privacy. Ever since he’d enfolded her in his arms three days ago, he had battled the desire to hold her again. To do more than hold her.