He jumped up and shoved the box under his horse’s nose. “Horace, look here. I can get you all the oats you want with this!”
The horse went on chewing, unimpressed. Jim paced back and forth, the box held tightly between his hands. He needed to hide it. Should he put it back where he’d found it? Nah, both Chris and Mr. Garrett spent a lot of time in the barn—they might stumble upon it just like he had. He needed a better hiding spot. Since he shared a room with Chris, he couldn’t put it in there. If only he had his own private room where no one could go through his things . . .
Then an idea struck. He could put it in the cemetery next to Pup’s grave. No one would think to look there.
He tucked the box inside his shirt and lifted his saddle. “Come on, Horace. I need to go open the gate before Chris has my hide, and then we’ve got some digging to do.”
A distinct heaviness weighed on Emmaline as she placed the last plate on the shelf. How strange it had felt to sit at the table today with only Chris and Jim. Geoffrey’s empty chair seemed to mock her. Where was he now? Might he drop her a letter while he traveled? Maybe he would send her father word as to his whereabouts, she thought with a small smile. Then she wondered how she could find amusement in something that had so frustrated her before. Yet laughing felt better than being angry.
She examined the kitchen to make sure nothing required her attention; then she lifted the lantern from its bracket and headed for her bedroom. But as she crossed through the sitting room, she realized she wasn’t yet ready to turn in. Sinking down on the sofa, she wished she had someone else in the house with whom she could visit.
Her thoughts drifted to Geoffrey. Although at times she had resented their nightly ritual of sitting on the porch together, she now discovered she missed it. She missed him. That night before he left, when he had knocked on the door and they had talked in the parlor, she had felt as though she was visiting with the young man who had courted her under her parents’ watchful gazes. It had given her heart a lift to hear him sharing his thoughts and concerns rather than taking her to task for her inadequacies.
She closed her eyes for a moment, allowing herself to remember England and the days when Geoffrey had sent her heart aflutter with words of devotion and declarations of love. She had expected him to woo her again when she arrived in Kansas, but they spoke of nothing personal and spent very little time together; the easy camaraderie they had shared in England had vanished.
But how to fix things? Tildy had told her everything was possible with God’s help. Perhaps she and God together could find a way to bring back the Geoffrey of long ago. . . .
Opening her eyes, Emmaline glanced around the room. The furnishings, though stylish, lined the walls as if they were soldiers on parade. The sitting room in her parents’ home in England had been an inviting place, with groupings that encouraged one to sit, relax, and indulge in lengthy conversation. Might she and Geoffrey find a way to breach the extensive gap between them if this room were more welcoming?
She must find out. She set the lantern on the nearest table and tried to move the sofa in front of the fireplace. The heavy, carvedwood furniture refused to budge. With a grunt of displeasure, she put her hands on her hips and glared at it. She needed help. She hurried through the kitchen and stepped outside to give one quick tug on the dinner bell. In a few minutes, Jim loped from the direction of the sheep barn.
“Did you need something, Miss Emmaline?”
“Yes.” She spun and headed back inside, knowing he would follow. “I want to arrange the sitting room more attractively, but I cannot move the furniture myself. Will you help me?”
“Sure, I will.” Jim held out his hands as he inquired, “Where do you want things?”
For the next several minutes, Emmaline pointed and Jim worked to create two groupings. When he had finished, the sofa and two matching chairs sat in a half circle facing the fireplace. The straight-backed chairs and small table from the parlor fit neatly in front of the window. She stood with her hands on her hips and surveyed their handiwork, smiling brightly. “This is much more pleasant to the eyes, and much more inviting.”
Jim glanced around the room. “It does look nice. But . . .” He scratched his head. “Shouldn’t there be something on the mantel? At our cottage in England, Pa had a clock on the mantel, and Mum had a little china doll. She was very proud of that doll.” He scrunched his face. “I wonder what happened to it. . . .”
Emmaline sighed. “Oh, it would be nice to set something lovely on the mantel. But I brought nothing from England except a rock.”
Jim’s gaze swerved in her direction. “A rock?”
With a soft laugh, Emmaline nodded. “Yes. It came from my mother’s flower garden. My rock is a small piece of England in Kansas.”
Jim fixed her with a pensive look. “Will you stay, Miss Emmaline? Or . . . will you go back to England?”
She had no answer for that yet. Much depended on whether she and Geoffrey were able to work out their differences. . . . Could God repair their broken relationship?
“If you go—” The boy swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his skinny neck. “I could go, too.”
A tingle of awareness crept across her scalp. “That . . . that’s very kind of you, Jim, but why would you want to leave Kansas? You said there is nothing left for you in England.”
A look of devotion came into the lad’s eyes. “But if you were there, then I should have a reason to be there, too.”
Had her attentiveness reminded Jim of his mother’s care? The thought should have been heartwarming, but it carried an element of responsibility that gave her pause.
Forcing a glib tone, she said, “I shan’t be going anywhere tonight—of that I am certain.” She swished her palms together. “Thank you again for your assistance. Now that the room is finished, you may retire for the evening. The leftover raisin biscuits are in a pail on the counter. Help yourself to some before you leave.”
Jim stared at her for a moment. He looked hurt, but she didn’t know why. “Sure, Miss Emmaline,” he said. “Good night.”
She remained in the sitting room when Jim left. She heard the lid on the tin pail clank, and then a click signaled the door closing. With a satisfied glance at the newly arranged sitting room, she hustled through the kitchen and locked the back door.
Geoffrey tossed water over the campfire, listening to the sizzle as the flames died out. The warmth of the evening hadn’t required a fire, but having a blaze pierce the night had made him feel less lonely.
He leaned against his saddle and sighed, patting his belly. He’d eaten the last of Emmaline’s biscuits and the dried venison for supper. The only thing remaining in his pack was a hard lump of cheese. Tomorrow, when he reached a town, he’d need to make some purchases—and he hoped one of the purchases would be feed for his flock.
In his three days of travel, he had made his way out of Kansas and into Nebraska, but he still hadn’t found a farmer willing to part with some of his precious feed. The stories were the same—lack of rain and destruction from grasshoppers had left people hoarding their harvests. Should he have gone to Oklahoma or Texas? Unfortunately, the cattlemen hated sheepherders—he likely would have found no sympathy in Texas.
Maybe Wyoming? Although he hated to venture so far from home, he knew there were sheep in Wyoming. Maybe Wyoming had been spared the drought and the hoppers. If he didn’t find anyone willing to sell him some hay or barley tomorrow, he’d put himself and his horse on a train and ride into Wyoming. Traveling on horseback was taking too much time—he needed to find feed and get home.
Home to his sheep.
Home to his ranch.
Home to Emmaline.
The wagon wheels hit a rut, and Jim cringed as the jars in the back of the wagon clinked together. “Whoa . . . slow down there,” he called as he pulled lightly on the reins. As eager as he was to get back to the ranch, it wouldn’t bode well to arrive with broken canning jars. Or a broken figurine.
That’s what the lady at the general store had called the little item he’d purchased: a bisque figurine. It looked like a doll to Jim, but he liked the sound of the word. “Figurine,” he said aloud, letting the word roll off his tongue.
When he’d asked about china dolls, the clerk had first shown him children’s toys. It took some doing before she understood what he wanted, but it had been worth the time of explaining. Emmaline would be so surprised and happy when he gave it to her! Three figurines had waited in a glass case in the corner of the store. Since Emmaline had liked those sunflowers so much, Jim had chosen the one wearing a yellow dress. The figurine’s hair was brown and all wavy, the way Emmaline’s hair probably looked when she took it out of her braided twist. The face of the doll, the clerk had said, was hand-painted, and Jim had duly admired the perfectly shaped eyebrows and delicate lips. Still, it couldn’t compete with Emmaline’s beauty.
The little painted-faced girl in the flowing yellow dress would look perfect on the mantel. Much better than a rock. Even though it had cost him dear, he wasn’t worried—if his month’s pay ran out, he still had the tin box full of money. But he wouldn’t use it unless he really needed it. Chris would get suspicious if he suddenly started sporting new clothes or showed up with a new gun or saddle. There was a proverb that said a fool and his money were soon parted, but Jim didn’t intend to be a fool!
“Gee,” he called, giving the reins a flick. The horses obediently turned right. The wagon rolled up the lane to the front of the house. “Whoa!” Jim set the brake and hopped down, calling, “Miss Emmaline! Your jars are here!”
She came out the kitchen door, wiping her hands on her apron as Jim lowered the hatch on the back of the wagon. Her face lit when he lifted one of the crates of quart jars from the back. “Oh, good! Did you fill my whole list?”
“It’s all back there.” They only ventured into town for shopping once a month, so he’d been given a lengthy list of items. Somewhere in one of the crates, the figurine nestled in a brown paper wrapping, cushioned with cotton batting. He’d have to find that little package before Emmaline started going through things. Then he’d need to find the perfect time to give it to her—when they were alone.
Emmaline rested her fingertips on the edge of the wagon and peered into the bed. “Oh my, there are so many jars! I am eager to get those vegetables preserved before they spoil.” Her face clouded. “I wish Tildy were here to help me.”
Jim balanced a crate against his stomach. “Maybe Mrs. Stanford or one of the other church ladies could help you.”
Emmaline licked her lips, her expression uncertain. “Perhaps. I shall ask when we go to church on Sunday.” Then she flapped her hands. “But don’t stand out here with those heavy jars! Put them on the table.”
Jim set the crate down carefully, cringing when another round of soft tings sounded. “I sure hope I didn’t break any of them. The road has a lot of holes, and I didn’t miss them all.”
“I shan’t complain if one or two are broken.” Emmaline pulled at the lid of the crate with her fingers. “I appreciate your going to town for them.”
“Here.” Jim pulled the pocketknife from his pocket and stepped in front of her. “Let me get that.” In a matter of seconds, he had the top slats loose enough to lift.
“Thank you, Jim. What would I do without you?”
He didn’t intend to let her explore the answer to that question. He pointed to the door. “I’ll go get the other crates. The lady at the store said I should bring you four dozen quart and two dozen pint jars. If you need more, I can always go back.”
By the time Jim had carried in all the crates, the kitchen table and the counter were buried beneath the wooden boxes. Emmaline put her hands on her hips and gave a mock scowl. “Well! How am I to serve dinner tonight?”
Jim smirked. “Maybe we could have a picnic on the porch.”
To his surprise, she clapped her hands in delight. “What a marvelous idea! We shall have a picnic. It will be cooler there, away from the cook stove. And then I needn’t rush to put everything away. What should we have? Oh, wait. I will surprise you.”
Catching his arm, she escorted him to the door. “Go on with you. Put the wagon away and then go find Chris. I have work to do. I shall ring the bell when supper is ready.”
Jim scuttled out the door. She had just been very bossy, but somehow he didn’t mind. He didn’t mind a bit.
TWENTY - ONE
IS GOOD FEED. Dry—not green. I vould not sell second best.”
Geoffrey pulled a straw from the closest bale and nipped the end with his teeth. He chewed, spat, and then nodded at the stocky German rancher. “It will do. How much can you spare?”
Just over the border between Nebraska and Wyoming Territory, he had discovered a community that hadn’t suffered the effects of the grasshoppers. Even so, most homesteaders were unwilling to sell any of their baled hay, claiming that, when winter arrived, they would need it for their stock. But one man had lost half of his herd to hoof-and-mouth disease and needed money to rebuild in the spring.
“Six dozen bales,” the man answered. “That vill meet your need?”
Geoffrey had hoped for more, but he wouldn’t beg. “For now, I suppose.”
“Vell, if you discover you need more, you send me word by telegram to Cheyenne. If I can spare, I vill send more on train for you. If I have none to spare, I check vith neighbors and try to make help for you.”
Geoffrey chewed the inside of his lip. He disliked purchasing anything sight unseen, but this was better than nothing.
“Vill be same hay—all good feed,” the man said as if reading Geoffrey’s thoughts. “The gut Lord frowns at cheaters. I vill not cheat you, Mr. Garrett.”
Geoffrey looked into Mr. Wagner’s sunburnt face and saw honesty in the deep blue eyes. He gave a decisive nod and stuck out his hand. “I thank you.”
“I thank you.” The man pumped Geoffrey’s hand and smiled brightly. “With the money you pay me, new cows I buy. Healthy cows. Is gut deal for both of us.”
Once the man had Geoffrey’s payment tucked in his pocket, he cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, “Bernard! Konrad! Dietrich!” Three yellow-haired, strapping boys came running. The man fired off a volley of words in German, accompanied by broad hand gestures, and the boys spun and took off for the barn.
Geoffrey swung into the saddle. “Thank you again, Mr. Wagner.” With a tug on the reins, he prompted the horse to head out. Eagerness to get home—to check on his flock, to reassess the damage done by the hoppers, and to see Emmaline—tempted him to dig his heels into the horse’s side and gallop all the way back to Kansas. Had Emmaline missed him?
He patted the horse’s neck. “Should I ride you home and save the train fare, or should we board the Union Pacific train in Cheyenne and get there faster?”
Faster sounded better. A train ticket took money, but supplies for the trail also took money. “It’s a trade-off,” he informed the horse, “and the train would get us there in less than half the time.” The horse nodded its head and nickered as if agreeing. Geoffrey laughed. “All right. A train ride home.”
Emmaline hummed as she carried the plates, silverware, and cups to the porch. The kitchen was unbearably hot, the result of her day of preserving vegetables. She thought about the rows of jars containing beans and peas now cooling on the table, and she smiled. Geoffrey would be so surprised when he returned and discovered the outcome of her labors!
She hadn’t done the work alone—two ladies from town had assisted—but it gave her great pleasure to see the end result. And now that she knew how to blanch the vegetables, boil the jars, and check the seal, she would be able to continue on her own tomorrow. Which meant, of course, another day in a heated kitchen—but she wouldn’t complain. She had a nice big porch where a breeze teased her hair and the song of the river provided a soothing backdrop. Jim especially enjoyed eating outside, and his youthful enthusiasm made the evening meal pass pleasantly des
pite Geoffrey’s absence. Somehow she felt less uncomfortable eating with Jim and Chris out in the open, where she needn’t look at an empty chair across the table and wonder where Geoffrey was and what he was doing.
She spread a quilt on the porch floor and laid out the plates and cutlery as precisely as if she were preparing the dining room at home. Certainly the men didn’t care if she followed protocol, but her surroundings were largely austere; she felt the need to have something reflect civility.
If only she had a bouquet of flowers for the center of the table. Back home, Mother always insisted on decorating the center of the dining room table with fresh flowers. Emmaline glanced around, wishing she could make flowers magically appear, but the same dry, dismal landscape greeted her. With a sigh, she turned toward the house.
“Miss Emmaline?”
The whisper so closely matched the gentle wheeze of the wind that Emmaline wasn’t certain she had heard her name called. But she paused, cocking her head.
“Miss Emmaline, over here.”
She looked over her shoulder and spotted Jim at the corner of the house, near the parlor windows. He peered at her with wide, excited eyes. A grin dimpled his cheeks. Crooking a finger, he beckoned her near.
“What are you doing?”
“Shh!” He pressed his index finger to his lips. “I don’t want Chris to hear.”
Puzzled, Emmaline crept near, looking right and left. “But why?”
From behind his back, Jim brought out a brown-paper-wrapped package and plopped it in her hands. “I got you a present. Chris will rib me something awful if he sees, so don’t tell him it’s from me, all right?” The boy’s face glowed bright red.
A Promise for Spring Page 16