Sputtering, she reached for the second bucket. Suddenly Geoffrey was at her side. He slapped the flanks of a wild-eyed horse. “Yah! Get out of there!” It pounded away. He held his arms outward. “Throw the water on me!”
“W-what?”
“Throw it on me!”
Emmaline lifted the bucket and tossed its contents on Geoffrey. Behind him, flames rose into the air. The crackling roar of the fire added to the awful sounds of the storm. He wiped his face and turned back toward the barn.
“Geoffrey! No!”
But he ignored her cry and dashed into the barn. Although she knew she should be retrieving water, her feet refused to move. She stood transfixed, her watering eyes pinned to the wide opening of the barn. With her hands clenched beneath her chin, she counted the seconds and waited for Geoffrey’s return.
Two horses ran out, their necks arched and their eyes rolling with terror. One came straight at her, and she ducked aside as it raced past. She stared at the barn. Geoffrey . . . where was Geoffrey?
Then she saw him, hunched forward, his face buried in his elbow. With his other hand, he pulled at the reins of Jim’s horse.
The frightened horse fought, yanking its head against the reins and neighing horribly. When Geoffrey nearly fell, Emmaline ran forward and grabbed the reins, too. Together they managed to pull the horse to safety. But it continued to scream, shaking its head wildly and pawing the ground.
“Keep it here,” Geoffrey demanded, releasing the trailing reins into her hands. “I’ve got to get the wagon.” He turned again toward the barn.
Emmaline dropped the reins and the horse dashed away. She wrapped her arms around Geoffrey’s waist from behind. “No! Let it burn!”
“I cannot replace it!” He tried to tear loose of her grip, but she held tight.
“I cannot replace you! Please, Geoffrey!”
“Emmaline, let go!”
“No!”
At that moment a roar filled the air, followed by an explosion of flames. He spun and ducked, enclosing her in his embrace as he did so. Smoke billowed, making both of them cough horribly. Still bent forward, they scuttled toward the Solomon and splashed directly into the water.
Huddled in each other’s arms, they watched the barn’s roof collapse and sparks fill the air. Tears rolled down Emmaline’s face only to be washed away by a sudden downpour. The clouds opened up, and huge drops descended, as hard as pebbles. Rain hammered the barn, extinguishing the flames, but it had come too late. She clung to Geoffrey, her cheek against his chest, his arms trembling on her back.
“Why?” he groaned into her tangled hair. “Why did God hold the rain so long?”
She tightened her grip, burying her face against his shirt front. She had no answer.
TWENTY - SEVEN
JIM STOOD AT the window of the doc’s office and looked out over the street. The crutches bit into his armpits, but he let them hold his weight anyway. His legs—even his good one— felt shaky after five days in bed. But Doc had said he could get up and move around. No matter how weak his body, he wanted to look outside.
There had been times since the afternoon Chris delivered him to the doctor’s care when he wondered if he’d ever glimpse the Kansas landscape again—or if his next view would be the streets of gold the preacher talked about. His last day at the ranch, the yellow sun had glowed in a sky as clear and blue as the ocean. But while he lay on the bed, battling the effects of the snake’s venom, the sky had clouded, and rain had pounded the roof.
The rain of the past three days was now gone, but evidence of the downpour remained. The sky looked pale gray, like a shirt washed too many times in the cloudy river. Even the sun was faded to half its normal glow. Mud splashed midway up the sides of Stetler’s buildings, and the dirt streets were shiny and slick looking. Two wagons, minus their horses, sat axle-deep in muck in the middle of Main Street.
Men draped in rain slickers and women holding their skirts above their ankles high-stepped through the mud on their way to Sunday service, the usual smiles and friendly chatter absent. But in contrast to the somber people, two birds with speckled yellow bellies sat side by side and sang a tune on a windowsill across the street.
The birds’ cheerful chirping reminded Jim of singing hymns at the Stetler church. Was Emmaline there now? Or had Mr. Garrett decided the roads were too muddy to travel? He pressed his forehead against the closed window, straining to see down the block to the churchyard. If she was there, would she stop by the doctor’s office and visit him before returning to the ranch?
The ache in his armpits became a stabbing pain, so with a grunt of frustration, he turned and stumped his way back to the bed. He dropped the wooden crutches on the floor with a clatter and flopped backward, resting his head on the pillow.
Staring at the ceiling, he let his mind click through memories: riding the range on Horace’s broad back; listening to Chris snore at night; seeing Miss Emmaline’s smile from across the picnic quilt. He hungered for a slice of Emmaline’s apple pie and the smell of the sheep barn and even the lingering tang of Chris’s pipe smoke. He’d tasted death and now little things seemed to have an importance they’d never carried before. From now on he would appreciate the pleasures his life in America afforded.
He would also pay attention when walking through the pastures. . . .
A light tap on the door sent him scrambling to throw the sheet over his legs. When he was covered, he called, “Come in.”
The door squeaked open, and the doc’s daughter, Alice, came in. She carried a tray containing a tin plate of fluffy scrambled eggs and biscuits and a tall glass of frothy milk.
Jim licked his lips and sat up. “Mmm, breakfast. It looks good.”
Her rosy cheeks curved with a smile. “Ma put extra salt and pepper on your eggs, just like you like ’em.” When she leaned forward to place the tray in his lap, her long braids swung forward and grazed the edge of the mattress. She grabbed the braids and threw them over her shoulders as she straightened. “Ma says when you’re done, put the tray on the bedside table—she’ll fetch it after church.”
Jim picked up the fork and stabbed the eggs. “You going to service?” Maybe he could ask her to tell Emmaline to come by.
She nodded, her eyes bright. “Mm-hmm. Soon as Ma gets the twins dressed.” Her shoulders shook as she giggled. “When I came up, she was chasing ’em around the kitchen table.”
Jim grinned, imagining the doctor’s portly wife puffing behind the energetic three-year-olds.
“But I’m dressed and ready.” Alice smoothed her fingers over the collar of her brown calico dress.
Alice’s dress reminded him of the one Emmaline had worn when she came to see him. The fever made the memory fuzzy, but he recalled a lacy-necked dress strewn with flowers. The worry in her eyes had let him know she cared. Cared a lot.
Suddenly Alice’s face flooded with pink. “I better go help Mama with the twins. I’ll see you after service, Jim.” She dashed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
Jim set the tray aside and huffed in aggravation. She’d taken off before he could ask her to deliver the message to Emmaline. He wished he could jump off the bed, get dressed, and go to the chapel, too. He sighed. He shouldn’t complain—Chris and the doctor had repeatedly told him he was lucky to be alive—but he was so tired of being stuck in this room.
Tossing the covers off his legs, he lifted his foot and glared at the ugly wound. The skin around the bite had died and peeled away, leaving a gaping sore. Even if he went home tomorrow, it would be at least another week before he could wear a boot—and how would he navigate that mucky ground on crutches?
He flopped back on the bed and tossed his right forearm over his eyes. When he returned to the ranch, he might end up holed up in another room, in another bed. Of course, it would be his room and his bed. He smiled. And maybe Miss Emmaline would visit him a lot if he were only a few yards away. . . .
A thought struck him, and he sat bolt upright.
All that rain and mud and washed-away dirt—had the gravesite survived the onslaught? Was his money box still buried safely at Pup’s grave?
Could the rain have penetrated the box and ruined the paper money inside?
He had to go home. He had to go home now!
Emmaline closed the Bible and lowered her head. Geoffrey had refused to take her to the little chapel in Stetler this morning, because, as he’d said, they had no wagon, it wouldn’t be fitting for a lady to ride in on horseback, and the road was too muddy for travel. She suspected, however, that even if the roads had been dry and they still had the wagon, he would have made an excuse.
Folding her hands on top of the leather cover, she turned to God in prayer. She began with gratitude for the return of all the horses, though Horace was badly burned. Then she laid her many concerns before God: Geoffrey’s worries; Jim’s health; Tildy and Ronald’s needs, whatever they might be; her family in England; even the poor cooped-up sheep.
She reveled in the feeling of peace that came over her as she prayed. How had she gone so many years without realizing what she needed to feel complete? She had sought fulfillment through gardening, by being a respectful and obedient daughter to her parents, and then by learning the skills necessary to survive on this ranch. But those activities—although good and proper—had never brought her true joy.
Having God in her life brought an element of joy to each and every day, despite the difficulties she faced. If asked to explain how her soul could be at peace in the midst of these trials, she could never put it into words, yet it was true. What a gift Tildy had given her when she shared the truth of God’s love! She offered one last expression of gratitude for Tildy’s friendship and for the strength God had given her before whispering, “Amen.”
Opening her eyes, she rose and moved to the window. Her heart ached for the devastated land, but mostly it ached for Geoffrey. Over the past few days, she had watched bitter resentment take control of him. The eager bounce in his step as he headed for the sheep barn or the pasture no longer existed, nor did happiness light his eyes. The difficulties of the past weeks were, apparently, more than he could bear.
She had tried to encourage him at the dinner table last night by reading her favorite Scripture from Psalm Twenty-three, but he’d chastised her with harsh words: “My soul will be restored only when this ranch is restored,” he’d said. Pacing beside the table, he had run his hand through his hair and scowled fiercely. “All of my years of hard work, of being an honest businessman, of avoiding the evils of drunken, raucous living . . . and how does God reward me for my efforts? He sends a plague of grasshoppers, withholds blessed moisture, and then tries to wash the land away! Do not speak to me of some Good Shepherd, Emmaline. My father was right: God is a fabrication.”
She’d jumped to her feet, eager to provide words of solace, but the firm upthrust of his palm stilled her words. The tense set of his shoulders and the anger on his face had filled her with a feeling of helplessness. If only Tildy were here, she could make Geoffrey see the truth. . . .
“Help Geoffrey, Lord,” Emmaline whispered. “Let him find his way back to You.” She experienced blessed release when she handed her troubles over to Him.
She prepared a simple lunch of cold meat and cheese, bread, and leftover vegetable stew. As she stirred the stew, she considered the stores in the cellar. If only she had dug up the last of the carrots and sweet potatoes before the rains hit. Those vegetables were probably now rotting in the sodden ground. Maybe this afternoon she would put on one of the black dresses—it wouldn’t matter if she ruined it—and try to salvage the remainder of the garden produce.
Close to noon, both Chris and Geoffrey knocked on the kitchen door. Before coming into the room, they removed their mud-encrusted boots. She hid a smile at the sight of Chris’s big toe peeking from his sock. Pointing to it, she said, “I have some darning of my own to do. Would you like me to fix the hole in your sock, Chris?”
The man glanced at his foot and shrugged, then grinned. “Sure, Miss Emmaline, if you don’t mind.”
Geoffrey’s low brows sent a private message, but he didn’t say anything. After they’d all seated themselves at the table, Emmaline looked at him, waiting for him to say grace for the meal. But he simply jabbed a slice of bread with his fork and carried it to his plate.
Emmaline cleared her throat. “Chris, would you bless the food, please?” He had willingly prayed for their meals in Geoffrey’s absence.
Chris shot Geoffrey a quick look before he said, “Of course.”
Emmaline bowed her head and listened as Chris recited a simple blessing. When she raised her gaze, Geoffrey glowered at her from across the table. Choosing to ignore his look of disapproval, she picked up the soup ladle. “Stew, Geoffrey?”
For the next several minutes they ate in silence, the clink of spoons against the soup bowls and the crunch of crusty bread providing the only sounds in the still kitchen. At last Geoffrey leaned back in his chair, wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin, and turned to Chris. “By now my bales of hay have been delivered to Moreland. I’ll need to ride one of the horses into Stetler tomorrow and borrow a team and wagon from the livery.” His dull, tired tone—so different from his former exuberance when discussing ranch business—saddened Emmaline.
Chris nodded. “I can see to the sheep tomorrow.”
“Before I can bring the bales here, we must have a place out of the weather to store them.”
Chris lifted a piece of cheese and munched. “There isn’t room in the sheep barn—not with the horses in there, too. Where are you thinking we should put them?”
Geoffrey’s gaze flicked to Emmaline briefly. “We haven’t much choice right now. The only building, besides the sheep barn, that is large enough to accommodate the bales is the bunkhouse. I plan to use my half of the bunkhouse as storage space for the bales until we can repair the horse barn.”
“Then where will you sleep?” Chris asked the question that hovered in Emmaline’s mind.
Geoffrey looked at Emmaline as he answered. “I shall bunk with you, Chris. I’m putting Jim in the house, in the spare sleeping room. He will not be able to work with the animals until he is free of the crutches, so he can assist Emmaline around the house.”
Emmaline’s heart clamored nervously. Would time with Jim deepen the boy’s affection for her? She certainly didn’t wish to encourage him in his belief that she would be his sweetheart. “Do you think that is wise?”
Geoffrey scowled. “I haven’t any other choice, Emmaline.”
Although she wanted to remind him of his previous warning concerning Jim’s feelings toward her, she swallowed any further protest.
Chris asked, “How long do you think it will take to get the barn rebuilt?”
“I don’t know,” Geoffrey said with a sigh. “Lambing season is nearly upon us. Our yield will be less this year with the loss of those ewes, but without Jim’s help, we will be very busy. I don’t think we’ll have time to repair the barn until after all of the ewes have delivered and the lambs have been shipped to market.”
Chris nodded. “Perhaps you should consider hiring—”
“No!”
At the forceful word, both Chris and Emmaline jumped.
Geoffrey’s jaw clenched so firmly a muscle bulged in his cheek.
“Hiring workers means paying workers. I . . . cannot . . . pay anyone. Not now.”
Chris stared off to the side, silent.
Emmaline’s thoughts traveled forward to spring. Geoffrey had promised to purchase tickets and return her to England. Would the sale of lambs earn enough money to cover the fares? Or would this become another neglected promise?
But then she shook her head, relief flooding her. She still had the dowry money. She could rescue it from the barn and give the money to Geoffrey so he could buy tickets—despite the fire, the money should have stayed safe in its metal box, shouldn’t it? Oddly, the thought of leaving Kansas—leaving Geoffrey—brought no pleasure
. She would go because she could not stay with a man who did not value her or trust her, but she feared her heart would break when she tore herself from this place.
Geoffrey lifted his cup and drained the last of his tea. “I’m going to start clearing the rubble from the barn.”
Emmaline looked at him in surprise. “It is Sunday!”
He raised one eyebrow in silent query.
“It is a day of rest,” she reminded him. In all of their growing-up years, he had respected the Sabbath. More often than not, he had come to her home following the Sunday service and sat in the parlor with her family, reading poetry or napping with his hands linked on his stomach. Would he set aside that habit now out of spite and frustration with God?
“It is a day.” Geoffrey’s tone was more resigned than harsh. “And I cannot waste it. There is much work to be done.” Turning from Emmaline, he addressed Chris. “If you prefer to rest, you may do so.”
Chris sent an apologetic look to Emmaline, but he rose. “I’ll help you, boss.”
Geoffrey nodded, and the two tugged their boots back on. Before stepping out the door, Geoffrey said, “If you have need of me, Emmaline, ring the bell. I shall return.”
With a heavy heart, Emmaline cleaned up the dishes and then moved to the sitting room—the inviting little sitting room where she had hoped she and Geoffrey might sit and chat and rediscover their affection for each other. But why bother now? She would return to England soon, and Geoffrey was no longer the man with whom she had fallen in love.
After all these months, she still didn’t know this man he had become.
TWENTY- EIGHT
A WEEK AFTER THE barn burned, the ground had finally dried enough for Geoffrey to ride into Stetler and rent a freight wagon from the livery stable. It took four horses to pull the long, boxy wagon, and they seemed to find every newly carved rut in the road that led to Moreland. But he didn’t complain. At long last, he would be retrieving his purchased bales of feed for his sheep. What were a few bumps when compared to meeting the needs of his flock?
A Promise for Spring Page 21