A Promise for Spring

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  On the high, springed seat beside him, Jim sat with his face toward the sun and his bandaged foot propped on the footboard. The pose indicated contentment, but Geoffrey knew the boy fought tears. His happy chatter had stopped after Geoffrey told him about the barn’s burning and Horace’s injuries. To alleviate the horse’s suffering, Geoffrey had been forced to put the animal down.

  Geoffrey wondered if he should have waited until they returned to the ranch before he told Jim about the loss of his horse, but the first statement out of Jim’s mouth had been about setting aside his crutches, climbing onto Horace’s back, and riding out to the pasture. Wasn’t it less unkind to end the fantasy quickly rather than allowing him to indulge it, knowing he would be crushed when the truth came out?

  Geoffrey’s father had never believed in pampering. Straight-up facts presented in a firm, emotionless tone were what he’d preferred. When Geoffrey’s mother had left, his father had said, “Your mother is gone, and no amount of sniveling will bring her back. So dry up and be a man.” At nine years of age, Geoffrey had learned that being a man meant swallowing one’s sorrow.

  He nudged Jim with his elbow. “When we reach Moreland, let’s ask if there are any sheepdogs for sale.”

  Jim blinked rapidly. “You never wanted a dog on the property. You said they dig holes and make mischief.” He swiped his hand beneath his nose.

  Geoffrey recalled his reaction to the mongrel pup Jim had dragged home. There hadn’t been time to deal with a dog due to all of the other responsibilities of getting the ranch running. “We’ve not had the time to train a dog in the past, but now with you off your feet, you have the time. Do you think you could train a dog to be a good herder?”

  The boy’s face brightened. “Certainly I could, Mr. Garrett.”

  “Well, then,” Geoffrey said, “we shall ask about. If we can purchase one for less than a dollar, we’ll bring home a dog.”

  The promised dog opened Jim’s voice box again. He chattered all the way to Moreland, and despite his worries, Geoffrey found himself responding. The lad’s enthusiasm was infectious.

  They rolled into Moreland and went directly to the train depot. The message Geoffrey had received indicated the bales were waiting behind the water tower, stacked on a pile of railroad ties and covered with an oilcloth, just as he’d requested. He guided the horses over the tracks and around the depot, bringing them to a stop behind the water tower. An oilcloth-covered mound waited, and his heart leapt in anticipation. But when he yanked the cloth away, confusion smote him.

  Had he not ordered and paid for six dozen bales? A little more than half of that number waited. To Jim, he barked, “Stay here.” He stomped to the depot window and thumped the counter with his fist. “Harvey!”

  The stationmaster immediately scuttled from a small desk in the corner to the window. “What is it?”

  “I came to retrieve the bales of hay sent from Wyoming.” He sucked in a breath, trying to rein in his temper. “There should be seventy-two bales. Did the entire order not arrive?”

  “No, no, we unloaded six dozen bales, just like you said.” Suddenly the man made a face, his thin lips nearly disappearing. “I think I might know what happened. . . .” He opened a door to the right of the window and scurried around the building. Geoffrey followed.

  The man stood, hands on his hips, and looked at the pile. “Y’see, Geoff, what with all the rain we had, folks was having trouble with flooding. They needed something laid out to hold the ground in place, so . . .” He scratched his head, then held out his hands in supplication. “I reckon they made use of your bales in a time of need.”

  Geoffrey gritted his teeth. Their need couldn’t possibly have been greater than his need for these bales! “Since they were stolen from Union Pacific property, will the railroad be accountable for my loss?”

  Again, Harvey’s face twisted into a pained grimace. “Once the items leave the freight car, the railroad’s responsibility ends. We stacked it an’ saved it for you, just as you asked, but . . .”

  “Fine.” Geoffrey grated out the word. “Then kindly send a telegram to Mr. Johann Wagner in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Tell him I need more bales—as many as he can send.”

  Harvey started to turn away, but Geoffrey caught his arm. “Harvey, I’m normally a patient man, but I cannot tolerate thievery. Will my next order be here for me when I come to retrieve it?”

  Harvey scowled. “We’ll keep a close eye on it. That’s all I can promise you.”

  Geoffrey released Harvey’s arm and stepped back. “Send the telegram, Harvey.”

  For the next half hour, while Jim watched, Geoffrey hefted fifty-pound hay bales into the back of the wagon. The physical exertion drained much of his fury. Finally, he folded the oilcloth into a bulky square and carried it to the depot window. “Harvey?”

  Harvey turned around, his eyes wary.

  Geoffrey held up the cloth. “Where do you want this?”

  “Just leave it on the timbers out there. I reckon it’ll be put to use again another day.”

  Stifling a sigh, Geoffrey nodded. He started to leave but then paused. “Do you know of anyone in the area who might part with a dog? I am looking for one to train as a sheepdog.”

  Harvey twisted his mouth to the side, his brows puckering. “Seems to me the Hiltons out west of town have some dogs. You might check with them.”

  “Thanks.” Geoffrey climbed back into the wagon and released the brake. “All right, Jim. Let’s go see if we can find your dog.”

  As they headed out of town, a ruckus on the boardwalk captured their attention. Two men, apparently inebriated, performed a foot-thumping dance while others looked on and laughed. The watching crowd milled in the street, and Geoffrey was forced to draw the team to a halt. One of the dancers crowed, “Rich, rich, rich! I’m rich as Midas!”

  “How’d you do it, Ted?” a man called. “Did you strike gold?”

  “Not gold—silver!” One man spun in a circle and made an awkward bow. “Found my fortune at the Abilene gambling halls! They’ve got it all—bluff tables, faro, roulette—and purty ladies and music, to boot!” Grabbing his partner’s hands, he broke into another wild dance. “A feller can turn two bits into two hundred dollars in the blink of an eye! I’m rich, rich, rich!”

  The crowd, still laughing and calling ribald comments, slowly dispersed, allowing Geoffrey passage. Jim cranked his head around to gawk at the men as the wagon rolled past them.

  “Think that’s true, Mr. Garrett?”

  Geoffrey glanced at Jim. The boy’s eyes were wide with wonder. “What’s true?”

  “That you can turn two bits into two hundred dollars in the blink of an eye?”

  Geoffrey snorted. “You’re more likely to turn two hundred dollars into two bits in a gambling hall.”

  Jim waved toward the men, who continued their happy revelry. “But he said—”

  “He might have gotten lucky.” Geoffrey tightened his hands around the reins as memories surfaced. “But luck is fleeting. More times than not, a gambling hall will leave you penniless. It isn’t worth the risk.”

  Shifting in the seat, Jim asked, “Have you ever gambled, Mr. Garrett?”

  Coming to Kansas was a gamble. Carving a sheep ranch out of hard, unrelenting land was a gamble. Battling nature, Geoffrey had learned all too well in the past weeks, was a gamble. But he had never gambled in a hall. He’d left that to his father. “No, Jim. I’ve never gambled.”

  The boy shook his head, his eyes bright. “But ladies, and music, and all those games . . . Seems as though it could be a fine time.”

  Yes, Franklin Garrett had thought gambling halls provided a fine time, too. How much money had he squandered in such places? There was no way to know for sure, since he’d hidden his addiction, but Geoffrey knew how many times his father’s good friend, Jonathan Bradford, had come to their aid, paying off the debts and keeping his father from being thrown in jail. But not even Bradford had been able to prevent the loss of Grandmo
ther’s estate.

  “A feller can turn two bits into two hundred dollars in the blink of an eye!” Geoffrey gritted his teeth as ideas tossed around in his brain like dice in a Chuck-Luck birdcage. Franklin Garrett had had very little luck when it came to gambling, but must that be true of his son, as well?

  Emmaline wiped her face with her apron. After spending the entire afternoon digging through what remained of the garden, she had managed to salvage half a bushel of sweet potatoes and a small pile of carrots. As she had feared, much of the produce had been ruined by the standing water. But some was better than none. Staunchly, she announced aloud, “I choose to be thankful for this bounty, no matter how small.”

  She carried the baskets to the cellar and put them away, then headed to the house. The late September breeze lifted her apron and tugged at her hair. The wind carried the strong scent of rotted fish, and she wrinkled her nose. The Solomon River still hovered above its banks, but it no longer posed a threat, for which Emmaline was grateful. Now if only the odors would recede like the water line.

  She washed a tubful of clothes and then pinned the garments to the line outside with wooden pegs. As she turned to return to the house, someone shouted her name. She shielded her eyes with one hand and peered down the road. A wagon with two people on the seat headed for their ranch. Stacks of hay bales filled the back of the wagon. Geoffrey was back, she realized, and he had called for her. Her heart gave a funny flutter.

  She dropped the empty basket and dashed to the end of the lane. The shout came again, but then she realized it was Jim’s voice, not Geoffrey’s. She pushed aside the feeling of disappointment that accompanied the recognition and forced her lips into a smile.

  Raising her hand, she waved. “Welcome home, Jim!”

  “Thank you, Miss Emmaline! It’s good to be home.” The boy grabbed the edge of the seat and leaned toward her as the wagon rolled past. She trotted alongside it, stopping when Geoffrey drew the team to a halt in front of the house. Jim handed her his crutches and climbed down cautiously. “Be careful,” she admonished, feeling like a mother hen.

  The boy grinned as he placed the crutches under his arms. “I’m all right.”

  Emmaline dashed to the edge of the wagon and pressed her hand to one scratchy bale. “You got the hay!” At that moment, a high-pitched bark erupted from the back of the wagon, making Emmaline jump.

  Jim burst out laughing. “That’s just Miney.”

  Emmaline shot the boy a startled look. “It’s what?”

  Jim clomped to the back of the wagon and put his hand in the bed. He lifted out a wriggling body of brown-and-white fur. “Miney.” He cradled the half-grown pup under one arm. “There were four pups in the litter, and I did eenie-meenie-miney-moe to choose one. I picked Miney.” Sadness flashed briefly in the boy’s eyes. “He’s to be a sheepdog, just like Horace was a sheep horse. I’m going to train him.”

  Emmaline stuck out her hand, and the puppy sniffed it before giving her a lick. She giggled. “Silly little dog. You certainly sounded much more fierce than you look.”

  Geoffrey, still perched on the wagon seat, called, “Step away from the wagon now so I can get these bales put away.”

  Emmaline took Miney, and she and Jim moved toward the porch.

  “I must return the wagon to Stetler before nightfall,” Geoffrey said, his unsmiling gaze on Emmaline, “so don’t hold supper for me.” Without another word, he tugged the reins, urging the team to turn around.

  Emmaline held tight to the squirming puppy until the wagon rolled around the house. When she put him down, he bounced around their feet and barked at a twig. She laughed at his clumsy antics, but when she looked up, Jim’s fervent gaze immediately stilled her laughter.

  “Mr. Garrett says I’m to stay in the house until my leg heals.”

  Emmaline swallowed. “That’s right. Chris brought in a bed-frame and mattress, as well as your clothing. Everything is set up in the spare sleeping room.”

  A discomforting thought struck. She had to pass through the spare sleeping room to get to her own room. If her own child had resided in the spare room, it would not be a problem, but the thought of intruding upon Jim’s space left her feeling unsettled.

  Jim seemed to have no apprehensions about sharing the house with her. “Can I see?”

  She nodded. “Go ahead.”

  He swung past her, his movements ungainly as he balanced on the crutches. She followed, watching as he sat on the edge of the bed and peered around the room. Chris had pushed all of Geoffrey’s items to one side and put the bed and dresser on the opposite side, leaving the center of the floor open. If she asked Chris or Geoffrey to hang a blanket to partition off Jim’s part of the room, then he would have privacy. Perhaps this would work, after all.

  Jim sighed loud enough that the sound carried clearly to her ears. She looked at him, and once more the adoration in his eyes made trepidation wriggle down her spine.

  “I sure am happy to be home again, Miss Emmaline.”

  Emmaline allowed him a hesitant nod. “You should sit on the porch and play with Miney while I see to supper.”

  Jim pushed to his feet and took up the crutches again. “All right, Miss Emmaline. I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

  She watched him stump out the front door, then nearly collapsed with an expulsion of breath. While greatly relieved Jim had survived the rattlesnake bite and was home again, the change in living accommodations created a sense of apprehension.

  Lord, help me be friendly to Jim without giving him any wrong ideas.

  TWENTY - NINE

  THE EWE’S LABOR had gone on far too long. Geoffrey knelt by the sheep and checked the notch in the ewe’s ear against the notation in the journal in his lap. Yes, this ewe had suffered trouble before. He would only use her for wool from now on.

  One of the reasons he had chosen Merinos was their propensity for problem-free birthing. Seldom did a ewe need assistance in bringing forth a lamb, but once in a while the birthing was difficult. Thus, he never left the ewes unattended during the lambing season.

  He sighed, flexing his shoulders. He and Chris had kept round-the-clock vigils since the onset of lambing season. With only two of them overseeing the sheep, neither of them got as much sleep as they needed. Two weeks had passed since Jim returned from the doctor, but the boy still spent most of his time at the house with Emmaline or training the pup in the front yard. Sometimes Geoffrey suspected Jim’s limp was exaggerated—a means of escaping work—but he hesitated to push too hard. The doctor had cautioned them to let the boy get plenty of rest.

  “Geoffrey?”

  He gave a start at the softly spoken word. Emmaline stood in the wide opening at the south end of the barn. She held a napkin-covered plate, and her face wore an apprehensive expression that had become all too common.

  “Come in,” he greeted.

  She approached slowly, her gaze roving past the stalls where sheep rested. “I brought you some supper since you didn’t come in to eat.”

  Geoffrey took the plate and lifted the cloth. Biscuits, fried potatoes, and two chunky links of sausage. He inhaled, and the pleasing aromas made his stomach twist with desire. “Thank you.” But instead of eating, he set the plate aside and turned his attention back to the ewe.

  Emmaline squatted next to him, her full yellow skirt forming a pouf. She trailed her fingertips through the wool on the sheep’s back. “How many born today?”

  “Chris reported five females this morning, including two sets of twins. Then two more this afternoon—one male and one female. The male is black—an uncommon sight. It will be butchered, but we’ll probably keep the others.”

  Emmaline tilted her head. “Butchered because it’s black?”

  “In this case, yes. Black wool is worthless. But we butcher almost all of the male lambs.”

  “Seems rather harsh.”

  Geoffrey shook his head. “The males can’t reproduce. We’ve got our rams for mating. Eventuall
y I’ll keep the male offspring of an older ewe—one we know won’t be producing much longer—and it will become a mating ram. But we can’t keep them all.”

  “I suppose not.” Emmaline plucked up a clean piece of hay and twirled it between her fingers.

  Geoffrey wondered why she didn’t return to the house. He had done his best to keep his distance from her lately. There was no sense in renewing their relationship if she was going to leave in a few months. Having her so near made him feel as though his stomach was tied into a knot.

  She shifted, and he let out a breath of relief that she was leaving. But instead of getting up, she sat cross-legged and rested her hands in the nest of her skirt. “October seems an odd time for lambs to be born. Don’t they usually come in the spring?”

  Geoffrey closed the journal on the pencil and set it aside. “Yes, for most breeds. But these are Merinos. Merinos can birth three times in two years, which makes the lambing season a bit different.”

  Emmaline gave a thoughtful nod. “I see. So the female lambs are kept for wool and to produce more lambs, and the male lambs are butchered for their meat.”

  “That is correct, although some females are also butchered. This season, however, I plan to keep as many female lambs as I can to replace those I lost after the grasshopper plague.” He turned his attention back to the ewe lying on the straw. “And this one won’t be producing anymore. I’ll keep her separate during the next mating. She’s had trouble before.”

  Emmaline reached out and stroked the ewe. “Poor thing. Can we help her?”

  Why was Emmaline suddenly so interested in the workings of the ranch? Might she be considering staying? His heart did a funny flip-flop at the thought, but he steeled himself against it. “I want to give it a little more time and see if she’ll manage on her own. So . . . I wait.”

  “I shall wait with you.”

  He frowned. “Why?”

  She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I suppose because I have never watched a lamb be born. It will be a learning experience. I am quite sure it is different from seeing kittens birthed.”