Geoffrey shook his head. Whatever game she was playing needed to come to a close. “Emmaline, you won’t ever need this knowledge again. You won’t be here for the next lambing season.
It will be eight months from now, well past winter, and you’ll have returned to England by then.”
Emmaline ducked her head, toying with the piece of straw.
“Yes. I suppose . . .”
She sounded so dismayed, Geoffrey’s heart twisted with pity.
But at that moment the ewe began a wild thrashing that captured his attention. He leaned forward, placing a soothing hand on its neck.
Emmaline shifted to her knees, tossing aside the piece of hay.
“What can I do to help?”
Geoffrey stood. “Come over here and hold her head. She can’t get up if you’re holding her head. I’m going to check the position of the lamb. She won’t like it, so hold tight.” While he spoke, he strode to a bench, picked up a bottle of carbolic solution, and poured the liquid over his hands. He could feel Emmaline’s curious eyes on him as he knelt behind the animal, made a dart of his fingers, and reached inside the ewe’s canal.
“Ah, there it is.” He unconsciously spoke aloud. “But its rump is down, not its head, so its back feet must be underneath it instead of angled into the canal. It won’t come out like that. I’ve got to grab its feet, and then I should be able to bring him out.”
Geoffrey briefly saw Emmaline’s slender hands holding gently yet firmly to the ewe’s head, then he closed his eyes and tried to imagine the lamb inside the womb. He worked his fingers around and found the lamb’s feet. Carefully he brought them downward and drew them through the birth canal.
Emmaline must have seen the tiny hoofs appear because she said, “Oh! Now pull!”
Geoffrey shook his head, his focus on those little feet. “No. She can do it now. Just watch.”
In a few minutes, a natural contraction forced the entire backside of the lamb through the opening, and the next contraction expelled a small, wet, woolly bundle.
“Let her go,” Geoffrey commanded, backing up on his heels. Emmaline did as she was told, scrambling around to kneel beside Geoffrey. They watched as the weak ewe turned her head to nose the newborn, then began licking it. The lamb responded, twisting its head toward its mother. To Geoffrey’s relief, the baby struggled to its feet as the ewe rose, and without any guidance, the lamb found the milk sack. It began sucking noisily.
“Oh my. That was quite something.”
Geoffrey smiled down at Emmaline, who watched the lamb nurse and the mother gently lick it. Her wide-eyed look of wonder gave her an innocence that sent a jolt of reaction clear through his middle. The longing to draw her close, to press his face against her hair, nearly overwhelmed him.
Steepling her hands beneath her chin, she peered up at Geoffrey. “Male or female?”
Geoffrey tipped his head to peek. “Female.”
Her breath whooshed out. “Oh, I am so glad.”
“Why?”
“I helped her be born. I wouldn’t want to see her butchered. Now, perhaps, I shall see her grow up. Maybe even have babies of her own.” Her eyes lit with a smile. “I like that idea.”
Why would she make such a statement after vowing to return to England? He took a backward step. “Emmaline . . .”
But before he could finish, she pranced a few feet away. “I shall leave you to your work. I’ll send Jim out for the plate later.” She turned and scampered out of the barn.
As Emmaline ran through the evening shadows back to the house, she considered the strange look in Geoffrey’s eyes when she spoke of watching the lamb grow up. Her face flamed at her own audacity. She knew she had sent a message, but from his reaction, he hadn’t wanted to receive it.
He doesn’t want me here, Lord. Oh, how I wish I could help him. He’s become so . . . despondent.
Hadn’t Tildy said that when one honored commitment, love crept in? Well, Emmaline had tried to honor the commitment she’d made to Geoffrey, and love had blossomed in her heart once more. But would Geoffrey’s heart respond?
“Miss Emmaline?” Jim stood in the doorway between the kitchen and sitting room. “I’ve got those boxes finished if you want to see them.”
“Oh!” Emmaline straightened from the table and untied her apron. “Yes, of course I’d like to see them.”
Keeping Jim occupied and out from underfoot had proven challenging since his return from the doctor. Hindered by his crutches, he couldn’t wander the grounds, but his hands were capable of working. So she had assigned him the task of crafting some flower boxes for the windows of the house.
She followed him to the spare sleeping room, where he had pushed aside the quilt that served as a barrier. He pointed proudly to six oblong wooden boxes sitting in a row on his bed.
“Oh, Jim, what a fine job!” Emmaline lifted one box. She had scavenged for usable pieces of wood from the barn. All the wood had borne scorch marks from the fire, but apparently Jim had sanded the pieces clean. The wood appeared fresh and yellow.
She turned the box this way and that, admiring the craftsmanship. The corners fit snugly, neatly notched and nailed, and a series of holes drilled in the bottom would allow moisture to escape. “These are perfect.” Emmaline beamed at Jim, who rocked on his heels and grinned. “Now all I need is some rocks and dirt, and I can plant my seeds.”
“I can attach them outside now, if you’d like.”
“Oh no. Not yet.” Emmaline placed the box back on the bed and pressed her palms together. “I am going to keep them in the parlor until the weather is warm again. I plan to have an indoor garden.”
Jim’s eyebrows pulled down. “An indoor garden?”
Emmaline nodded. “Yes. Our gardener in England had a potting shed where he forced flowers to grow year round. My mother was never without fresh flowers for our dining room table— hydrangea, purple clematis, coreopsis, everlastings . . .” She closed her eyes for a moment, envisioning the lovely bouquets that had brightened the table.
“I have no potting shed, but the area in front of the windows in my parlor, where the boxes will receive the sun, shall do nicely. I have daisy seeds—I adore daisies—and I intend to plant a few now, keeping them in the house where it is warm so they can germinate. Then, in the spring, I shall put the boxes outside and also transplant some of the flowers to the yard. Won’t it be lovely?”
Jim gave her a suspicious look. “In the spring? But I thought . . .” He licked his lips. “Aren’t you going back to England in the spring?”
Emmaline blinked twice. Her mind raced for an appropriate response. “Flowers . . . will make the house seem more like home . . . whether I am here or away, will they not?”
Jim didn’t answer.
Emmaline forced a light laugh. “But, regardless, spring is several months away. We needn’t worry about it now. Instead, I must prevail upon you to gather pebbles from the river bottom to put in the base of these boxes, and then I shall fill them with garden soil. Then I shall trust that the heat from the little stove in the parlor’s corner, together with the sun’s rays, will be enough to bring the seeds to life.”
Jim picked up his crutches. “I need to go check on Miney and then put him in the shed for the night.”
“Be careful. It is dark already.”
His eyes narrowed. “I know.”
Emmaline hid her smile as he headed out. Whether he realized it or not, he had just responded to her the way an obstinate child related to his mother, not the way a man treated his sweetheart.
Sweetheart . . . Immediately memories from the past paraded through her mind, all of them involving the days when Geoffrey had courted her as his sweetheart. When he smiled at her in the sheep barn right after the birth of the lamb, she had been reminded of the tender moments they’d shared while growing up together. So many of her favorite childhood memories included Geoffrey. When they exchanged that smile in the barn, had he been transported to earlier days? Would the r
emembrances soften his heart?
Earlier days . . . Of course! Finally, she had found the key to opening Geoffrey’s heart to joy and laughter again. Her pulse raced, her smile growing as she considered the means of reaching him. Certainly they had faced difficult times in England—the loss of his mother, and his father’s many illnesses. Yet he had emerged, strong and able, because of his belief in God. If only she could take him back to those times in his memory, he would remember where he needed to find his strength to face today’s challenges.
All he needed were a few reminders. And she knew just where to begin.
THIRTY
GEOFFREY AWAKENED WITH a start, his body drenched with sweat. The dream—the nightmare—still hovered on the fringes of his mind. “You are a disappointment, Geoffrey. You think you shall find success in Kansas? You are a fool! Failure is imminent. Mark my words!”
“No!” He rasped the word aloud. He breathed in the scent of Chris’s pipe smoke, caught in the wood-planked walls and in the fibers of the quilt draped over his body. Surely that scent—the same one that permeated his father’s study—had precipitated the nightmare.
Geoffrey shimmied into his trousers, pushed his feet into his boots, and clomped out onto the porch. Sucking in great breaths of the cold night air, he tried to erase the lingering scent from his nostrils, hoping it would also remove the remaining vestiges of the dream from his memory. But his father’s callous words, thrown at him the day he had shared his plans to begin a new life for himself in Kansas, were carved onto his soul as permanently as the Solomon River’s path across the prairie.
He curled his hands around the porch rail and lifted his gaze to the night sky. Stars and a pale yellow moon peered back at him. As a boy, visiting his grandmother’s estate in the country, he had often crept outdoors to stare up at the night sky. Back then, the majesty of the velvety sky had filled him with a sense of oneness with the Creator of the heavens. Now, however, the vast sky left him feeling small and insignificant in comparison. From God’s viewpoint, he must appear like an ant scurrying here and there, working to store up enough to carry him through another winter. Nothing more than an insect, easily squashed. Why work so hard when in the blink of an eye it could all be washed away?
The blink of an eye . . . Where had he heard that expression recently? The drunken cowboy who had struck it rich at the gaming tables in Abilene. Geoffrey’s mouth went dry. He needed money badly. But badly enough to risk gambling?
No! He smacked his palms on the railing. There had to be another way. He would not resort to his father’s habits. His soul longed to pray for guidance, for help, for relief . . . but he refused to release the petitions. God’s answers to prayers had proved worthless. Emmaline had come, but she refused to be his wife. Rains had fallen, but too late and too heavy. The ranch had been built, but grasshoppers and a fire had nearly destroyed the work of his hands. He would not give God the chance to disappoint him again.
He looked across the land to the sheep barn, where the glow of a lantern lit the interior. Chris was there, watching over the few remaining ewes still waiting to deliver. Now wide awake, Geoffrey decided he would relieve Chris, let the hand get some extra hours of sleep.
Entering the sheep barn, he scanned the area for Chris. He spotted the man in a corner stall. Chris sat with his head slung low, and Geoffrey’s ire stirred. Was Chris asleep? He tromped up behind him, intending to tap his shoulder, but Chris turned and looked over his shoulder before Geoffrey made contact.
“Mr. Garrett.” Chris stumbled to his feet. “I was just thinking I should come get you.” His gaze dropped to the floor of the stall.
Geoffrey looked, too, and his heart plummeted. A dead lamb lay in the hay, its distraught mother nosing it.
Chris ran his hands through his tousled hair. “It’s the second one born dead tonight.”
Geoffrey stared at the perfectly formed, lifeless creature. Another senseless loss. Failure is imminent.
Chris retrieved a burlap bag from the corner of the barn, rolled the dead lamb into it, then headed for the door. The ewe nosed the area where the baby had been, bleating pitifully. Geoffrey grabbed a rake and cleaned the area of soiled hay. But even with the scent removed, the sheep refused to calm. She paced, her baas echoing through the barn and raising answering bleats from other ewes. Geoffrey tried stroking the ewe to calm her, but her agitation only increased. If she didn’t settle down, her anxiety would rouse the entire flock.
“Hush, sheep,” Geoffrey commanded, grasping her around the neck and trying to force her to lie down. The ewe thrashed against him, her bleats more insistent. And then suddenly she relaxed, collapsing onto the barn floor. Geoffrey stared, shocked. The mother, too, had died.
He sank down on one knee beside the now-quiet body and bowed his head. Would the losses never end?
Emmaline forced herself to focus on the square of fabric in her hand. Her eyes burned, and she yawned repeatedly, but she refused to give in to sleep. She must finish this project.
It had taken some ingenuity to find the means for needlework.
A pillowcase provided the foundational cloth, and by unraveling a portion of the skirt of one of her worn black dresses, she had gleaned thread. The thin strands were not ideal for embroidery work, but sometimes one must make do.
She held the fabric at arm’s length and examined her work thus far. The letters were a bit shaky—the result of having to hold the fabric taut with her fingers rather than tightening the cloth using a wooden hoop—but they were readable. She smiled. Surely this Scripture, taken directly from the Twenty-third Psalm, would bring soothing peace to Geoffrey’s heart.
When she finished the verses, she intended to ask Jim to build a frame. The boy had done an admirable job with her flower boxes; surely he had the ability to make a simple frame. Then she would tack the fabric to the frame’s back and hang the finished project on the wall of Geoffrey’s room.
Picking up the needle, she set to work on the next line: “My cup runneth over.” Recently, it seemed that troubles filled the cup and spilled over. Yet, somehow, she still clung to the promise of verse three—“He restoreth my soul.”
“God, work the same miracle of restoration in Geoffrey’s soul,” she prayed as she stitched. Another yawn widened her mouth, forcing her eyes to squint shut briefly. But then she blinked hard, sat up in the rocking chair, and returned to work.
“Miss Emmaline, didn’t you sleep well?”
Jim’s concerned voice made Emmaline smile. She gave the cornmeal a quick stir and then placed the lid on the pot. “I slept fine once I went to bed. But I went to bed far too late.”
“What were you doing in the parlor last night?”
Emmaline shot him an apologetic look. “Did I keep you up?”
He shrugged, his grin sheepish. “I just noticed the light under the door.”
She lifted bowls from the cabinet and placed them on the table. “I was working on a gift for Mr. Garrett. I finished my part, but now I need your help.”
Jim frowned. “My help?”
“Yes.” Turning to the tray with the silverware, she fiddled with the spoons. “I would like a frame for a piece of stitchery.” She sighed, replaying the wonderful words of the psalm in her mind.
“What kind of a gift is it?”
Emmaline chose to ignore the jealous undertone of Jim’s words. She answered honestly, “It’s a good-bye gift.” Hopefully it would be the first step in helping Geoffrey say good-bye to his despondence. She turned to face Jim. “So will you help me?”
The boy flashed a bright smile. “Sure. I can make a frame. I just need to know how big.”
“I’ll show you after breakfast.”
Chris came in as Emmaline placed the pot of steaming cornmeal mush in the center of the table. His long face raised her concerns. “Is something wrong?”
He sighed as he sank into a chair at the table. “We lost three lambs and a ewe during the night. Mr. Garrett is quite upset.”
&nb
sp; A picture formed in Emmaline’s mind of the sweet lamb she had helped deliver and its attentive mother. Tears pooled in her eyes. She wiped her hands on her apron. “Chris, you serve the mush. Jim, pour the water for tea. I must go see Geoffrey.” She dashed out the door before either of the Cotler brothers could respond.
The morning air held a bite. Without the protection of her woven shawl, she shivered. Folding her arms across her middle, she walked as quickly as possible to the sheep barn. She found Geoffrey sitting on a barrel and leaning his head back against the wall. His eyes were closed, and exhaustion sagged his features. For a moment, she considered creeping away without disturbing him, but then he opened his eyes and caught her standing a few feet away.
“Are you all right?” she asked without preamble.
He shook his head.
She stepped closer. “Chris said three lambs and a ewe died.” Swallowing, she addressed her worry. “The one from . . . ?”
“No.” He lifted his hand wearily, as if it weighed more than he could support, and pointed to a corner stall. “That mother and baby are fine.”
She looked at the ewe and lamb nestled together on the hay, and relief flooded through her. Why it was so important that the lamb she had watched slip into the world still lived, she couldn’t say. She only knew it mattered a great deal. But looking into Geoffrey’s face, she witnessed the depth of his sorrow. She took one more forward step.
“It is uncommon, then, to lose some lambs during the lambing time?”
“Not uncommon, but never welcome. And especially not this year, when I have no reserve on which to draw.”
Emmaline’s chest ached at the pain etched into his face. She opened her mouth to offer solace, but he suddenly rose and drew in a deep breath.
Staring somewhere beyond her shoulder, he spoke through clenched teeth. “Emmaline, I fear it may be necessary for me to make use of the dowry money.”
A Promise for Spring Page 23