A Promise for Spring (21 page)
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.
I
S 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 despite 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 . . . a present? But what for? It isn’t my birthday or . . . or . . .”
“It’s for the mantel,” Jim said. Then he spun and darted around the house, leaving Emmaline alone with the package in her hands.
She stepped back up onto the porch and crossed to the bench below the stained-glass window. Sitting, she placed the package in her lap. Mixed feelings assaulted her, vying for precedence.
Should she accept a gift from Jim? Surely she would crush the boy’s feelings if she refused it. With trembling fingers, she loosened the string holding the paper in place and peeled the layers away. She lifted a wad of cotton and then gasped when a beautifully painted figure of a lady fell into her hands. By the shiny glaze and the light weight of the doll, Emmaline knew it was crafted of porcelain bisque. Mother had similar figures of bisque in her built-in china cabinets in the parlor at home.
She held it at arm’s length, admiring the sweetly curled hair, the uptilted red lips, and the gown of sunshiny yellow with ripples of white lace. The figure was truly exquisite, and looking at it gave Emmaline a rush of pleasure that was purely feminine. She lowered the figure to her lap as her mind raced. The gift must have taken a sizable portion of Jim’s monthly pay. Why would he buy something like this for her?
He had said it was for the mantel. She remembered him mentioning a doll that rested on the mantel of his mother’s cottage in England. Her heart melted for Jim—in so many ways, he was still a boy in need of a mother’s care.
She rose, cradling the figurine in her palms. How well she understood wishing for a mother’s attentive care—her heart still ached with loneliness for her own mother. She would reach out to Jim in a motherly way.
She carried the little figure into the house and put it in the center of the mantel, where Jim would be able to see it if he peeked through the window during their evening meal. And she would do something kind for him in return.
Jim brought the bushel basket of apples from the cellar, as Emmaline had requested. She’d been depending on him more and more since Mr. Garrett left. And he liked it. If he could, he’d spend his whole day seeing to her needs, but Chris kept him busy. Jim set down the basket and let the cellar door slam. Seemed like somebody was always telling him what to do.
But Emmaline asked kindly. She didn’t order him around like he was just a kid. His affection for Emmaline grew deeper day by day. The longer Mr. Garrett stayed away, the more he would be needed. Maybe Mr. Garrett would stay away forever.
He scooped up the basket. One of the neighbors had traded Emmaline four pumpkins for the bushel of apples. Emmaline wanted apples so she could bake pies—his favorite kind of pie. She planned to slice up the apples and dry them, so she could bake apple pies during the winter, too. They were just crab apples—small and bitter. But if Emmaline wanted to dry them, he wouldn’t argue. Even if the pies tasted terrible and gave him a bellyache, he would eat three pieces without a word of complaint.
He entered the kitchen and stood in the doorway, watching her bustle around as she cleaned up after lunch. She hummed as she worked, her skirts swirling around her ankles. What would she look like in a party dress? Her black dresses looked old and tattered, but she didn’t seem to mind. And—he gulped—even in a worn-out black dress she was too pretty for words.
He cleared his throat to get her attention. “Where do you want the basket?”
She spun from the cabinet. “Oh, good! Just put it on the table, Jim. Thank you.”
He thumped it down, then wiped his hands on his thighs. She’d already said it would be his job to lay out the slices on the tin roof of the springhouse and storage shed. In years past, he had scattered wild grape clusters over the roofs and let the sun shrivel them into sweet raisins. This year there wouldn’t be raisins—the grasshoppers had destroyed the grape vines. No doubt it would take longer for apples to dry than it did grapes, but the late-August sun still burned hot enough to do the job. He wondered if the crows would leave any slices at all. Birds were hungry, and they weren’t bashful.
“You might want to dry your apples in the house,” he said, “or the birds might gobble them up.”
She laughed softly. “Oh, I don’t begrudge the birds a few bites. But I can dry some in the house and some outside. That way I make sure we have enough for your pies.”
His
pies? She came right out and said she was making them for him! He took a step backward, nearly tripping. “Well, if that’s all you need, I better go get to work. Chris expects me.”
She opened a cabinet and retrieved a knife. “Go right ahead. I have lots of peeling to do. Enjoy your afternoon.”
Jim scurried out the door, his face hot. Emmaline was making the pies especially for him! He wished he could get her another gift. He couldn’t get to town to buy her another figurine, but she liked flowers so much. The grasshoppers had eaten most of the wild flowers, but maybe there were still some growing somewhere.
He headed for the pasture, his stride long and his arms swinging. His gaze searched far into the distance in both directions as he walked. His boots stirred dust. Two small grouse exploded from some scraggly bush just ahead. He stopped to watch them disappear before setting out again, a happy whistle on his lips.
Too late he heard the warning rattle. He froze, fear making his mouth go instantly dry. His heart pounded so hard he thought it might leave his chest. The rattle came again, from his left. What should he do? His brain raced to retrieve the instructions Mr. Garrett and Chris had given him about what to do if he ever encountered a rattler. But he couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember!
With a cry of distress, Jim braced to run, but before he could take a step, the snake lunged. Jim screamed when the fangs connected with his boot, right on the arch of his foot. Just as quickly as it had struck, the snake turned and slithered away. Jim grabbed his foot, the spot burning like a red hot coal pressed to his skin. He screamed again.
Finally he remembered what his brother had told him:
hold
still
. Dropping to the ground, Jim grasped his leg and screamed as loud as he could.
E
MM ALINE CIRCLED THE apple with her knife, and the peel fell away into the slop bucket. She dropped the apple into a pan on the table and reached for another, but as her fingers closed around the red fruit, a screech of anguish reached her ears. Was it an animal? One of the sheep?
She crossed to the door, peering across the yard and listening intently. The scream came again. A chill slid down her frame. The sound was human—not animal. Grabbing her skirts, she began to run. Ahead, past the barn but not quite to the sheep enclosure, she saw something rolling on the ground. Then she recognized the plaid shirt—Jim!
“Jim! Jim!” She puffed with the effort of running while battling her skirts. When she reached him, she dropped to her knees and grabbed his arms. He held on to his foot and moaned. “Jim, what happened? Did you fall and hurt yourself?”