A Promise for Spring (30 page)

“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.”

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.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, she said, “Of course you may use it.”

His brows came together, his gaze colliding with hers. “You’re quite sure? I cannot be certain I will be able to replace the money in its entirety even after butchering and shearing.”

“I am sure.” She lifted her skirts and turned toward the barn’s opening. “I shall fetch it now from the barn.”

“The barn?”

With a self-conscious smile, she peeked at him over her shoulder. “I hid it in the horse barn.”

Geoffrey’s face drained of color, and he dropped heavily onto the barrel.

“Geoffrey?”

He ran his hand over his face. “Emmaline, if you put it in the barn, it’s no longer there.”

She turned to face him and offered an assuring smile. “Of course it is. I—”

Shaking his head, he released a growl. He rested his clenched fists in his lap. “I have been through every bit of the rubble in the barn. There was no money box.”

The money gone? Her security wavered with this knowledge, but oddly she suffered no despair. She looked at Geoffrey, and the helplessness on his face propelled her forward. Emmaline knelt before him and placed her hands over his fists. “I am so sorry, Geoffrey. What else can I do to help?”

He stared at her, his expression unreadable. His lips parted and then closed. He turned his gaze away. “There is nothing, Emmaline.”

“Please?” She kept her voice low, aware of the resting sheep and their need for calm. “There must be something I could do. Sit with you, pray with you . . .”

Geoffrey bolted to his feet, nearly knocking her backward. He stormed to the nearest upright beam and raised his fist as if to strike the beam, but instead he pressed his fist to his own forehead. The gesture of agony made Emmaline’s heart turn over in her chest. How hard he sought comfort! If only he would accept a touch from the Comforter . . .

“Do you know, Emmaline, that ever since you arrived, things have gone awry?”

She stared at him, shaken by his accusatory tone.

“All the years I spent building this ranch, readying it for you, were successful years. Difficult years, to be sure, but successful.
Building
years. But now all of the building I did is crumbling.”

She rose awkwardly, her skirt tangling around her feet. She straightened her apron before crossing the ground to stand in front of Geoffrey. “And you believe the fault is mine?”

He looked into her face, his lips set in a grim line. Although she quaked on the inside, she refused to cower before him. Several seconds ticked by before he turned his gaze aside. “I don’t know what to think.”

She caught his arm and tugged. He kept his face angled away, but his eyes shifted to meet hers. Gentling her tone, she said, “Life is hard, Geoffrey. I’ve learned that well during my time here. On our own we are ill-equipped to triumph over the challenges. But Tildy taught me that we can lean on God’s strength.” She held her breath, waiting for either an explosion or a submission.

Neither came. With a sigh, Geoffrey lowered his head. “Tell Chris when he has finished breakfast that I want him to take the lambs and mothers to the near pasture for a few hours this morning.” She held out one hand toward him. “Geoffrey, I—”

“Don’t preach at me, Emmaline.” His hardened tone stilled her words. “Just go.”

Obediently, she made her way out of the barn. But she did not slump her shoulders in defeat. She would do as she had instructed Geoffrey. She would lean on God’s strength, and she would trust Him to restore joy to Geoffrey’s soul and to see the ranch through these difficult times.

THIRTY - ONE

A
WEEK’S WORTH OF late-night stitching had resulted in six samplers. Emmaline laid them in a row on the bed and smiled down at them. The frames were rough, but so were the stitches—so unlike the meticulously formed letters and flower petals on the embroidery work she’d completed in England. But somehow the rustic appearance suited this land called Kansas.

She traced her finger over the final project. What would Geoffrey think when he saw the verses tacked to the walls of the barn and bunkhouse? She had chosen the verses with care, selecting words that offered hope and encouragement. Aloud, she read, “Blessed is the man that trusteth in the Lord, and whose hope the Lord is.”

In England, before Geoffrey left, he’d trusted the Lord. He often expressed sadness at his father’s stubborn refusal to believe in God. She knew his grandmother had been a wonderful godly influence for Geoffrey, and he had named this ranch Chetwynd Valley in his grandmother’s honor. Somewhere underneath his pained disillusionment, Geoffrey’s faith must still exist.

“And God’s words shall bring that faith to the fore again,” she vowed. She slung her shawl over her shoulders and tied the ends in a knot. After stacking the samplers in her arms, she headed outside. Geoffrey and Chris had taken the flock to the far pasture after breakfast, and Jim was somewhere on the grounds with Miney. The boy had tied a wad of sheepskin to a rope, which he used to train the energetic puppy. Emmaline knew little about sheepdogs, but she recognized determination when she saw it. If Jim had his way, that dog would be the finest sheepdog ever.

The morning sun shone brightly, warm and yellow, illuminating the landscape. Emmaline crossed the ground quickly, her eyes scanning the area. Although in many ways desolate, the land held a bucolic beauty that she’d come to appreciate. Untamed pasture, dotted with wind-carved brush and the occasional surprise of spiky green leaves from a yucca plant, stretched as far as the eye could see. The sky, blue as a robin’s egg, created an endless canopy. Never had the sky seemed as large to Emmaline as it did here in Kansas.

As she gazed upward, a flock of geese—their raucous honks filling her ears—flew by. She shielded her eyes and watched, thrilling at the sight of their pounding wings and wild calls. Geoffrey had explained the birds flew in a V formation as a means of supporting one another. The air current of one goose’s wings helped uphold another. She glanced at the verses in her hands and smiled. Her samplers would help uphold Geoffrey until which time as his own faith could support him.

In short order, using the hammer and tacks from her apron pocket, she had secured the frames to walls in the sheep barn and the bunkhouse. She had one left, which she intended to hang in the tack shed. As she crossed the ground between buildings, a shrill bark captured her attention. She turned to spot Miney racing toward her.

Before she could react, the dog jumped, planting his front feet against her stomach. She fell backward, and the sampler bounced out of her hand. Miney dove on top of her, alternately barking and licking. “Stop!” She tried to push him aside, but he continued his happy attack. “Jim! Jim!” She managed to get to her feet and, with Miney still bouncing around her, made her way to the tack shed.

With a little shriek, she dashed inside the shed and closed the door. The dog jumped on the door and continued to bark.

“Miney! Bad dog!” Jim’s voice carried through the door. She opened it a crack and watched Jim approach in the funny double-hop step he used in place of running.

The boy collared the dog, and his voice was severe as he scolded. “Bad, bad dog! You can’t jump on people.”

Hesitantly, Emmaline opened the door. Miney leaped at her again, forcing her back into the shed. Something coiled up beneath her skirt and caught her leg, tearing through her bloomers to pierce her skin. With a pained cry, she jerked free. Lifting her skirt aside, she discovered a curling length of barbed wire.

Jim, his arms wrapped around the dog’s neck, gave her an apologetic look. “Did it scratch you?”

“Yes.” She tossed the wire aside and examined the wound. It hardly bled, but a few red drops stained her torn bloomer leg. “But I will mend with less effort than it will take to clean and repair my clothes.” She scowled at the pup, which now sat panting within his master’s arms. He almost seemed to smile. “Why is he bothering me?”

Jim pulled his lips to the side. “I think it’s your shawl. It’s kind of lumpy and white, so it must look like a sheep to him.” He giggled. “He’s trying to herd you.”

Emmaline centered the shawl back over her shoulders. “Well, I do not care to be herded. Kindly take him off so I can return to the house.”

“Yes, ma’am. Come along, Miney.” The boy and dog departed, Jim limping and Miney bouncing at his side.

With a sigh of relief, Emmaline retrieved the dropped sampler from the ground outside the shed. At the sight of the dust scuffs, she huffed out an aggravated breath, but then she shook her head. The dirt didn’t detract from the meaning of the words. She hung the sampler right inside the door, then stepped back to admire her handiwork.