by Amanda Cabot
“No, a minister.” Charlotte blinked, as if surprised that she’d said that. It was an unexpected reaction, and yet there was little about Charlotte that was predictable. Though she was forthcoming, even outspoken, on many subjects, she was uncommonly reticent about herself.
“Was the church in Vermont?”
Charlotte nodded. “Churches.” She emphasized the plural. “We moved frequently.”
“No wonder you weren’t afraid to come to Wyoming Territory. You must have inherited your father’s love for travel.”
Biting her lip, Charlotte shook her head. “It wasn’t that he loved moving,” she admitted. “His ideas were sometimes too modern for the parishioners, and the church elders would ask him to leave. I hated being uprooted.”
Which might explain why she had remained in Wyoming after her husband’s death.
“What brought you and your husband out here?” he asked. “Was he stationed at D.A. Russell with Rose’s husband?”
Keeping her eyes on her sewing, Charlotte shook her head again. “His family were farmers.”
Though many had come to Wyoming Territory as part of the military or to build the railroad, others had been lured west by the Homestead Act. It was a difficult life, battling the harsh weather, and while Barrett couldn’t picture Charlotte—perfectly coiffed Charlotte with her elegant gowns—as a farmer’s wife, there was no reason to think she was lying.
“I don’t know how I’m going to finish all this in time,” she said as she resumed her sewing. The hint couldn’t have been clearer: subject closed.
“I’ll try to be quiet,” Barrett said and turned his attention back to her son. Though Charlotte had not said a great deal, she’d given him new insights. An image of the opal ring flashed into his brain, reminding Barrett of the way light revealed its inner fire. He’d been right when he’d thought it the perfect ring for Charlotte. If he could give it to her. But he could not. That would be not only unseemly but downright scandalous. He could give Charlotte nothing more than trinkets and small gifts for her son.
“All right, David. What would you like to do?”
A grin on his face, David began to crawl toward the other side of the room.
“He wants you to chase him.” Charlotte interpreted her son’s activity. “I think he enjoys the sound of our footsteps.”
Barrett rose and began to stalk across the floor, making his footsteps heavier than necessary, and as he did, David peered over his shoulder, grinning with obvious delight. “That’s it!”
“That’s what?” The lines that formed between Charlotte’s brows told Barrett she was perplexed.
“You’ll see.” If he was right—and he thought he was—her simple words had unlocked the key to teaching David to roll a ball. “Does he have any wooden blocks?”
Though her expression still registered confusion, Charlotte nodded and gestured toward a small crate. “They’re in the box.”
Excellent. Barrett retrieved a dozen blocks, arranging them in a row three feet from where David had been sitting. “I’ll chase you once,” he told the boy, “but if I catch you, we’re going to play my game. Okay?”
David scuttled into the kitchen. Barrett let him almost reach the stove before he strode across the floor and swept him into his arms. “My turn.” While David squealed with pleasure, Barrett carried him back to the parlor and placed him on the floor in front of the settee. Though the child couldn’t see them, the blocks were arranged directly in front of him. After retrieving the ball that David had abandoned when he began to play chase, Barrett handed it to him. “Now, you give it back to me. Just for a minute.”
“No!”
“Please, David. This will be fun.”
His reluctance evident, the boy handed his toy to Barrett. “Baw.”
“The game we’re going to learn is called bowling. We’re going to bowl. Can you say that, David?”
“Bowl.” To Barrett’s surprise, the youngster’s pronunciation was perfect. When Barrett looked at Charlotte, she mimicked eating. No wonder David knew the word. It was one his mother would have used every day as she taught him to eat.
“That’s right. Now, listen.” Barrett laid the ball on the floor in front of David, guiding the boy’s hands to it, placing his own over David’s. “We’re going to roll it.” Barrett aimed the ball and gave it a firm push before pulling David’s hands away. “Listen,” he said. As the ball gained momentum, the sound of it rolling across the floor changed, and then it happened. The ball hit the middle blocks, toppling them over in a loud crash.
For a second, David’s face mirrored puzzlement. Then he laughed. “Bowl!” He tipped his head to one side, considering the direction of the sound he’d heard. An instant later, he was crawling toward the blocks. Reaching out, he touched them, and as he did, Barrett could see comprehension dawning. David laughed again. “Bowl,” he announced.
And they did. Again and again. Though David was too young to learn to arrange the blocks, he soon released the ball without Barrett’s hands guiding him. And through it all, he laughed.
“I think you’ve created a monster.” Charlotte had laid her sewing aside and watched the process of her son learning to bowl. “Now he’ll want to play that all day.”
If she expected Barrett to be repentant, she was mistaken. “Look at how much fun he’s having.”
Her face softened. “I know, and it’s wonderful. Thank you, Barrett. You’re wonderful.”
Barrett felt his heart swell until it threatened to break through his chest. Perhaps this was the way those medieval knights felt when they scaled walls or slayed dragons or whatever it was they were supposed to do. Charlotte was no damsel in distress, waiting for him to rescue her, but her smile made him feel as if he were some kind of hero. That felt good. Very, very good.
“Where were you?”
Charlotte gasped as Gwen’s hiss filled the kitchen. Perhaps it had been too much to expect that Gwen would not discover her early morning forays to 15th Street, but Charlotte had clung to the hope that she wouldn’t have to explain why she disguised herself in widow’s weeds and snuck out of the apartment. With a small smile, she switched on the light and waited for the reaction.
It wasn’t long in coming. “You’re wearing mourning clothes.” Gwen frowned at the heavy black veil that covered Charlotte’s face. “Charlotte Harding, what on earth have you been doing?”
“Let me make some coffee, and then I’ll explain.”
Gwen pushed back her chair. “I’ll make the coffee. You’d better change out of those clothes. I know you won’t wear them to the shop.”
Minutes later, Charlotte returned to the kitchen, clad in a simple navy dress. “Why were you waiting in the dark?” she asked as she wrapped her hands around the cup of coffee, letting the warmth penetrate her still chilled fingers.
Gwen shrugged as if the answer should be evident. “I didn’t want Rose to know anyone was awake. She had a nightmare last night, and I’d just gotten her back to sleep when I heard the outside door close. I thought we had an intruder, but it turned out to be you leaving. So, where did you go?”
“Mrs. Kendall’s.”
Gwen’s eyes widened. “You went to 15th Street in the middle of the night?”
Nothing would be gained by pointing out that it was actually early morning. “When you talked about living there, you made it seem that that was the safest time, and it has been. I haven’t seen anyone unsavory.”
Though Charlotte hadn’t thought it possible, Gwen’s eyes widened further. “You’ve been there before.” She no longer phrased her words as questions.
“This was my third trip. I’ve been making clothes for Mrs. Kendall and her boarders.”
“Oh, Charlotte, that’s wonderful.” Gwen’s disapproval evaporated as quickly as snow on a spring morning. “But why didn’t you ask me to deliver them during the day? I’m not afraid of that area.”
Charlotte shook her head. “I know you would have helped, but it was something
I had to do myself.” There was no reason to tell Gwen how good it made her feel to know that she’d accomplished that on her own, that no one had protected her as she’d walked to the seediest part of the city. Instead, she simply said, “My parents taught us that it was important to see where our gifts were going. It wasn’t enough to send money. They wanted us to be involved in the actual giving. Whenever she heard of a family that needed food, Mama would leave a basket on their front porch so it would be waiting when they awoke.”
“And no one knew who left the baskets?” When Charlotte shook her head, Gwen nodded slowly. “That’s why you wore the veil.”
“That and the fact that I didn’t want anyone to know it was Madame Charlotte who had made those dresses. If my customers learned that I was providing clothes for Mrs. Kendall’s boarders, they would be upset. They like to think they’re buying exclusive creations and that only the wealthiest of women can afford something I’ve sewn.” Charlotte took another sip of coffee. “I couldn’t simply leave the dresses on the doorstep, because I had to know what other sizes Mrs. Kendall needed, but I wanted to be as anonymous as I could. And,” Charlotte continued, “it seemed safer to be dressed as a widow. It’s not just that the veil covers my face, but I also thought that if there were people out, they’d be unlikely to accost a widow.”
Gwen refilled Charlotte’s cup. “When I realized you were gone, all kinds of crazy thoughts went through my mind, but I never imagined something like this. What you’re doing is wonderful. What I don’t understand is why you didn’t tell me.”
“I should have.” Just as she should have told Barrett the truth about Jeffrey.
“‘And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed.’”
While the wind howled outside, blowing the light snow that had fallen earlier, Barrett settled back in the pew. Surely he could relax as the minister read the familiar passage from St. Luke. Though Barrett had heard the story so often that he had memorized it, it never failed to move him, and yet tonight he found himself preoccupied with thoughts of what would happen when the service ended. Another gift. A diamond ring could in no way compare to the gift of the Son of God, and yet the moment it was on Miriam’s finger, Barrett’s life would be changed forever.
The changes had already begun. For the first time, he had come to church with the Taggert family. For the first time, he was seated with them in the second pew. For the first time, he was sharing a hymnal with Miriam. Though their betrothal was not yet official, his presence in this particular pew was tantamount to an announcement. It should have come earlier today. Barrett had seen Mrs. Taggert’s disapproval when he’d escorted Miriam to dinner and there had been no ring on her finger. She had obviously hoped that her daughter’s engagement would be the highlight of the evening. It should have been. Barrett had the ring. He’d rehearsed the words he’d use to ask Miriam to join her life with his. But when the moment he had chosen came, he found he could not pronounce the words. Tonight was Christmas Eve. This was a time that should be spent in contemplation of the greatest gift the world had ever received, not in celebration of an earthly event. And so Mr. Mullen’s box would remain in Barrett’s pocket. When the service was over, he and Miriam would ride back to her parents’ home for a midnight supper, and before they reached the Taggert mansion, Barrett would give Miriam her Christmas gift.
“‘And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.’” The minister continued reading.
Barrett closed his eyes for a second, trying to imagine the scene in that stable so many years ago. A newborn child, clasped in his mother’s arms. Though St. Luke said no more, Barrett imagined Mary had been filled with wonder. Was that how every new mother felt? Was that what Charlotte had felt the first time she cradled David in her arms?
Compelled by an instinct he could not ignore, Barrett opened his eyes and glanced behind him. The church was filled, every seat occupied, and yet he saw her. She sat in the last pew, her son in her arms, an expression of pure joy on her face. And in that instant, Barrett knew what he must do.
12
Merry Christmas, Mr. Duncan, ma’am. Your table is ready.”
Warren looked down at the woman whose grip on his arm tightened as they followed the formally dressed man into the dining room of the InterOcean Hotel. She had done something different to her hair—it seemed fancier than normal—and she was wearing a blue dress that rustled softly as she walked. To the maître d’hôtel, she probably looked like every other woman who dined here, well-groomed and confident, but Gwen wasn’t like those other women. She was different. The way she clutched his arm proved that. Though Gwen had no way of knowing it, that involuntary gesture touched a chord deep inside Warren, for it told him that no matter how calm she tried to appear, she was nervous. And that aroused his protective instincts.
He hadn’t expected that. Truth be told, he hadn’t wanted it. The last woman he’d tried to protect was Ma, but that meddling doc claimed Warren didn’t know what she needed, that she’d become dangerous to herself as well as to others. Warren took a deep breath, pushing aside the memories of the last time he’d seen his mother. Ma was gone; Gwen was here. Pretty, nervous Gwen. He’d chosen her because she was perfect for his plans, but she had soon become more than a means to an end. Now she was his Gwen, and he’d do whatever was necessary to make her happy. He hoped that once she overcame her nervousness, being here today would accomplish that.
Seen from Gwen’s view, the dining room must appear impressive, with its dark paneling, snowy white tablecloths, and the clink of silver on fine china. Warren had always enjoyed eating here. The food was predictably excellent. Some folks claimed it was the best in Cheyenne, which was the reason he’d brought Gwen here. She deserved the best. The only thing wrong with the InterOcean was that anyone could eat here. Anyone with enough money, that is. As a public hotel, it wasn’t exclusive the way the Cheyenne Club was. But if Warren played his cards right, next Christmas he and Gwen would be dining there.
When the maître d’hôtel had seated them and handed them their menus, Warren leaned across the table to place his hand on Gwen’s. It might be too familiar a gesture for a public place, but he could see that she was still trembling, and he needed to reassure her. “Having you with me is making this the best Christmas I can recall.”
That sweet smile that tantalized his senses softened her face. “It’s very special for me too. I always wondered what this room looked like.”
“You’ve never been here before?” Though he’d suspected that she hadn’t eaten here, Warren knew that many people would wander into the hotel, merely to say that they’d been inside.
She shook her head. “My husband was a corporal. Even before Rose arrived, his pay barely covered our food and housing. Afterwards . . .” She let her voice trail off. “There was nothing left for luxuries.”
And if anyone deserved luxuries, it was Gwen. As the waiter approached to take their orders, Warren withdrew his hand, clenching it as he laid it in his lap. The money had been important before. Now it was vital. He had to find it, for it was the only way he could shower Gwen with the expensive clothing, furs, and jewels that should have been her birthright.
When they’d placed their orders, he leaned forward, keeping his voice pitched low enough that no one would overhear. “You may not have had a lot of money, but I envy you.”
Warren saw the shock in her eyes as his words registered. “Why would a successful man like you envy me? You have everything.”
That was what most people thought. Indeed, it was what he wanted them to think. The truth was different.
“You have a family,” he said simply. “I’m fifty-one years old, and right now my life feels empty. I want a home that’s more than a few rented rooms. I want a wife and at least one child.” He paused, smiling as he said, “A daughter would be nice. I wa
nt . . .” You. But he couldn’t say that. Not yet. It was too early. And so he turned the tables. “What are your dreams, Gwen?”
She was silent for a moment. “Probably simpler than yours. I don’t mind rented rooms for myself, but I want more for Rose. I wish I could give her a house outside the city with lots of space so she could have at least one pony.”
Warren tried not to frown. He’d planned to build his mansion on 17th Street, a block or two east of the club. That was the perfect location for him, but it appeared that it would not be perfect for Gwen. He thought quickly, then smiled. There was no reason why he couldn’t have two homes. They’d live in the city during the week and spend Saturday and Sunday on the ranch.
Warren nodded briskly as he reached for his water goblet. “Rose should have all that.” He took a long swallow, keeping his eyes focused on Gwen. Her hands no longer trembled, and she’d lost that scared rabbit look. It appeared that she was finally relaxing.
“Do you have any other dreams?”
For a second, he thought she would shake her head. Instead, she started to nod. “I would like . . .” She hesitated, color staining her cheeks. Warren hadn’t known that women her age still blushed, but once again the simple reaction aroused his protective instincts.
“A father for Rose?” he suggested.
She nodded.
“It’s a good dream. Rose deserves a father, and you deserve a husband who’ll cherish you.” As he spoke, Gwen’s blush deepened, leaving her face almost cherry red. His own pulse began to race as he considered the reason for her blushes. This woman cared for him.
Warren stretched his hand out, covering hers with his. “In only a week, the new year will begin. I’ve never put much stock in fortune-tellers, but if I were one, I’d predict that 1887 will be the year our dreams come true.”
Gwen smiled and turned her hand over so that he could clasp it. “I hope you’re right.”