Summer of Promise

by Amanda Cabot

  And he found soldiering rewarding. Most days, that is. Today all he felt was frustration. Frustration with the men who cared nothing for their oaths and obligations and who deserted the Army, and even greater frustration with himself for being unable to find them. He’d gone to Cheyenne expecting to locate the pocket of deserters who were reported to be living there. Instead, he’d found nothing but dead ends. That was why he was heading back to the fort a day earlier than planned. He would have only wasted time if he stayed in Cheyenne, and if there was one thing Ethan hated, it was wasting time. If he was going to earn his commanding officer’s respect, he could not afford to spend a whole day doing nothing more than strolling city streets.

  While Mrs. Dunn continued to speak, enumerating the advantages of living in Wyoming Territory, Ethan did his best to ignore her words.

  “One thing you gotta say about livin’ here,” the widow said, her voice reverberating against the sides of the stagecoach, “it’s mighty peaceful.”

  Despite his resolve to pay no attention to the women’s conversation, Ethan found himself listening for Miss Harding’s response. When it came, it was little more than a mutter. “Some might call it boring.”

  It was boring. Abigail gazed out the window, trying not to frown at the endless miles of unchanging scenery. Since they’d left the road ranch where they’d eaten a surprisingly tasty dinner and where her skirts had had the unfortunate encounter with yucca leaves, there had been nothing but rolling hills under the biggest sky she’d ever seen. As she’d told Mrs. Dunn, the sky was beautiful, but Abigail needed more. Even a cloud would have helped break the monotony. Unfortunately, not a single one dotted the sky. There was only sun and wind and scrubby hills.

  How could Charlotte bear it? Perhaps she couldn’t. Perhaps that was the reason her letters had sounded so melancholy. Though her sister denied it, Abigail knew that something was dreadfully amiss.

  If only she had a book. It would be several hours before they reached Fort Laramie, and now that Mrs. Dunn had fallen asleep, Abigail could read. Unfortunately, all her books were safely packed in her trunk, leaving her with nothing to do but stare out the window. Hills and brush, brush and hills. Nothing more. Boring.

  Abigail wasn’t sure how long she’d had her eyes focused on the distance when she saw the cloud of dust. For a moment, she stared at it, wondering if it was a mirage. She’d heard that travelers in the desert conjured images of oases with life-giving water, only to discover that the shimmering pools of water were nothing more than a trick of light. Abigail did not seek water; she craved signs of human habitation, but the dust must be a mirage, for Mrs. Dunn had said there were few settlers in this area. Abigail was simply imagining that the brown cloud was caused by horses. Still, the swirling dust grew nearer, and as it did, she saw that the cloud was caused by two riders, one on a dark horse, the other a palomino.

  Abigail swallowed deeply, unsure whether the shiver that made its way down her spine was caused by anticipation or apprehension. “Someone’s coming.” Though she hadn’t intended to, she spoke the words aloud. The response was instantaneous.

  “Where?” Lieutenant Bowles moved quickly, confirming Abigail’s assumption that he had not been asleep. One second he was lounging on the seat, the next he was staring out the window, watching the approaching riders, those expressive lips thinning, then turning into a frown.

  “It’s trouble,” he said shortly. “Probably road agents.” In one fluid movement, he unholstered his revolver and balanced it on the window ledge.

  Abigail cringed as unwelcome images crowded her brain. No! she wanted to shout. Stop! She bit the inside of her cheek as she forced the memories away. Think of something else. Anything. Seizing on the unfamiliar term the lieutenant had used, she asked, “Road agents?”

  “Bandits.”

  Abigail’s heart began to pound. Though she had read several of the penny dreadful novels she had confiscated from students, she had thought the stories of bandits holding up stagecoaches were exaggerations. Now it was apparent that she was going to experience a holdup, and—if the stories had any validity—that meant . . .

  She bit her cheek again, the metallic taste telling her she’d drawn blood. Blood, just like . . . She focused on Lieutenant Bowles, trying to banish the memories.

  Without taking his eyes off the horsemen, the lieutenant motioned toward the opposite side of the coach. “Stay back,” he ordered, “and keep the others quiet.” Though Mrs. Dunn was still so deeply asleep that she had released her grip on her reticule and Mrs. Fitzgerald was snoring lightly, Abigail did not doubt that the women would scream if they realized what was happening. She had no idea what Mr. Fitzgerald might do, but she knew that any distraction could be dangerous.

  Abigail took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, then darted another look at the approaching men. She wouldn’t—she absolutely would not—look at the lieutenant’s revolver. “They’re soldiers.” She whispered the words, not wanting to waken the others. The approaching riders’ uniforms were the same shade of blue as Lieutenant Bowles’s. The difference was, these men wore bandannas over their faces. It could be to protect them from the dust, but the lieutenant’s intake of breath said otherwise.

  “Probably deserters, up to no good.” He leaned out the window, twisting to face the front of the coach, and yelled at the driver. “Don’t stop. No matter what happens, don’t stop unless I tell you to.”

  “But, sir . . .” Fear colored the coachman’s words.

  “Trust me. Keep going.”

  The driver cracked the whip, and the horses began to run, setting the coach to lurching. As her reticule tumbled from her lap, Mrs. Dunn’s eyes flew open.

  “What’s going on?” she screeched, her eyes focusing on the lieutenant’s drawn weapon. The scream wakened the Fitzgeralds, and the woman clung to her husband, fright darkening her eyes.

  “Quiet, everyone.” Abigail used her best schoolmarm tone, the one that never failed to silence unruly children. “It’s bandits.” She wrapped her arm around Mrs. Dunn’s shoulders and pressed the widow into the seat. If Lieutenant Bowles was going to save the gold or whatever it was the outlaws sought, he needed no interference.

  “No!” Mrs. Dunn struggled against Abigail, her eyes darting from the lieutenant to her lap. “My reticule. I need my reticule.”

  The heavy bag had slid to the other side of the coach, where it lay near the lieutenant’s feet. Though Mr. Fitzgerald looked as if he would retrieve the reticule, Abigail shook her head. “Not now.” From the corner of her eye, she saw the bandits approach. In seconds they would reach the coach. And then . . . Dear Lord, keep us safe.

  “Smelling salts! I need my smelling salts.” Mrs. Dunn’s imperious tone only worsened Mrs. Fitzgerald’s whimpering.

  As the widow stretched her arms toward her reticule, Abigail dug inside her own bag and pulled out a small vial. Mama had been insistent that a lady always carry smelling salts, claiming one never knew when there might be an emergency. Even Mama, who had been blessed with an active imagination, had probably never envisioned a time like this. “Here.” Abigail uncapped the bottle and thrust it under Mrs. Dunn’s nose. When the widow snorted with what sounded like indignation, Mrs. Fitzgerald buried her face in her husband’s coat, sobbing softly while he murmured reassurances.

  Outside, the palomino’s rider said something to his companion, and the other man raised his rifle to aim at the stagecoach driver. Abigail shuddered as dread surged through her veins. Please, no. The driver was an innocent man, only doing his job. He did not deserve to die. No one did. Not like this. As the coach continued to lurch, Abigail heard the sounds of a whip cracking and a desperate shout. She tightened her grip on Mrs. Dunn. Though she might not be able to help the driver, she could keep the friendly widow away from the window and danger.

  “Gif me the Gelt,” the bandit shouted, his heavy accent telling Abigail that German was his native language. As the lieutenant muttered something under his breath,
his tone left no doubt that that something was uncomplimentary. “Gif me the Gelt,” the man repeated.

  It was the lieutenant who responded, never taking his eyes off the would-be robber. “There is no money, and you won’t get anything else.”

  “Don’t pay him no mind,” the man on the palomino told his companion. “He’s only one, and we’re two.” Though unschooled, this man’s voice bore no accent.

  “Halt, I say,” the German ordered. “Halt or I vill shoot.” He punctuated his threat with a shot into the air. “That vas a varning. The next one vill not be.”

  When Mrs. Dunn started to speak, Abigail clasped a hand over her mouth. Nothing she could say, nothing any of them could say, would help. Everything depended on Lieutenant Bowles. Help him. Abigail sent a silent prayer heavenward. Though she had followed the lieutenant’s instruction and moved away from the window, she had a clear view of the two outlaws. The one with the heavy accent lowered his rifle until it was once again pointed at the driver. He was closer now, the sight of his rifle causing her stomach to roil.

  “Halt!” the bandit yelled. “I vant the Gelt,” he shouted, his voice so filled with malevolence that Abigail knew he would not hesitate to kill.

  “Help!” Panic colored the driver’s voice as he pleaded, “Help me.”

  There was only one possible recourse. Abigail knew that, even as the prospect sickened her. If the lieutenant didn’t act now, the driver would be dead. It was a clear choice: kill or watch a man—perhaps more than one—be killed.

  As the lieutenant squeezed the trigger, the deafening sound of the revolver filled the coach. “Oh no!” Mrs. Fitzgerald slumped forward in a swoon.

  “Stop!” Mrs. Dunn shrieked as she fought to escape from Abigail’s grip. “The Lord says ‘thou shalt not kill.’”

  But the lieutenant had not killed, Abigail realized with a sense of incredulity. Somehow, though she had not thought it possible, he had only wounded the bandit enough that the man dropped his rifle and was clutching his hand.

  “Let’s go.” The other bandit reined his horse and spun around, racing away from the stagecoach, not even glancing back to see whether his wounded companion was behind him. The German, doubled over in pain, followed more slowly.

  The danger was past. The Lord had answered her prayers. There had been no killing. Not today. Abigail felt the tension drain from her, leaving her as limp as a wilted stalk of celery. As Mr. Fitzgerald waved Abigail’s smelling salts under his wife’s nose, Abigail released her grip on Mrs. Dunn and turned toward the lieutenant, who was now looking at the other passengers as if assessing their condition. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I don’t know what we would have done without you.”

  “Just doing my job, miss.” His voice was as calm as if he foiled robberies every day of the week. Perhaps he did. The lieutenant leaned out the window again and addressed the driver. “You can stop now. I doubt they’ll be back, but I’ll ride next to you, just in case.”

  “What about us?” Mrs. Dunn demanded. She had retrieved her reticule and clutched it as if it held her most prized possessions, not simply a handkerchief and a vial of smelling salts. “I reckon we need protection too.”

  Though the lieutenant’s lips twitched, his voice was serious as he said, “You’ll be safe, ma’am, but you might feel better if you pulled down the shades and sat in the middle of the coach.”

  Now that the danger was past, Abigail could not stop her limbs from trembling. This land was worse, much worse, than she had thought. Dust and wind and relentless sun were nothing compared to murderous outlaws. If it hadn’t been for the lieutenant, who knew what might have happened?

  She looked out the window at the desolate landscape, no longer searching for signs of life. Barren countryside, even yuccas, were better than the alternative. When her gaze met Lieutenant Bowles’s, Abigail said firmly, “Wyoming is no place to live.”

  She might have imagined it before, but this time there was no question about it. He was trying to control his amusement. “Could be you’re right.” His lips curved upward as he added, “But you have to admit it’s not boring.”

  2

  Fort Laramie wasn’t as bleak as she’d expected. In fact, it was surprisingly civilized. With no stockade fence surrounding it and no gates, it looked more like a village than a military establishment. In fact, were it not for the men in uniform marching around the center square, Abigail might have thought this was an ordinary town. But nothing about Wyoming was ordinary.

  Once the bandits had ridden away, the lieutenant had climbed on top of the coach to sit next to the driver, leaving Abigail with an uncharacteristically silent Mrs. Dunn and the obviously distressed Fitzgeralds. The couple clung to each other, speaking softly, while Mrs. Dunn huddled on the opposite end of the backseat, twisting her reticule strings and muttering what sounded like “all wrong.” Though Abigail suspected the widow was referring to the aborted robbery, the same words could be applied to her own journey. What had seemed like such a good idea back in Vermont now seemed all wrong. Perhaps she’d been mistaken. Perhaps Charlotte did not need her. Perhaps God had not meant for her to come to Wyoming.

  Brushing aside her doubts, Abigail looked around as she tried to keep pace with the lieutenant. After he’d arranged for another officer to guard the stagecoach until it reached Deadwood, he had insisted on accompanying Abigail to her sister’s house, promising that her trunk would be delivered later.

  “You’ll be safe here,” he assured her.

  Though Abigail was not certain she would feel safe until she was back in Vermont, she was relieved that Charlotte’s home was not on the stark, treeless prairie she had just crossed. While no one would call Fort Laramie a forest, there were trees. A cluster of cottonwoods grew next to the river; others lined three sides of the central area that the lieutenant told her was the parade ground; still others dotted front yards of houses whose porches and gables, not to mention their neat picket fences, made them unexpectedly attractive. And though the parade ground was clearly meant for military exercises, someone had created what the lieutenant explained were birdbaths in the corners. Perhaps four feet across, the shallow cement-lined ponds were edged with bricks, and judging from the number of birds that were drinking from them, they served an important purpose.

  Who would have thought that an Army fort would boast such amenities? Whitewashed buildings, sidewalks, street lamps, even grass. It was more than Abigail had believed possible.

  She took a shallow breath. Lieutenant Bowles. Ethan, she corrected herself. He’d insisted she call him Ethan, and she’d agreed that he could use her given name. Ethan set a brisk pace, perhaps forgetting that she had yet to become accustomed to the unfamiliar climate. Between the sun, the dry wind, and the altitude, Abigail found herself unable to walk at her normal speed without panting or, even worse, feeling as if she were going to faint. Unlike Mrs. Dunn and Mrs. Fitzgerald, Abigail never fainted.

  “Jeffrey didn’t mention that he and Charlotte were expecting visitors,” Ethan said as they rounded a corner. Though he’d raised an eyebrow in apparent surprise when she’d told him her sister’s married name, his voice bore no hint of the breathlessness that plagued Abigail.

  He stamped his foot on the wooden walkway, frightening away the small pack of dogs that had begun to follow them. The dogs were yet another difference from Vermont. While Abigail had seen an occasional dog running loose at home, she had never encountered packs of apparently wild dogs. But the lieutenant didn’t want to talk about the fort’s canine population. He’d asked about Jeffrey and Charlotte.

  “They didn’t know I was coming,” Abigail admitted. “Charlotte might have tried to dissuade me if I’d told her.” And Abigail had had no intention of being advised to stay home. As dearly as she loved Charlotte, her older sister was overly cautious. When Charlotte heard about the would-be bandits, she would undoubtedly tell Abigail she had acted foolishly. But what else was a sister to do when her questions remained unanswered a
nd her worries multiplied?

  Ethan’s arms swung rhythmically as they walked toward Charlotte’s new home. It was, he’d explained, at the far end of the parade ground, the southeast corner. Officers’ housing and public buildings like the store lined the southern and western sides of the parade ground, while barracks stood along the other sides.

  “So you just climbed on a train and came all the way from Vermont, almost getting yourself robbed or possibly kidnapped in the process.” There was no mistaking the surprise in the lieutenant’s voice. “Are you always that impulsive?”

  Impulsive? Perhaps. Papa had claimed that Abigail listened to her heart and disregarded her head, but she wouldn’t admit that to this man. Even though it might have been true once, a schoolteacher needed to set a good example, and so she had spent years ensuring that she thought before she acted. “I prefer to think of myself as the sensible sister.” That was the term Woodrow used, and it was, he maintained, one of Abigail’s most attractive characteristics. Woodrow had never accused her of being impulsive.

  The tall lieutenant who was so different from Woodrow grinned. “And so that sensible sister suddenly got the notion of coming to boring Wyoming Territory.”

  Though he phrased it as a statement, Abigail sensed that he sought an explanation. Instead, she countered with a question. “Do you have any siblings?” When Ethan shook his head, Abigail nodded slowly. “Then you may not understand how much I miss my sister. The last time I saw her was over a year ago at her wedding.” There was no need to tell him that since their parents’ deaths, her sisters were Abigail’s whole family.

  Ethan shooed another group of dogs away before he turned back to face her. “Jeffrey mentioned that they were newlyweds when they arrived. His company was transferred here a couple months before mine.”

  Abigail looked around. Though the fort was more pleasant than she had pictured, it was still a far cry from Vermont’s pastoral scenery. The surrounding hills were a lighter green than at home, and the trees lacked the variety that characterized Wesley and the other small towns where Abigail and Charlotte had lived. And even though there was an undeniable charm to some of the mansard-roofed houses, Abigail doubted they contained the luxuries Charlotte had always craved. “I can’t imagine honeymooning here.”