by Amanda Cabot
Unfortunately, it was not so easy to dismiss the ideas Mrs. Eberle had planted. They haunted him through baseball practice, leaving Ethan so distracted that he turned practice over to Oliver, claiming it was important for the team to have a variety of leaders.
Retreat was over, and there were still a couple hours of daylight before he had to be back for tattoo. Ethan headed for the door. Even though the wind had died down and the mosquitoes would be biting, he had to get out of his quarters. If he stayed here, his thoughts would continue their endless circle, reminding him of the deserters, his grandfather, and the expression on Abigail’s face when he’d practically commanded her to stay away from the hog ranch.
A brisk ride would clear his head. But as he walked toward the stables, he saw a familiar figure. Two familiar figures, Ethan amended, for Abigail was accompanied by Puddles. Admittedly, it was debatable which was accompanying the other. While Abigail might claim that she was taking Puddles for a walk, the puppy seemed to be leading the way and setting the pace.
Ethan considered an abrupt retreat. After all, it was possible Abigail would not welcome his company. But, though he told his feet to turn around, they did not, and he soon found himself only a yard away from the beautiful woman and her dog. The woman was smiling, as if she bore no grudges, while the dog jumped on him, leaving dusty footprints on Ethan’s trousers. It was a warmer welcome than he deserved, and perhaps it meant there was no need to voice an apology.
“He’s growing, isn’t he?” Ethan bent to rub Puddles’s head, then looked up at Abigail.
If she was unhappy about seeing him, she gave no sign. Instead, it seemed as if this morning’s disagreement had not occurred. Perhaps she too wanted to forget it. “I thought he felt heavier when I bathed him.” Abigail’s smile was wry as she added, “That’s not a favorite event for either one of us. The truth is, he eats so much that I’m surprised he isn’t twice this size.”
“Before you know it, he’ll be full grown.”
Abigail’s smile faded, and as she gazed at the parade ground, her expression seemed almost melancholy. “I won’t be here to see that.”
Ethan swatted at a mosquito, reflecting that the insect’s bite hurt far less than the prospect of Abigail’s departure. It would accomplish nothing for him to admit that he would miss her, and so he forced a smile. “True, but you have something else to look forward to. You’ll be back in Vermont.” With Woodrow. Ethan would not pronounce those words. They were worse than the mosquitoes constantly buzzing at him.
“I’m not sure how long I’ll be here. I had planned no more than a month. Now that Charlotte seems better, I could leave, but . . .” Abigail paused, and Ethan sensed that she was trying to choose her words carefully. “I received a disturbing letter today.”
Though she said nothing more, Ethan suspected the letter had come from Woodrow. The man was a fool if he’d said something to upset Abigail. Ethan flinched at the realization that he had been the one to upset her this morning. He was hardly the one to cast stones. But that didn’t mean he would introduce Woodrow’s name. Instead, he said, “It must have been the day for unpleasant letters, because I got one of my own.” He tightened his fists as he recalled the contents. “I hate it when people think they know what’s best for me.”
“I know what you mean. I guess I don’t like being ordered around.”
“Nor do I.”
Abigail raised an eyebrow. “That’s an odd statement, coming from a man who chose a career in the Army.”
“It does sound strange, doesn’t it?” They had rounded the corner of the parade ground and were approaching Abigail’s house. Ethan slowed his steps, not wanting their conversation to end. “It’s different, though, when the order comes from my commanding officer. It’s his job to give orders and mine to obey. I knew that when I joined the Army. I might not always like the orders, but I know this is the life I’m meant to lead.”
Abigail’s smile faltered. “I wish I were so certain. I used to be, but now . . . now I’m not.”
The admission surprised Ethan. The Abigail he knew—the Abigail he thought he knew—was the personification of confidence. What had happened to change that?
“What did you think you were meant to do?” he asked.
As Puddles whimpered, annoyed by his mistress’s failure to walk as quickly as he wished, Abigail picked him up and cradled him in her arms. “I imagined that I would marry and raise a family.” She gave Puddles a smile as she stroked the puppy’s ears. “I pictured myself with six children—three girls and three boys—all of us living in a house near a lake.”
Ethan tried not to frown. It shouldn’t matter to him that there were no lakes in this part of Wyoming. She wasn’t staying here. “It sounds as if you’ve got it all figured out.” He shouldn’t be continuing this discussion, for it was like picking the scab off a partially healed wound.
Abigail set Puddles back on the ground, waiting until she was once again upright before she answered. “It’s what I thought I wanted,” she said softly, “but I’m not certain it’s God’s plan. That’s what worries me.”
“I’m hardly the person to advise you about that, but you’re a minister’s daughter. If you asked your father, what would he have said?”
Abigail’s eyes widened, and then she smiled. “That’s easy. Papa would say there was only one way to find out, and that’s to ask him. God, that is.”
Her words echoed through her head as she entered her room. Ask God. She had been doing that. Or had she? Abigail stared at the floor. Had she really asked, or had she merely told God what she wanted and then waited for his approval of her plans? She feared she had done the latter. Perhaps that was why she hadn’t received an answer.
Slowly, she sank to her knees and bowed her head in prayer. Father in heaven, I’m sorry. I trust you. I know you have plans for me, and they’re better than my plans. Show me your plan. There were no answers, nothing but the feeling of peace that filled her heart. That was enough for now. The answers would come.
Half an hour later, Abigail heard Charlotte stirring in the room next door. Knowing Jeffrey wasn’t home, Abigail opened the connecting door. Her sister was sitting up in bed, her color better than it had been that morning.
“Will you brush my hair?”
It was the first time Charlotte had asked Abigail to perform what had been a nightly ritual when they were children. Abigail smiled as she realized this was the answer she had sought. Charlotte needed her, if only to brush her hair.
When Abigail nodded, her sister climbed out of bed and took a seat on her dressing stool. “I want to look pretty for Jeffrey,” she said as she handed the silver-backed brush to Abigail. “I’ve missed him so much.”
“Of course you’ve missed him. He’s your husband.” Unbidden, the memory of the hog ranch women’s perfume disturbed Abigail’s thoughts. She would not upset Charlotte by speaking of that, and yet she could not forget.
In her distress, Abigail must have made a sound, for Charlotte’s eyes narrowed as she studied Abigail’s face in the mirror. “I know you miss Woodrow. That’s why, as much as I love having you here, I think you should go home. You deserve your own life.”
Abigail shook her head. “Not until I’m sure you don’t need me anymore. You’re the reason I came here.”
“I know, and I appreciate it, but I have Jeffrey.”
Could Charlotte depend on Jeffrey? Abigail wasn’t certain. “I still worry about you, sister of mine.” It was the term of endearment they’d used as children. Abigail employed it deliberately, hoping it would make Charlotte smile.
It did. “There’s no need to worry,” her sister insisted. Though she spoke firmly, her words did not convince Abigail. “I’ll be fine, and you need to go home. Woodrow is waiting.”
Abigail drew the brush through Charlotte’s hair, setting it to crackling. “I will go home, but only at the end of the summer.” As Charlotte started to protest, Abigail raised a cautioning hand. “I’ve prayed ab
out this, Charlotte, and I believe this is what God wants. If Woodrow and I are going to have a life together, he will wait for me. My place is here with you.”
And with Leah and Ethan. She might fail, but she had to try to help Leah. As for Ethan, though he wouldn’t admit it, he needed help too. Abigail wasn’t sure what she could do. All she knew was that God wanted her to do something, and until she knew what it was, she was not leaving Wyoming.
9
The baron had arrived. Though he walked lightly for a man, the cloud of cigar smoke that surrounded him announced his presence before his footsteps were audible. Frances closed the door to her private residence and made her way into the back room where she and the baron conducted their business. No one—not even the baron—was allowed into her chambers. Unlike the girls she hired, she did not entertain men in her quarters. It was there that she kept mementos of her past, tangible proof that the woman everyone in this part of Wyoming knew as Peg was actually Frances Colfax, former star of the stage. Even the baron, who thought he knew everything about her, didn’t know that.
“Want a whiskey?” Of course he did. The man who was no more a baron than she was named Peg always wanted one. She poured a generous serving into one glass before splashing a smaller quantity into another. No sense in muddling her wits. When the baron was here, she needed all of them.
“What have you got for me?” he asked when he’d downed the amber liquid and held out the glass for a refill. Other than his prominent nose, Frances found nothing distinctive about the man who’d been her business partner for six years. He was of medium height with steel gray hair and light blue eyes. Dressed as he was today in a finely cut suit, he looked the part of the cattle baron he claimed to be, but Frances knew that if he wore Levis, chaps, and a chambray shirt, he’d blend into a group of ranchers.
She also knew he wouldn’t like her answer. “Mostly Colts.” She opened the crate that she’d dragged into the room earlier this morning, revealing a dozen revolvers and two rifles.
The baron’s lips tightened. “Springfields are worth more.” He lifted one of the rifles from the crate and aimed it at her. Another woman might have flinched, but Frances knew it was an empty threat. Even if the rifle were loaded, which it was not, the baron wouldn’t shoot her. One night when he’d had more whiskey than usual, he’d revealed that while he had few scruples, he would not kill women or children. When it was unavoidable, he assuaged his conscience by ordering someone else to pull the trigger.
“I’m not stupid, Baron. I know the value of rifles. The problem is, our friend”—Frances infused the word with scorn—“said this was all he could get. Things haven’t been the same since the cavalry left the fort. Fewer men mean fewer weapons.”
The baron returned the rifle to the crate. “This’ll do for this week. Rumor has it some rich folks are headed for Deadwood next week. It would be a real shame to pass up the opportunity to get better acquainted with them, don’t you think?”
Frances nodded as her mind began to whirl with possibilities. It was too soon for Mrs. Dunn to travel again. Who would she be this time? A wealthy widow? A spinster aunt? An aging schoolmistress? She’d find the right role, and then, just as she had on the stage, she would play it to perfection.
“One more thing,” the baron said as he slid the crate toward the door. “I heard someone’s been looking for Big Nose’s stash. Could be it’s our friend at the fort. If it is, he’d better be prepared to share.”
Frances poured herself another glass of whiskey, wondering if there was any truth to the baron’s story. She doubted there was anyone in Wyoming who hadn’t heard of George Parrott, better known as Big Nose. One of the territory’s most daring and successful outlaws, he’d met his fate at the end of a hangman’s noose a few years earlier, leaving few mourners but plenty of people speculating on where he had hidden a large shipment of gold.
Rifles were good, stagecoach travelers’ jewels even better, but nothing could compare to Big Nose’s gold. It was time to discover just what the man at the fort knew.
Independence Day had finally arrived, and for once, the Wyoming winds were not howling. It was, in fact, almost calm—a rarity, and one that would enhance everyone’s enjoyment of the holiday. Abigail was not surprised by the men’s anticipation of the day. Even with the addition of baseball, their lives were monotonous, and the celebrations promised a welcome diversion. What did surprise her was Charlotte’s enthusiasm. It seemed that no one was as excited as her sister. Ever since she’d recovered from her last bout of illness, she had been filled with energy. Not only did Charlotte have Mrs. Channing working extra hours to bake special desserts for the men, but—despite Abigail’s protests—she had insisted on sewing a new gown for Abigail.
“You have nothing patriotic,” Charlotte had declared when Abigail had suggested that she would wear one of the frocks she had brought from Vermont. “This is our nation’s birthday. You need to be properly dressed, and that means red, white, and blue.” And so she had chosen a deep red poplin for Abigail’s tunic, accenting it with white lace. Wide bands of the lace trimmed the collar, cuffs, and lower edges, while narrower lace appliquéd on the front of the bodice gave the illusion of a jacket. Though Charlotte had promised to make a matching skirt, today the exquisitely trimmed tunic would be worn over a pleated navy blue skirt to complete the red, white, and blue color scheme. Charlotte had even trimmed Abigail’s straw hat with wide blue ribbons and red rosettes and had attached red and blue ruffles and ribbons to her white parasol.
“It’s beautiful.” Abigail pirouetted in front of the cheval mirror. Though Charlotte’s dress was far simpler than Abigail’s, the design was nonetheless striking. Since Charlotte had finally begun to gain weight and could no longer lace her corset as tightly as before, she had created a one-piece semi-fitted dress with princess lines from the same navy blue fabric that she had used for Abigail’s skirt. Dark red cuffs and collar set off the deep blue, and though the buttons that actually fastened the gown were hidden by a placket, the dress appeared to be closed by the most ornately braided frogs Abigail had ever seen. Marching from the high collar to the hem, the frogs added an elegant touch of white to Charlotte’s costume.
“We’re certain to be the best-dressed women on the post, thanks to you.” Abigail smiled. Though everyone at Fort Laramie knew of their relationship, the use of the same materials in their gowns proclaimed their sisterhood, and that felt good.
The doubt Abigail had once had about the wisdom of coming to Wyoming had disappeared. This was where she was meant to be. She was certain of that, even if she did not yet know all she was meant to do. She had ridden to the large cottonwood three times, looking for Leah, but the woman had not been there. And though she saw Ethan each day at mealtimes and twice a week for baseball games, she was no closer to knowing how to help him. The bright spot was that Charlotte was happy.
Abigail gave her sister another smile. “I don’t know how to thank you for this beautiful gown.”
Charlotte shrugged, as if the hours she had spent designing and then creating the dress were of no account. “You know I love to sew, and I have plenty of time. Besides, it gives me pleasure to have someone wear what I’ve made.”
Abigail had wondered if Charlotte’s newfound happiness was in part because she had more things to occupy her days now that Abigail was here. If that was true, what would happen when Abigail returned to Vermont at the end of the summer? Charlotte’s words gave her an idea.
“I heard some of the officers’ wives complaining about how difficult it is to go to Cheyenne for fittings for their clothing. Have you considered becoming the post’s seamstress?”
At first the only sign Charlotte gave that she heard the question was the almost imperceptible tightening of her lips. Then she shook her head. “I did think about it when we first arrived, but Jeffrey wouldn’t approve. He believes it’s his responsibility to provide for his family.”
And once Jeffrey made up his mind, he was unlikel
y to change it. Abigail tucked an errant curl back into her sister’s coiffure as she said, “It’s fortunate Papa didn’t feel that way.” Abigail could not recall a time when sales of Mama’s jellies and candies had not been an important source of income for the Harding family.
The shake of her head said Charlotte disagreed. “Papa didn’t have much choice. Each time we moved, there were months without pay.”
“I hadn’t realized that.” Abigail’s heart clenched as she wondered what else she had missed.
“We weren’t supposed to know, but I heard Mama and Papa talking once. They didn’t realize I was in the next room when they were worrying about how they were going to clothe us. Apparently there was enough money for food, but all three of us girls had worn out our clothes.” Charlotte rose and opened one of her bureau drawers. Though her back was to Abigail, Abigail could hear the distress in her sister’s voice. “It was the only time I can remember hearing Mama cry. She had cut up her dresses to make clothes for us the year before, and there weren’t any left. The next day, a box of used clothing appeared on our porch.”
“I remember that. Mama said it was the answer to prayer.”
Charlotte turned, a pair of gloves in her hands. “It wasn’t the answer to my prayer. The only dress that fit me was a putrid green. It was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen, and I hated it, but I couldn’t say anything, because I didn’t want Mama to cry again.”
Abigail looked at the beautiful gown Charlotte was wearing. It was a far cry from the detested green frock. “I remember that dress,” she said softly, “but I don’t remember it being ugly. What I remember is that you crocheted the most beautiful collar and cuffs for it, and every girl in school wanted a set just like yours.”
Charlotte shrugged. “I had to do something to make it a little less awful. I never forgot that dress, though, and I swore that when I grew up, I’d never have another ugly gown.”