Summer of Promise

by Amanda Cabot

  Fearing that the story would upset her sister’s delicate nerves, she had not told Charlotte about the snake, but she could think of little else. Her fears, her prayers, the blood, Ethan’s assertion that guns could save lives. They were all jumbled together, blended with the memory of Ethan’s arms wrapped around her as they’d ridden back to the fort.

  Abigail closed the back door behind her and walked toward the river, carefully latching the gate so that Puddles would not escape from the yard. Though Charlotte rarely ventured beyond the back gate, Abigail had taken frequent walks to this part of the river, enjoying the solitude. She wouldn’t descend the bank, for it was steep here, but perhaps the sound of water flowing over rocks would soothe her. When she reached the edge of the bank, she sank to the ground. Surely she would be able to make sense of her thoughts here.

  Closing her eyes, she focused on the soft murmuring of the river, the occasional squeaking of a ground squirrel, and the faint scent of wildflowers. Even with her eyes closed, she could picture the land, this harsh land that she had once despised but which had somehow captured her heart. It was a land of punishing wind, relentless sun, and poisonous snakes, but it was also a land of almost unimaginable beauty. Abigail knew that when she returned to Vermont, she would leave a part of her heart here. She would miss Wyoming, but even more, she would miss Ethan. Oh, how she would miss him!

  She couldn’t say how or when it had happened, but somehow he had become an important part of her life. When she chose her clothing for the day, she wondered whether he would find it attractive. When she took Puddles for a walk, she wondered whether she would encounter Ethan. When she helped Charlotte select menus, she chose foods she knew Ethan enjoyed. She looked forward to his company at meals and to watching him coach his baseball team. Those times were pleasant, but they were nothing compared to the way she had felt today when he’d held her in his arms.

  Leaning back against him as they’d ridden, she had felt safe, she had felt cherished. Never, not even with Woodrow, had she felt as if she were the center of a man’s universe, and yet that was how Ethan had made her feel. When they’d spoken of the snake and Luke, she had known that nothing was more important to Ethan than comforting her. Perhaps it was only because Ethan was a soldier, trained to protect others, that he had treated her that way. Whatever the reason, those few minutes had been truly unforgettable.

  Ethan was unforgettable. But in a few months, he would be nothing more than a memory. Abigail covered her face with her hands, trying not to weep.

  Ethan looked around the room, wondering if he should bother undressing and going to bed. He doubted he’d be able to sleep, for memories of the day’s events continued to circle through his mind. Good and bad; fear and pleasure. They mingled as they swirled in his brain.

  First had come the fear, sharper than the blade of a knife, spearing through him the moment he saw the rattler. He doubted he would ever forget the sheer terror of realizing that Abigail faced possible death. All of his senses had been heightened, leaving him intensely aware of his surroundings at the same time that he focused on the snake’s head, knowing that he had only one chance to save Abigail.

  And then, when the danger was ended, fear had been replaced by another, gentler yet equally powerful emotion. Perhaps the fear had sensitized him, increasing his awareness of Abigail as a woman. Perhaps. All Ethan knew was that when he had held her in his arms, he felt more than relief that she was safe. The cold fear that had led him to her had disappeared, replaced by an unfamiliar warmth. It had felt so good, so right, to have his arms around her that he had not wanted to let her go. Ever. And that was frightening in itself, for he had never before felt that way.

  Ethan tugged off his boots and set them carefully beside the bed. They needed polishing, but he would do that in the morning. Tonight he wanted nothing to distract him as he tried to understand what had happened. It had been an extraordinary day, a day in which everything had been turned topsy-turvy, most of all, his heart. All because of Abigail.

  No one had ever touched his heart the way she did. When he’d seen her in danger, Ethan had wanted to save her, but even more, he had wanted to be the one who would keep her safe, not just for today but forever. The feeling was so unfamiliar that he was unable to give it a name. It might be love—Oliver would probably claim it was—but Ethan wasn’t certain. Nothing in his life had prepared him for love. For him love had been no more than a word, an abstract concept, and that left him no way to recognize it. All he knew was that whatever he felt for Abigail felt right, and at the same time, the enormity of it frightened him.

  Though he had doubted it possible, eventually Ethan drifted to sleep, and when he did, he began to dream. At first the dreams were inchoate, mere fragments, but then he saw them. The man stood in the corner of the garden, his face partially hidden by the branches of the spreading oak tree. He was trying not to attract attention. Somehow Ethan knew that, just as he knew that the man was waiting for a woman. Hours passed, or perhaps it was simply a few minutes. Ethan didn’t know, and, in the manner of dreams, it didn’t matter.

  At last the back door opened, and a dark-clad figure slipped from the house. Though the cloak hid her features, Ethan knew it was a woman who ran silently across the grass, her eagerness to reach the man evidenced by her speed. As she approached the tree, the man stepped forward, opening his arms in welcome, and the woman raced into them. For a moment, there was no sound, and then Ethan heard soft laughter. The couple smiled at each other, their happiness bubbling out like water from a spring.

  As the cloud that had obscured the moon shifted, illuminating their faces, warmth filled Ethan’s heart. These were not strangers. The man whose nose and chin so closely resembled his own must be his father, and there was no doubt of the woman’s identity, for her face was that of the portrait he had found in the back of his grandfather’s attic. These were Ethan’s parents, and despite Grandfather’s claims to the contrary, they were happy and in love.

  In his sleep, Ethan turned to his side, and as he did, the dream continued. The couple remained sheltered under the tree, but their faces began to change, softening, blurring, then reforming. When the moon once again revealed them, Ethan gasped, for the couple who gazed at each other with such obvious devotion bore his face and Abigail’s. It was right. Yes, it was right.

  As he bent his head, intending to kiss her, she smiled sweetly and raised her lips to his. But before they could touch, the dream changed again. Ethan was alone in the garden, and the wind began to blow, the sound of tree branches rubbing against each other filling the air. His smile faded with the realization that he had lost Abigail. The house where they had been headed, the house he knew instinctively was their home, had vanished. All that was left was an empty yard and the sound of tree branches. And yet, how could that be, for the trees were gone?

  Ethan woke with a start and reached for his pistol as he realized that what he had heard were claws scratching on wood. An animal had gotten into the BOQ. Alarm turned to relief as the scratching continued, accompanied by a familiar whimpering.

  “What are you doing here?” Ethan demanded when he opened the door and Puddles raced in, running in circles around him, yipping with glee. The dog was supposed to sleep indoors, confined to a crate. How had he gotten out? A quick glance down the hallway explained how Puddles had been able to enter the BOQ. The wind had blown the door ajar, leaving enough space for an eager puppy to slide inside.

  Though he couldn’t help smiling at the dog’s ingenuity, Ethan pasted a frown on his face as he said, “You don’t belong here. C’mon. I’m going to take you home.” But Puddles had other ideas, for he ran under the bed and refused to come out. As Ethan pulled on his uniform, he went from smiling to chuckling. Hadn’t he warned Abigail that the tiny puppy she had thought so adorable would be a handful? “Sorry, boy,” he said as he reached under the bed and grabbed the dog. “There are two lovely ladies who will worry if you’re not home when they waken.”

 
Suspecting that Puddles would not follow docilely, even if he found another leash for him, Ethan picked the dog up and carried him outside. When he reached the Crowley residence, he discovered the back door ajar and Puddles’s crate overturned. Apparently the dog had grown too large for his bed and had been able to open it. Though there was no point in confining him to the crate again, Ethan was resolved that Puddles would not escape from the house a second time. Just before he closed the door firmly, he pointed his finger at the dog. “Stay,” he said sternly. “Abigail’s here.”

  Wonderful, unforgettable Abigail.

  18

  How could this be so difficult? Her arms ached, her neck was stiff, and her eyes felt as if someone had tossed a cup of dust into them. Abigail squinted, raised her arms again, and squeezed the trigger. Though her ears registered the noise and her arms jerked from the recoil, she didn’t have to look to know that she had missed again, for there was none of the satisfying sound of wood splintering that had accompanied Ethan’s shots. They’d been here for what felt like hours, and Abigail showed no signs of improvement. The only good thing she could say was that she had overcome her fear of firing a gun. When she had first picked up the revolver, images of Luke’s lifeless body had flooded her mind, and it had taken all her willpower to replace them with memories of the snake’s menacing fangs.

  “I’m afraid I’m hopeless.” Though she wanted to toss the gun aside in frustration, she laid it carefully on the stump that was serving as their table. No matter how inept she was, the Colt was still a valuable sidearm.

  Ethan raised his eyebrows in an expression that could have been either surprise or disapproval. “I never thought you were a quitter,” he said softly. To Abigail’s relief, his voice held no note of disapproval.

  “I’m not, normally, but this isn’t normal. It seems like we’ve been here forever, and I still haven’t hit the target.” A target large enough that even a novice like Abigail should have been able to hit it. Instead of the small targets the soldiers used, which were positioned a substantial distance from the shooter, Ethan had appropriated the lid from Puddles’s crate, and he’d placed it only a few yards away. If she couldn’t hit something that big, how would she ever defend herself and Puddles against a snake? At least Ethan had set up the target far enough away from the fort that no one else would watch her ineptitude. Ethan was nothing if not considerate.

  Abigail didn’t know whether he had somehow realized how deeply she had been affected by their closeness yesterday, but if he had, he had been careful not to do or say anything that would embarrass her. Instead, he had told her of Puddles’s nocturnal visit to the BOQ and had suggested checking the door each night. Then he’d handed her a Colt. Now he was trying to help her hit the target.

  “This is only your first day.” It must have been her imagination, but Abigail thought she detected a hint of amusement in Ethan’s voice. He was wrong. There was nothing amusing about being such a miserable failure. Before she could form a response, he continued. “What would you tell your pupils if they were discouraged when they couldn’t read one of Mr. Dickens’s stories their first day of school?”

  Abigail shrugged. The answer was obvious. “I’d tell them to be patient.”

  “Precisely. You need to be patient. Straight shooting is a skill that requires time. No one is perfect the first day.”

  “But you make it look easy.” She glared at the pistol. “I would never have guessed that it was so heavy or that the bullets would go so far astray.”

  “You’ll get used to it. I felt just as awkward my first time.”

  But that, Abigail suspected, had been a long time ago. “When did you learn to shoot?”

  “My grandfather gave me a pistol on my tenth birthday. His housekeeper was appalled, but Grandfather informed me that every gentleman needed to know how to defend himself.”

  “And so he taught you to shoot.”

  Ethan shook his head. “No. He hired someone, just as he hired people to teach me everything from Latin to waltzing.”

  Though she knew Ethan had come from a wealthy family, his story underscored the differences in their backgrounds. “I never had a tutor. My parents couldn’t afford one, even if they wanted to. We attended school, but they claimed they should be the ones who taught us the important lessons.” And much of that teaching had been by example. It was from watching Papa do his best to right every injustice that Abigail had learned how important it was to help others.

  The wind carried the sound of soldiers shouting, the incessant hammering at the administration building, and a crow’s raucous cry, but Ethan appeared to hear none of them. His eyes filled with something that might have been sorrow, he nodded shortly. “Make no mistake. I learned a great deal from my grandfather. The problem is, I cannot think of a single good thing that he taught me. What I learned from him was to be suspicious of people’s motives and not to trust anyone.”

  Abigail’s heart plummeted at the bitterness she heard in Ethan’s voice. “That is so sad.” If his grandfather had been that cold, it was no wonder Ethan did not want to see him again. Still, Abigail could not shake the belief that Ethan would someday regret their estrangement. She sought a way to help him understand and possibly reconcile with his only living relative. “Your grandfather must be a very unhappy man.”

  Ethan was silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on the distance. When he spoke, his voice was flat, as if he were trying to control his emotions. “He wouldn’t agree, but I suspect you’re right. Now, let’s talk of something more pleasant, or—even better—let’s get back to your lesson.”

  With a sigh, Abigail picked up the pistol, trying to mimic the posture Ethan had shown her. She squinted, fixing her eyes on the target, and squeezed slowly. The recoil jerked her arms backward and her eyes stung from the smoke, but Abigail didn’t care, for the sound of splintering wood filled her ears. “I did it!” she cried in exultation. While it was true that she’d clipped only the edge of the target, she had hit it. “Oh, Ethan, I hit it!”

  Placing his hands at her waist, he lifted her off the ground and whirled her around. “I knew you could do it.” As he set her back on her feet, Ethan grinned. “You’re an amazing woman, Abigail Harding. I was right. You can do anything you set your mind to.”

  If only that were true. If only she could find a way to heal the emptiness she knew was deep inside him. Please, God, show me the way.

  Once again, the days had fallen into a routine, and it was a good one. Abigail smiled as she walked toward the schoolhouse to conduct her class. There were many reasons to give thanks, the most important of which was that her sister was fully recovered from her physical ailments and seemed happier than ever. Charlotte didn’t appear to mind that Jeffrey was gone every evening. For a while, he had returned home a few hours after the baseball games ended, but now he was out until close to midnight every night. Though Abigail would hear the heavy tread as he climbed the stairs, she gave silent thanks that she had detected no scent of perfume. Instead, his clothing frequently stank of cigar smoke. While the odor was detestable, it raised no unpleasant speculation, for her brother-in-law had announced that he was spending his evenings at the Officers’ Club.

  Her classes were going well too. Perhaps it was the knowledge that Abigail would not leave until mid-autumn that encouraged her pupils. Whatever the reason, the men were attentive and were making excellent progress. If only Abigail could find a way to help Ethan and Leah, her gratitude would be boundless.

  Ethan tugged off a boot. He ought to be happy, or at least content. The men were in better spirits than they’d been all summer, and there hadn’t been a single desertion in weeks. Captain Westland believed the baseball games were responsible for the change in the men’s attitudes, and he was giving Ethan credit for them.

  “I can’t expedite your promotion,” the captain had told Ethan when he’d summoned him to his office this morning. “I wish I could, but you know that’s not possible. What I can—and will—do is g
ive you a citation. I want the men in Washington to know you’re doing a fine job.”

  That was what Ethan wanted too—recognition of his abilities and accomplishments. That ought to be enough. Captain Westland’s praise should have been what reverberated through his mind. Instead, he kept remembering Abigail’s words. “Your grandfather must be a very unhappy man.” It was as if she’d thrown rocks into a small pond, stirring up the mud, turning what had been clear water cloudy.

  Was Grandfather unhappy? Ethan had never considered him in that light, but now that Abigail had churned up the waters, he had to admit it was possible. Grandfather had been widowed at an early age. His beloved daughter had married a man he despised, and then she had died, leaving him with the responsibility of raising a child. If that had caused unhappiness, was that the reason Grandfather had treated Ethan the way he had?

  Again, Ethan conceded the possibility. All right. Say it was true. Just because he understood his grandfather a little better didn’t mean he could change him. It wasn’t as if Grandfather would suddenly turn into a benevolent man, a man who loved his grandson. Some people changed. Ethan believed that. But not Curtis Wilson. He would go to his deathbed the same curmudgeon he’d been when Ethan had lived with him. Ethan knew that, and yet he wished Abigail had not raised the subject, for he did not want to think about his grandfather.

  Nor, for that matter, did he want to think about Abigail. Beautiful, sweet, caring, courageous Abigail. The woman who confronted her fears and surmounted them occupied far too many of his thoughts, and that was wrong. Abigail belonged to Woodrow, and while Ethan might not recall too many of the many Bible verses Mrs. Eberle had helped him memorize as a child, he did recall “thou shalt not covet.” It was one of the commandments, the rules Mrs. Eberle had told him God expected everyone to obey. He would try—oh, how he would try—not to covet what was not his.