Summer of Promise (11 page)

It felt good to be on a horse again, Abigail admitted to herself as she emerged from the stables on Sally’s back. The mare was as gentle as Charlotte had claimed, and since all three Harding sisters wore the same size clothing, Charlotte’s green riding habit fit Abigail as if it had been made for her. The familiar-looking enlisted man who’d been cleaning out the stalls had started to call her Mrs. Crowley, then blushed when he realized his mistake.

“It’s all right, Corporal,” Abigail said. “I’m flattered that you think I look like my sister.” Though Mama had claimed that all her daughters were lovely, Abigail knew that Charlotte was the beauty of the family. Even Woodrow had commented on Charlotte’s good looks, while he’d never told Abigail she was beautiful. Woodrow was not a flatterer.

As the corporal saddled the mare, Abigail narrowed her eyes slightly, trying to remember where she had seen the man. “Oh,” she said, smiling at the memory. “You’re the soldier who was chasing the dogs and calling to them in German.”

“Ja,”
he admitted. “I did that, but it did no good. They paid me no mind, no matter vat language I spoke.” Though the man’s accent was heavy, his grammar was impeccable. Mrs. Barnett, who claimed that a slight accent was charming but that poor grammar was a mark of ignorance, would be impressed.

As thoughts of the headmaster’s wife flitted through Abigail’s head, she wondered what Woodrow was doing today. Was he too preparing for a ride? More likely, he had found someone for a tennis match, for tennis was his favorite summer pastime. Miss Thayer was a good tennis player. Perhaps she would challenge him. Or perhaps one of the students would ask for lessons. Henrietta Walsh’s parents had paid Woodrow to teach her last summer, and the girl had spent the entire school year regaling anyone who would listen with stories of Woodrow’s prowess. But Woodrow and tennis matches were almost two thousand miles away.

Abigail watched as the corporal tested the saddle cinches. “Do you vant me to go vith you, ma’am?” he asked. “I vill ask my sergeant for permission.”

Abigail shook her head. “No, thank you, Corporal . . .” She let her voice trail off, hoping he would offer his name.

“Keller, ma’am. Dietrich Keller.”

“Thank you, Corporal Keller, but my sister assures me I’ll be safe riding alone so long as I stay close to the fort.”

“
Ja
, you vill. Good day, ma’am.”

Abigail rode slowly through the fort, giving herself a chance to get used to Sally. Despite Charlotte’s admonition to take a long ride, she had decided she would do no more than circle the outside of the garrison. Fort Laramie was located on a deep bend of the Laramie River, with the river forming its southern and eastern boundaries. Though she knew that horses could easily ford the river, Abigail would not risk getting Charlotte’s habit wet. That’s why bridges had been invented. She’d cross the bridge at the east end of the garrison, then follow the river, retracing her steps when the fort was no longer in sight.

Abigail settled into the saddle, smiling at the puffy cumulus clouds scudding across the sky. Though Wyoming would never compare to Vermont’s green beauty, there was no denying that the sky here was magnificent. The sounds were different too. At home, she heard dairy cows mooing. Now that she was outside the fort, Abigail realized that the noise of soldiers marching, the shouts and bugle calls that were part of daily life, and the seemingly incessant construction noise blocked the natural sounds. Out here, the wind was dominant, rustling through the long grasses, carrying bird calls and odd whistles on its breezes.

Abigail looked around as the whistling grew louder, accompanied by occasional squeaks. The source, she discovered, was a prairie dog sitting on top of his mound, apparently announcing her arrival to the rest of his colony. She reined in Sally and watched for a moment, recalling the stories Mrs. Dunn had recounted on the stagecoach. Prairie dogs, the widow had claimed, were social creatures whose favorite pastime appeared to be standing on their hind legs, exchanging gossip with their neighbors. That certainly seemed to be true. Seeing the number of animals standing on the mounds of dirt they’d excavated from their underground homes, all apparently chatting to each other, Abigail knew why the colonies were referred to as prairie dog towns.

The critters were as cute as squirrels, but Abigail knew that their burrows presented dangers to the unwary. Recalling Mrs. Dunn’s story of breaking her ankle when she stumbled into a gopher hole, Abigail guided Sally away from the prairie dog town. She wouldn’t risk injuring her sister’s mare.

“How much farther shall we go?” she asked the horse. Predictably, Sally said nothing. Abigail spotted a large cottonwood a hundred or so yards farther. “That’s where we’ll turn around,” she announced.

And she would have, had she not seen a figure sitting on the riverbank, shaded by the tree. The full sleeves and long skirts told Abigail this was a woman; the slumped shoulders and bent head telegraphed despair. Even from a distance, Abigail could see that the woman was sobbing.

“C’mon, Sally,” she urged the mare. “Let’s see if we can help.”

Seconds later, Abigail was on the ground. Though it might be difficult to mount Sally again, she wouldn’t approach the young woman on horseback. Something in the woman’s posture told her that she was as wary as a wild animal. A stranger on horseback would be more intimidating than one on foot. But even walking was enough to alarm the woman. As soon as Abigail dismounted, she jumped to her feet. Though she straightened her shoulders and tossed her blonde hair over her shoulders in what could be viewed as a defiant gesture, her expression was one of desperation.

“Can I help you?” Abigail’s heart turned over at the anguish she saw in the woman’s eyes. A lighter blue than Ethan’s, they bore more pain than Abigail had ever seen in such a young face. For, even through the heavy coating of powder that reminded Abigail of Mrs. Dunn and the paint that would have appalled Mama, Abigail could see that the woman was no older than she.

“How can I help you?” Abigail rephrased the question, for there was no doubt that this woman needed her help.

The woman shook her head, setting the blonde hair that was her greatest beauty to swinging and releasing a whiff of perfume. “I don’t need no help. Nothing’s wrong, Miss . . .”

“Harding.” Abigail completed the sentence. “I’m Abigail Harding, but I won’t believe that nothing’s wrong.”

The woman rubbed her eyes, brushing the tears aside. Her face might have been pretty were it not blotched with tears. “It’s nothin’ you can change. Anyhow, you shouldn’t oughta be talkin’ to me, Miss Harding.”

“Why not?” This woman wasn’t part of the Army with its rules about fraternization. Her painted face and the strong perfume made Abigail suspect she was one of the women Charlotte had scorned last week, but even if she were, that was no reason for Abigail not to try to help her. If anything, it was a reason she ought to.

Abigail gave the woman her brightest smile, the one that had won over many a bashful student. “Please tell me your name. I don’t want to address you as just ‘miss.’”

The woman wrapped her arms around her waist, as if to comfort herself, and Abigail noticed that her dress, though made of a simple cotton, was the same shade of blue as her eyes. Though Charlotte might cringe at the thought that she had anything in common with this woman, it appeared they both cared about fashion.

“My name’s Leah,” the woman said softly. “No one calls me ‘miss’ anything. I’m just Leah.”

“If you tell me your surname, Leah, I’ll use it.”

She shook her head. “That wun’t be proper. You shouldn’t be talkin’ to me at all.”

“Why not?”

The woman’s blue eyes reflected pain and something else, something Abigail thought might be shame. If she was what Mama would have called a fallen woman, Leah might be embarrassed to admit it.

The pretty blonde took a deep breath and blurted out, “I work at the hog ranch.”

Abigail felt herself relax. She had jumped to a conclusion, and it was wrong. “There’s nothing wrong with raising pigs, Leah.”

Leah’s laugh held no mirth. “You ain’t from around here, are you? There ain’t no pigs on a hog ranch. Peg’s is a place where men go to drink whiskey and play poker and . . .” Leah stopped, clearly trying to choose her words. “To visit women,” she said at last.

“I see.” And Abigail did. It wasn’t just the land that was different in Wyoming. People here spoke a different language. Bandits were called road agents, houses of ill repute hog ranches. But one thing remained the same: whether she was in Vermont or Wyoming, Abigail could not ignore a person in need.

“I reckon you oughta get on that horse and leave, Miss Harding. You shouldn’t oughta be associatin’ with folks like me. You shouldn’t oughta have stopped.”

Abigail glanced at Sally and saw that the mare was grazing contentedly. There was no reason for her to depart and every reason to stay. She shook her head, dismissing Leah’s suggestion. “I saw a woman who looked lonely and sad, and I thought I might be able to help.”

“I told you, ain’t no one can help.” Leah brushed aside the tears that welled in her eyes. “I hate what I do, but I ain’t got no choice.”

Abigail wouldn’t believe that. “There must be something else. I heard that the officers’ wives are always looking for servants.”

A look of astonishment crossed Leah’s face. “You think they’d hire me? That’s a purty picture—me cookin’ and cleanin’ house for some lady when I used to entertain her man. It ain’t gonna happen, Miss Harding. Oh, I can keep a house clean, and I cook better than most, but ain’t no fancy lady gonna let me inside her house. They’re afraid of me.”

Was that why Charlotte had reacted so strongly? Abigail dismissed the thought as quickly as it flitted through her brain. Charlotte and Jeffrey were practically newlyweds; he loved her; there was no reason to believe he had strayed.

“Perhaps you could cook at Peg’s instead of entertaining men.”

Leah shook her head. “Peg wun’t agree. The men don’t care much about the food, but they sure don’t mind plunking down their coins for some entertainment.”

“You could leave.” Even as Abigail pronounced the words, she knew how unlikely the prospect was. Where would Leah go, and how would she get there? In all likelihood, she had no money.

“I cain’t.” Leah’s shoulders slumped. “Peg said she’d hunt me down if’n I left. You see, the fellas like me better than the other girls, cuz I’m young and my hair is yellow. The other girls gotta wear wigs to have yellow hair.”

“And they resent that.”

“Yes, miss, they do. I ain’t got no friends.”

Abigail’s heart ached for the young woman whose life had been so different from hers. As much as she wished it was otherwise, she doubted she could do anything to alter Leah’s circumstances. There was, however, one thing she could do. “I’d like to be your friend,” Abigail said softly as she extended her hand.

Leah shook her head, ignoring the outstretched hand. “That ain’t proper.”

“You did what?” Charlotte pushed herself into a sitting position and glared at her sister. Though she was awake when Abigail returned, she’d been lying down; now shock and anger propelled her upward.

Refusing to match her sister’s raised voice, Abigail spoke softly yet firmly. “You heard me the first time, Charlotte. I told Leah I wanted to be her friend, and I do.”

“Are you daft? She works at the hog ranch. You know decent women don’t associate with soiled doves.” Spots of color appeared on Charlotte’s cheeks as she warmed to her lecture. “Whatever were you thinking, or weren’t you thinking?”