Summer of Promise (14 page)

Abigail hadn’t heard Jeffrey return to the house last night, but that wasn’t unusual. Since he’d started taking meals with the other officers and sleeping in the parlor, he’d been late coming home each night. Abigail rarely saw him and realized she had little idea of how he spent his time or with whom, but surely he hadn’t been with another woman. Jeffrey loved Charlotte. He would not betray her.

As she opened the windows to air the room, Abigail saw a company of soldiers marching in formation across the parade ground. Lined up four abreast, they seemed to move as one. There was nothing like that in Wesley, Vermont. Abigail sighed. Today Vermont felt more than two thousand miles away. It seemed part of a totally different world. Her life there had been neatly ordered. Each day resembled the one before, and her future had seemed secure. There were no bandits, no deserters, no lieutenants with inexplicable moods. Most of all, there were no worries that her brother-in-law might have broken his marriage vows.

Oh, Lord, what should I do?
If she confronted Jeffrey, he would deny any wrongdoing. If she told Charlotte, she would only worry more.

For once Abigail was thankful for the Wyoming winds, for within minutes, the room was freshened, the hint of perfume gone, replaced by the scents of grass and sagebrush. The wind swept away more than the perfume, for as the room returned to normal, a sense of peace settled over Abigail, and the small voice deep inside her told her this was where she was meant to be.

Filled with a rush of energy, she looked at the desk. Though she had meant to wait until tomorrow before writing to Woodrow, she plucked a piece of stationery from the desk drawer and uncapped the bottle of ink.

Half an hour later, Abigail inscribed her name at the bottom of the last page and began to reread her letter, checking for mistakes. When she reached the end, she was frowning. Four pages, thirteen paragraphs, and almost all of them mentioned Ethan. If she sent this to Woodrow, he’d believe her life revolved around Ethan Bowles. It did not. It most certainly did not. Woodrow was the man she planned to marry.

8

I
t wasn’t the first time Abigail had dreamt of her wedding. Ever since she’d been a child, she had conjured images of the day she would marry. The details had changed over the years, but for the past year, they had remained constant. And so she dreamt that she was standing in the back of a small chapel, watching her sisters precede her down the aisle. She wore the same gown she always did; she carried the same flowers. When Elizabeth was halfway to the altar, Abigail began her processional, smiling as she approached her groom. It was always the same. Until last night. Last night, instead of facing her, her groom had his back turned, and he appeared taller than Woodrow. Instead of brown hair, the groom was blond. And when he turned, Abigail saw that he was not Woodrow at all. She had wakened, her heart pounding at the realization that she had dreamt of Ethan.

It meant nothing. A dream was only a dream. But, though she told herself that a hundred or more times, she had been unable to fall back to sleep. And now she would have to face the man who had starred in her dream, for today was the day she was supposed to ride with Ethan. Fortunately, he would have no way of knowing the images her traitorous mind had conjured.

As she stepped off the porch, Abigail smiled at the sight of two women battling to keep their parasols open. Today was not a day for parasols, at least not in Abigail’s estimation. Were it not for the wide ribbons that secured her hat, the wind would have turned her bonnet into a tumbleweed.

Another smile crossed Abigail’s face at the memory of the huge plants that danced in the wind, seeming to travel almost as quickly as a horse. She was not moving at that speed, but she walked briskly, not wanting to be late and give Ethan another reason to be annoyed. It was bad enough that his invitation had been so grudging.

When Abigail arrived at the stable, Ethan was already waiting, and Sally and a roan stallion were saddled. It appeared that Samson wasn’t ready for riding, for Ethan stood next to him in his stall.

“Good morning, Abigail.” Surely it wasn’t her imagination that Ethan’s greeting was hesitant. Was he remembering his curt words the last time they’d spoken, or was it simply that he would prefer to be alone? He patted Samson’s rump, then turned back to Abigail. “Before we head out, I owe you an apology. I was in a sour mood the other day. It wasn’t your fault, and I’m sorry to have subjected you to it.”

A rush of pleasure swept through Abigail as she realized there had been no need to worry. “I accept your apology.” She extended a hand and smiled when he gripped it tightly. “It must have been difficult, walking so far.”

Ethan shrugged as he helped Abigail mount Sally. “I’m part of the infantry, which means I’m used to walking. That wasn’t what bothered me. It was a combination of Samson’s injury and not catching the deserters. I wasn’t happy about either one.”

Though she knew there had been more deserters, Abigail had heard none of the details. “Were they from your company?”

Ethan nodded and swung into the roan’s saddle. When they emerged from the stable, he said, “Private Dickinson was on my baseball team.”

No wonder Ethan had been out of sorts. Abigail wasn’t certain how she would have reacted if she’d been in the same situation, but she knew she would not have been happy. Though Ethan looked straight ahead, as if trying to decide which direction they should go, she saw his lips tighten and knew she had to say something. “I imagine it felt like a betrayal when he deserted.”

“It did. You know I was hoping the team would help keep the men here, so to have someone leave the very next day. Well . . .” Ethan pulled on the reins as they approached the bridge. “I kept asking myself what else I could have done.”

Abigail waited until they had reached the opposite side of the river before she spoke. “My father used to say that we should try to guide others, but we need to remember that the decisions are theirs. We can’t blame ourselves for their actions, because we don’t control anyone except ourselves.”

“That’s a strange thing for a preacher to say.” Though furrows had appeared between Ethan’s eyes, his voice remained even. “Wouldn’t he remind you that God is in control of everything?”

Shaking her head, Abigail gave Ethan a small smile. “That’s not what Papa believed. He taught that God has given us everything, including free will, and that it’s up to us whether we accept his gifts.”

“Your father sounds very different from the ministers I knew.”

Ethan cleared his throat, as if signaling that he wanted to change the topic of conversation. “Which direction did you go last time?” When Abigail pointed to the right, he nodded. “Let’s go the other way so you can see a different part of the countryside.”

“It all looks the same to me.”

Though Abigail dressed her words in a joking tone, Ethan responded as if she had been completely serious. “In that case, you haven’t been looking carefully. My mission for today is to change your opinion.”

They rode for a few minutes, and though Abigail did not want to admit it, she could discern no difference from the landscape she had seen riding the opposite direction. There were the same low hills, the same scrubby brush, the same occasional outcroppings of limestone. The ground was covered with the same mixture of short curly grasses and long straight blades, all interspersed with yellow flowers and flat white stones. It wasn’t ugly, but it was a bit monotonous. Abigail much preferred talking about the upcoming Independence Day celebration, which Ethan claimed was one of the highlights of the year. “Mind you,” he said, “I wasn’t here for it last year, but the men all say that it’s the biggest celebration of the summer with games, fireworks, and good food.”

As a large bird soared overhead, Abigail smiled. Even she had to admit that the sky was magnificent, especially with the hawk or eagle or whatever it was casting its shadow on the ground.

“Let me guess. Is food the main attraction?”

Though he shrugged, Ethan’s grin confirmed her supposition. “Anything’s better than dry bread and coffee—no milk or sugar, just coffee. That’s what the men are served for supper most days.”

Abigail wrinkled her nose. “That does not sound in the least appetizing.” Even the bland meals Mrs. Channing had prepared for Charlotte were more appealing than that. “Have you considered the possibility that food might be the reason men desert?”

She had been half joking, but Ethan nodded. “Low pay, poor food, and harsh conditions. It’s a tough life, but I still can’t sympathize with men who don’t live up to their commitments. They gave their word when they enlisted.” He stared into the distance, the clenching of his jaw telling Abigail that his thoughts had strayed into unpleasant territory. “My grandfather and I don’t agree on very many things, but I do agree with one thing he taught me, and that’s that a man’s honor is his most valuable possession.”

Papa had said the same thing, telling his daughters that they must follow through on any promises they made. “I think my father would have liked your grandfather.”

Ethan muttered something that sounded like a scoff. “I doubt that. Grandfather is not a likeable man.”

His tone hinted at a conflict that was deeper than a few disagreements and confirmed her impression that Ethan’s childhood had been a difficult one. How sad! Abigail could not imagine growing up in a household that wasn’t filled with love. While her parents had never had many material possessions, they’d lavished love on their daughters, but it seemed that Ethan’s life had been the opposite. He’d never known poverty, but he also had never known love. Though Abigail longed to learn more about Ethan and his grandfather, the glint in his eyes told her that was a forbidden subject, and so she simply nodded before she asked Ethan whether there would be a baseball game as part of the Independence Day celebration.

Though he shook his head, he was smiling, perhaps because he liked the idea, perhaps because he was relieved that Abigail had not pursued the subject of his grandfather. A moment later, he reined in his horse. “Aren’t the flowers beautiful?” he asked when they had both stopped.

“Those are flowers? I thought they were stones.”

Ethan laughed as he dismounted. “I assure you, they’re flowers. C’mon.”

He was simply being a gentleman, helping her off her horse; there was nothing untoward in his actions. Yet Abigail had never been so aware of the warmth of a man’s hands. It was almost as if the outline of his fingers were imprinted on her waist. She took a step backward, trying to regain her equilibrium.

“You have to get close to appreciate them.”

Grateful for the excuse to move, Abigail knelt next to one of the white patches and discovered that what she had believed to be stones were masses of the smallest flowers she had ever seen. Though each was no more than a fraction of an inch across, the blossoms clustered together to form a beautiful mound of white. As she bent her head to study them, Abigail discovered that each flower had five distinct rounded petals and a yellow center so small that it was practically invisible.

“Oh, they’re lovely,” she said softly. Perhaps Ethan was right. Perhaps she needed to look more closely, and perhaps it wasn’t only flowers that benefited from a closer look. Perhaps she needed to view people differently too. Unbidden, Leah’s image filled her mind, making her wonder what she would discover if she spent more time with her.

Unaware of Abigail’s internal turmoil, Ethan chuckled. “Be careful, Abigail. Before you know it, you’ll find yourself liking Wyoming.”

It wasn’t a matter of liking or disliking, Abigail realized. It was simply that life here was very different from Vermont. At home she would have been too busy to spend a morning searching for wildflowers. “We don’t have flowers like these in Vermont,” she admitted. “Do you know what they’re called?”

Ethan quirked an eyebrow. “I’ll have you know they didn’t teach horticulture at West Point, but . . .” He paused for dramatic effect. “Someone told me these are Rocky Mountain phlox.”

Rising, Abigail looked around and spotted another white-flowering plant. This one was considerably larger than the stone-like clusters. “What is this?” she asked, moving closer to inspect it. “The flowers look like poppies, but I’ve never seen white ones.”

“Be careful,” Ethan cautioned as she bent to touch the paper-thin petals. “They’re called prickly poppies. If you touch the leaves, you’ll learn why.”

From a distance, the bluish-gray leaves appeared innocuous, but as she looked more carefully, Abigail saw that they did indeed have sharp edges. “I venture to say they’re not as dangerous as yuccas.”

“Few things are as sharp as a yucca,” Ethan agreed, “but the flowers are pretty enough.”

“That’s what Mrs. Dunn told me.”

“Mrs. Dunn?”

It was Abigail’s turn to laugh. “How could you forget our companion from the stagecoach?”

He groaned. “Ah yes, the widow with the wagging tongue.”

Abigail hoped he didn’t remember that one of the widow’s wags of the tongue had concerned Ethan as a potential suitor. That was a dangerous subject to contemplate, particularly when the wind carried Ethan’s scent, teasing Abigail with the memory of how she’d inhaled it when he’d helped her dismount. “Mrs. Dunn meant well, and she gave me some good advice. Thanks to her, I was careful to keep Sally away from prairie dog holes.”

“How cruel of you to remind me that Samson was not so fortunate.” The crook of his lips that accompanied Ethan’s words told Abigail he was only joking. “Just for that, I may not help you back on your horse.”

But he did, cupping his hands so she could step into them as she mounted Sally. It felt strange, using a man’s hands that way, and yet there was something comforting about it. Perhaps it was the reminder that, while she might be in a seemingly wild place, she was not alone. They’d ridden farther than Abigail had dared on her solitary ride, leaving the fort far behind, yet she’d felt not a twinge of concern. Instead, she had enjoyed the countryside, Ethan’s company, and their conversation. Strangely enough, she even enjoyed the silence, the times when their casual conversation faded and they rode side by side without speaking.