Summer of Promise (2 page)

Ethan Bowles struggled to keep his lips from frowning. If the old biddy knew he was awake, he’d have no peace. She’d continue the relentless questioning—little less than an inquisition—that had convinced him to feign sleep in the first place. And this time she’d focus on his marital status. Once she learned that he was unattached, it would be far worse. Ethan gritted his teeth. Why was it that people felt the need to match make? First his grandfather, then virtually every married woman he’d met. You’d think they would realize that some men were meant to be bachelors, with him first on that list. But, no, they seemed to believe that every single man was a candidate for the state of wedded bliss. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

He shifted his weight slightly, wishing he could open his eyes. The trip went more quickly when a man could enjoy the scenery. And this trip had more than the territory’s natural beauty to enjoy. The young woman, Miss Harding she’d said her name was, was downright easy on the eyes, even if she was wearing clothing that had to be uncomfortable. The high neckline and long sleeves were practical, as was the dark blue color—not too different from his uniform. But the skirt made no sense. Those pleats barely cleared the ground, which meant that they served as dust magnets, and then there was that silly bump in the back. Oliver, his friend who claimed to know everything there was to know about women, had informed him that ladies called them bustles. Ethan called them ridiculous. Why would a woman saddle herself with something that had to get in the way when she sat? The only good thing he could say about the widow was that she didn’t have any such impediments. Her dress might not be fashionable, but it was more practical than what Miss Harding and Mrs. Fitzgerald were wearing.

Despite the preposterous clothing, Miss Harding was worth a second look. Underneath that fancy hat, her hair was pulled back in one of those knots that women seemed to like, but even that couldn’t hide the fact that it was a pretty shade of brown. What intrigued Ethan most were her eyes. It was a shame he was pretending to be asleep, because he was still trying to figure out what color they were. Not quite brown, not quite green, but downright pretty, especially when she smiled. That was when he was sure he’d seen hints of gold in them.

The widow was right. Soldiers out here didn’t get to see too many women, and women as beautiful as Miss Harding were as rare as gold nuggets in the North Platte River. Even though he had no interest—no matrimonial interest, that is—in Miss Harding, Ethan couldn’t deny that he would have enjoyed looking at her, but he sure as shooting didn’t want to get trapped into another conversation involving the widow, and so he kept his eyes closed. Years of ignoring his grandfather’s barbs had taught him the value of feigning indifference.

“Did you live on a farm in Vermont?” The widow was talking again, and since Ethan wasn’t available, she was questioning Miss Harding. The poor woman. By the time the lady with those intriguing eyes reached Fort Laramie, her every secret would be revealed.

“No.” It was only one word, but Ethan heard the reluctance in Miss Harding’s voice. It appeared she wasn’t enjoying the interrogation any more than he had the volley of questions the widow had fired at him when they’d first entered the stagecoach. “I teach at a girls’ academy.” His lips twitched as he realized that was the reason she sounded so prim and why she’d given the little lesson on the origin of Vermont’s name. Schoolmarms, at least schoolmarms in Ethan’s experience, were prim and proper. They had to be.

He heard the intake of breath before Mrs. Dunn spoke. “In my day,” she said, her voice leaving no doubt of her disapproval, “girls stayed home and cared for their parents until they married. They didn’t take jobs away from able-bodied men.”

Of course, in the aftermath of the war there were fewer able-bodied men than there had been before Antietam and Gettysburg and the other battles that had destroyed hopes along with lives. Ethan wondered whether Miss Harding would mention that. Instead she said simply, “It was my parents’ wish that I become a teacher. Fortunately, I find it rewarding.”

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.