Summer of Promise (28 page)

Corporal Keller was not laughing. Though the rest of the class cheered when Abigail told them she would remain until at least mid-November, he was silent. The normally jovial soldier was obviously disturbed, barely speaking in class, and when he did respond, his answers were wrong more often than not. Charlotte might tell her she couldn’t solve everyone’s problems, but that didn’t stop Abigail from trying.

“Corporal Keller,” she said as she dismissed class, “could you remain for a moment?” When the other students had filed out of the room, she turned to him. “Something seems to be bothering you. Can I help?”

“Nein.”
It was a measure of his distress that he had resorted to German. “No one can help.” His face crumpled as he said, “Marta married someone else. She vould not vait for me.”

The corporal was right. This was a problem Abigail could not solve. “I’m so sorry,” she said, wishing there were something she could do to bring a smile back to his face. But there was not.

She wasn’t there. Abigail scanned the horizon, noticing how the once green prairie had turned golden brown, the legacy of summer’s heat and dryness. Though the wind set the cottonwoods’ leaves dancing, and a bluebird sang to his mate, there was no sign of Leah.

“There’s only one thing to do,” Abigail told Sally as she headed south. “We’re going to pay a visit to Peg’s Place.” Not surprisingly, the mare did not respond.

The hog ranch was as dilapidated as Abigail remembered. The same chickens scratched in the dirt, while on the other side of the main building, a seemingly well-fed cat licked its paws. If, as Leah claimed, the cat’s mission was to catch mice, it appeared that the ranch must have a substantial rodent population.

Perhaps it was the early hour, perhaps the heat. Whatever the reason, there were no signs of human life. Abigail dismounted, looped Sally’s reins around the hitching post, then walked to the building. Uncertain of the protocol—did one knock or simply enter?—she hesitated. And as she did, the door swung open, revealing a woman whose imperious expression left no doubt that she was Peg, proprietor of the establishment that bore her name.

Of medium height and build, Peg had no distinctive features other than her mahogany hair and her perfume, which surrounded her in a cloud of the same fragrance that Abigail had smelled on Jeffrey.

“What do you want?” Peg demanded. Her voice was softer than Abigail had expected, with a faint Southern drawl.

Though a dozen questions popped into Abigail’s mind, starting with this woman’s relationship with Jeffrey, she pushed them aside. She had come here for only one reason: to see Leah.

“I’d like to speak with Leah.”

Peg’s eyes narrowed. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. None of my girls”—she emphasized the personal pronoun—“are allowed to associate with women from the fort. I’m sure you understand that it would not be good for business.”

Though Abigail had not met Peg before, she was bothered by the feeling that something about her seemed familiar, but that concern paled compared to the fact that the older woman appeared to recognize her.

“How do you know that I live at the fort?” Abigail doubted Leah had said anything. Though she had claimed that Peg was mostly benevolent, Leah’s unwillingness to accept a book even as a loan told Abigail she shared no confidences with her employer.

Peg’s smile was arch. “Simple, really. I visit the fort occasionally to see whether the sutler has any goods my customers might enjoy.”

That could explain why Peg seemed familiar. She might have been one of the women Abigail and Charlotte had seen near the parade ground.

“Then Leah is all right?”

“Indeed, she is. So you’d best be heading back to the fort, Miss . . .” Peg paused.

“Harding. Abigail Harding.”

“And I’m Peg, but you already knew that, didn’t you? Good-bye, Miss Harding. I trust I will not see you again.”

Mrs. Eberle used to say that bad news came in threes. Perhaps good news did too. Ethan stirred the salt until it had dissolved in the vinegar, then began to polish his buttons. There had already been two pieces of good news. It had been good—excellent, in fact—that the Blues had finally won a game. Even Captain Westland, whom no one would call the most observant of men, had commented on the men’s improved spirits. And then there had been the news that Abigail would be staying at least three months longer. That was definitely good. While Ethan regretted the reason, for Charlotte’s ill health weighed heavily on both Abigail and Jeffrey, he was glad that Abigail had delayed her departure. There was no doubt about it. Fort Laramie was a happier place when she was here.

That made two. He would welcome a third piece of good news, especially if it provided a clue to the person responsible for the thefts.

“Have you seen her?” Oliver obviously saw no need for such social niceties as knocking on doors or delivering greetings. Instead, he barged into Ethan’s room, a huge grin splitting his face.

“Have I seen whom?” Ethan tried not to smile, though it was difficult when Oliver was around. The man’s enthusiasm was contagious.

“Melissa. Captain Westland’s niece.”

Ethan shook his head. While he had heard the captain say that his wife was returning from Kansas and was planning to bring their niece for a visit, he had not made the young woman’s acquaintance.

“She arrived on today’s coach,” Oliver continued, the words tumbling like potatoes from an overturned cart. “Miss Melissa Westland is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Oh, Ethan, I’m in love.”

“Again.” Ethan chuckled. It was good to see Oliver looking happy, even if his infatuation would last no more than a week. At least for that week, he’d be cheerful, joking with the others, helping boost morale, and he’d have no reason to frequent the hog ranch.

Oliver clapped Ethan on the shoulder. “Love is grand. I know I keep telling you that, but don’t just take my word for it. Find yourself a girl.”

17

A
re you certain you don’t mind?” Though Charlotte’s face had regained its normal color, furrows appeared between her eyes, and she looked as if her bowl of porridge had suddenly lost its appeal. Surely she had no doubts that Abigail would agree to what was, after all, a simple request, and yet it appeared that she did. Perhaps this was further evidence of what Mrs. Grayson called delicate nerves.

“I don’t mind,” Abigail said firmly. “Not at all. You know I enjoy taking Puddles for walks. Besides, you need to save your energy.” And trying to keep up with Puddles when he tugged at his leash was not the way to do that. Though Charlotte’s recovery had been rapid, now that she was out of bed again, she had begun to remind Abigail of a whirling dervish, constantly in motion as she organized the women’s sewing brigade. Anything Abigail could do to slow her down was good.

Her appetite apparently restored, Charlotte ate another spoonful of porridge before she smiled at her sister. “You can make it a long walk, if you want. Both Mrs. Alcott and Mrs. Montgomery are bringing food to the meeting.”

“And you don’t want Puddles to smell it.”

“Exactly. You know the other ladies can’t resist feeding him.” As if Charlotte could. All Puddles had to do was look up at her with those soulful eyes, and she gave him a bit of whatever it was she was eating.

“Mission accepted.” Abigail saluted.

As she had hoped, her sister laughed. “Not bad for a new recruit. Next thing I know, you’ll wonder why you can’t join the Army.”

“Hah! That will happen when Puddles learns to fly.” First he had to learn to walk sedately and to come when called.

“C’mon, Puddles,” Abigail said after she’d tied her hat ribbons and buttoned her gloves. “It’s time for you to learn how a well-behaved dog walks.” She waited until they’d crossed the bridge before she began her first lesson, keeping the leash so short that Puddles had no choice but to walk next to her. Though the dog strained at the leash at first, when he realized that Abigail would not let him run and that he would receive a bite of the cake he enjoyed if he walked calmly, he seemed to resign himself to a slower pace than normal.

When they reached the huge cottonwood where she used to meet Leah, Abigail decided it was time for Puddles’s second lesson. Letting out the leash, she allowed him to run to its limit. “Come,” she called. At first, he ignored her, but she reeled in the rope, all the while repeating, “Come.” When he reached her, she patted his head, praising him as if it had been his idea to return. “Good boy. Good Puddles.”

After a few minutes, when he seemed to understand the command, Abigail removed the leash and let him run. “Come,” she called. The puppy stopped, then tipped his head, as if considering the command. “Come.” Abigail repeated the order, holding out a piece of cake. “Good dog.” As he devoured the treat, she stroked his ears. “Good Puddles.”

Seconds later, he raced away, clearly reveling in his newfound freedom. But each time Abigail called, he returned, and each time, Abigail smiled as she handed him the cake. Charlotte’s puppy was a quick learner. She would let him run one more time before they headed back to the fort.

Puddles scampered away, going farther this time but remaining within sight. Abigail suspected that, while he clearly enjoyed his freedom, he wanted the security of knowing she was close. She watched him circling a large rock, his ears perked as if he saw something of interest. Remembering the time he had investigated a prickly pear cactus too closely and she’d had to pull thorns from his muzzle, Abigail called to him. For the first time, he ignored her command, not even looking in her direction.

“Come, Puddles.” No reaction. “Puddles, come here. Now.” He remained motionless, staring at whatever had fascinated him. “Come!” Abigail shouted the command, but the dog gave no sign of hearing her. Exasperated, she stalked toward him, realizing that he’d tired of the game and that they both needed to return to the fort.

“Come here, Puddles,” she said when she was only a few yards away. The puppy whined but did not look at her. Something was wrong, for Puddles had never acted this way. It was almost as if he were mesmerized. And then she heard the rattle.

A minute ago, Ethan had been riding peacefully, looking for signs of deserters, hoping against hope that he’d find some trace of the kidnapped widow. The sun was out. If anything, the day seemed hotter than the past few, probably because there was no wind. Beads of sweat had dotted his forehead, though Samson had shown no signs of the heat bothering him. It had been an ordinary day, patrolling the countryside. But now Ethan was shivering as if he’d been caught in a blizzard. Even worse, he was filled with a sense of impending doom. The dread that clenched his heart had a name. Abigail. She needed him. Ethan knew that with every fiber of his being, and yet it made no sense. Abigail was the most self-sufficient woman he knew.

He shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought, but it was to no avail. His limbs still trembled, and his heart knew what his head tried to deny: Abigail was in danger. The feeling was irrational, the product of pure instinct. And yet . . . Never before had Ethan’s instincts been so strong. They were practically shouting that he needed to return to the fort as quickly as he could.

“C’mon, Samson. Let’s see how fast you can run.”

As the gelding raced across the prairie, Ethan’s eyes moved from side to side, looking for possible danger. There was no reason to believe that the Indians were on the warpath, nor was it likely that bandits were waiting to ambush a sole rider. The more common dangers were those native to the prairies themselves: varmint holes, yucca spines, and cactus thorns. A prudent man kept his mount safe from them. Ethan couldn’t risk another injury, not when Abigail needed him.

He leaned forward, squinting to see more clearly. Was that a woman next to the boulder? Her dress and bonnet were gray, blending almost perfectly with the rock. If he hadn’t been searching so intently, he might have missed her. Ethan’s heartbeat accelerated as he urged Samson into a gallop. The object he had seen was indeed a woman.

“Abigail.” He shouted her name, but she remained immobile, staring at the ground, every line of her body telegraphing fear. Though he would have given almost anything for it not to be true, Ethan’s instincts had been accurate. Abigail needed him.

“Abigail! What’s . . . ?” The words caught in his throat as he saw the answer to his question. There on the ground, its tail flailing with fury, lay one of the largest rattlesnakes Ethan had ever seen. Its tongue flickered; its eyes moved from side to side. Only Abigail kept it from striking, for she stood with one foot on the snake, directly behind its head. If she moved, if her weight shifted, the rattler would be free.

Oh, God, please.
Unbidden the prayer reverberated through his mind.
Make my aim straight. Let me save her.
There was no room for error, and Ethan sensed that he would have no chance for a second shot, for Abigail appeared on the verge of collapse. He held his breath as he drew his pistol from the holster and aimed at the rattler. A second later, the snake was dead, and Abigail was screaming.

“No! No! No!” She crumpled to the ground, wrapping her arms around herself as she continued to scream. “Not again.”

Ethan leapt from Samson and pulled her into his arms. “You’re safe.”

Her eyes wide with terror, Abigail began to beat on his chest. “Let me go! You killed him. You killed Luke.”

Luke? What was she talking about?

“Let me go!”

When Ethan released her, Abigail slid to the ground. Though she had stopped shrieking, her body shook more violently than long grasses in a windstorm. It was the normal aftermath of danger. Ethan knew that, but he also knew that Abigail’s reaction was extreme. Her eyes were glazed, and she stared into the distance, unseeing.

“You shouldn’t be on the ground. There could be more snakes.” She gave no sign of hearing him. “Abigail, please.” Ethan reached down to lift her onto Samson. Whether she liked it or not, she had to leave. But before he could draw her into his arms, Puddles reached Abigail’s side and began to lick her face. Where had the dog been? Ethan hadn’t seen him near Abigail and the snake.

“Oh, Puddles, you naughty dog,” Abigail murmured.

Ethan breathed a sigh of relief. This sounded like the Abigail he knew. Somehow the puppy had broken through her hysteria.

“Why wouldn’t you come when I called you?” she asked.

As Abigail crooned softly, Ethan spoke. “We need to go.”

She stared at him for a moment, her eyes reflecting confusion. Then a wash of color rose to her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Ethan. You must have thought I was a madwoman.”

“What happened?” He stretched out his hand and helped her to her feet. Though the trembling had lessened, he doubted she could stand on her own.

“I was teaching Puddles to come when I called him, but he went too far and found the snake.” She trembled at the memory. “When I got here, it looked as if it was going to strike. I couldn’t let it kill Puddles, but I didn’t know what to do other than step on it. That’s when I realized that I couldn’t move.” Abigail took a deep breath, exhaling slowly, as if trying to calm herself.

“You’re safe now.” Ethan tried to reassure her. “But we need to get back to the fort.” She couldn’t walk, but Samson could easily carry the two of them. And Puddles. Ethan couldn’t forget the dog, for the pup had moved to his side and was looking up with those mournful eyes.

“Hang on,” Ethan said as he scooped Abigail into his arms. Her eyes widened for a second before she wrapped her arms around his neck. If she was surprised, so was he. Though he’d held her in his arms when they’d danced, this was different. Far different. Abigail was lighter than he’d expected, her arms softer than he’d remembered, her scent sweeter than anything he could recall. He would gladly have carried her the mile or so back to the fort, but that would only provoke questions for which he had no answers, and so he placed her on Samson’s back, then handed Puddles to her. When he’d mounted behind her, determined that he would not let her out of his sight until she was safely home, Ethan flicked the reins. It was time to move.

“Who is Luke?” he asked when Abigail’s breathing—and his own—had returned to normal.

He felt her stiffen, and she turned to look at him, her hazel eyes filled with sorrow. “How did you know about Luke?”

She was like a soldier after a battle, remembering only bits and pieces of what had happened. “You accused me of killing him.”

Abigail shuddered. “I’m so sorry, Ethan. I must have lost my head for a moment. It’s just that the gunshot and the blood brought it all back.”