Summer of Promise (3 page)

“Halt, I say,” the German ordered. “Halt or I vill shoot.” He punctuated his threat with a shot into the air. “That vas a varning. The next one vill not be.”

When Mrs. Dunn started to speak, Abigail clasped a hand over her mouth. Nothing she could say, nothing any of them could say, would help. Everything depended on Lieutenant Bowles.
Help him.
Abigail sent a silent prayer heavenward. Though she had followed the lieutenant’s instruction and moved away from the window, she had a clear view of the two outlaws. The one with the heavy accent lowered his rifle until it was once again pointed at the driver. He was closer now, the sight of his rifle causing her stomach to roil.

“Halt!” the bandit yelled. “I vant the
Gelt
,” he shouted, his voice so filled with malevolence that Abigail knew he would not hesitate to kill.

“Help!” Panic colored the driver’s voice as he pleaded, “Help me.”

There was only one possible recourse. Abigail knew that, even as the prospect sickened her. If the lieutenant didn’t act now, the driver would be dead. It was a clear choice: kill or watch a man—perhaps more than one—be killed.

As the lieutenant squeezed the trigger, the deafening sound of the revolver filled the coach. “Oh no!” Mrs. Fitzgerald slumped forward in a swoon.

“Stop!” Mrs. Dunn shrieked as she fought to escape from Abigail’s grip. “The Lord says ‘thou shalt not kill.’”

But the lieutenant had not killed, Abigail realized with a sense of incredulity. Somehow, though she had not thought it possible, he had only wounded the bandit enough that the man dropped his rifle and was clutching his hand.

“Let’s go.” The other bandit reined his horse and spun around, racing away from the stagecoach, not even glancing back to see whether his wounded companion was behind him. The German, doubled over in pain, followed more slowly.

The danger was past. The Lord had answered her prayers. There had been no killing. Not today. Abigail felt the tension drain from her, leaving her as limp as a wilted stalk of celery. As Mr. Fitzgerald waved Abigail’s smelling salts under his wife’s nose, Abigail released her grip on Mrs. Dunn and turned toward the lieutenant, who was now looking at the other passengers as if assessing their condition. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I don’t know what we would have done without you.”

“Just doing my job, miss.” His voice was as calm as if he foiled robberies every day of the week. Perhaps he did. The lieutenant leaned out the window again and addressed the driver. “You can stop now. I doubt they’ll be back, but I’ll ride next to you, just in case.”

“What about us?” Mrs. Dunn demanded. She had retrieved her reticule and clutched it as if it held her most prized possessions, not simply a handkerchief and a vial of smelling salts. “I reckon we need protection too.”

Though the lieutenant’s lips twitched, his voice was serious as he said, “You’ll be safe, ma’am, but you might feel better if you pulled down the shades and sat in the middle of the coach.”

Now that the danger was past, Abigail could not stop her limbs from trembling. This land was worse, much worse, than she had thought. Dust and wind and relentless sun were nothing compared to murderous outlaws. If it hadn’t been for the lieutenant, who knew what might have happened?

She looked out the window at the desolate landscape, no longer searching for signs of life. Barren countryside, even yuccas, were better than the alternative. When her gaze met Lieutenant Bowles’s, Abigail said firmly, “Wyoming is no place to live.”

She might have imagined it before, but this time there was no question about it. He was trying to control his amusement. “Could be you’re right.” His lips curved upward as he added, “But you have to admit it’s not boring.”

2

F
ort Laramie wasn’t as bleak as she’d expected. In fact, it was surprisingly civilized. With no stockade fence surrounding it and no gates, it looked more like a village than a military establishment. In fact, were it not for the men in uniform marching around the center square, Abigail might have thought this was an ordinary town. But nothing about Wyoming was ordinary.

Once the bandits had ridden away, the lieutenant had climbed on top of the coach to sit next to the driver, leaving Abigail with an uncharacteristically silent Mrs. Dunn and the obviously distressed Fitzgeralds. The couple clung to each other, speaking softly, while Mrs. Dunn huddled on the opposite end of the backseat, twisting her reticule strings and muttering what sounded like “all wrong.” Though Abigail suspected the widow was referring to the aborted robbery, the same words could be applied to her own journey. What had seemed like such a good idea back in Vermont now seemed all wrong. Perhaps she’d been mistaken. Perhaps Charlotte did not need her. Perhaps God had not meant for her to come to Wyoming.

Brushing aside her doubts, Abigail looked around as she tried to keep pace with the lieutenant. After he’d arranged for another officer to guard the stagecoach until it reached Deadwood, he had insisted on accompanying Abigail to her sister’s house, promising that her trunk would be delivered later.

“You’ll be safe here,” he assured her.

Though Abigail was not certain she would feel safe until she was back in Vermont, she was relieved that Charlotte’s home was not on the stark, treeless prairie she had just crossed. While no one would call Fort Laramie a forest, there were trees. A cluster of cottonwoods grew next to the river; others lined three sides of the central area that the lieutenant told her was the parade ground; still others dotted front yards of houses whose porches and gables, not to mention their neat picket fences, made them unexpectedly attractive. And though the parade ground was clearly meant for military exercises, someone had created what the lieutenant explained were birdbaths in the corners. Perhaps four feet across, the shallow cement-lined ponds were edged with bricks, and judging from the number of birds that were drinking from them, they served an important purpose.

Who would have thought that an Army fort would boast such amenities? Whitewashed buildings, sidewalks, street lamps, even grass. It was more than Abigail had believed possible.

She took a shallow breath. Lieutenant Bowles. Ethan, she corrected herself. He’d insisted she call him Ethan, and she’d agreed that he could use her given name. Ethan set a brisk pace, perhaps forgetting that she had yet to become accustomed to the unfamiliar climate. Between the sun, the dry wind, and the altitude, Abigail found herself unable to walk at her normal speed without panting or, even worse, feeling as if she were going to faint. Unlike Mrs. Dunn and Mrs. Fitzgerald, Abigail never fainted.

“Jeffrey didn’t mention that he and Charlotte were expecting visitors,” Ethan said as they rounded a corner. Though he’d raised an eyebrow in apparent surprise when she’d told him her sister’s married name, his voice bore no hint of the breathlessness that plagued Abigail.

He stamped his foot on the wooden walkway, frightening away the small pack of dogs that had begun to follow them. The dogs were yet another difference from Vermont. While Abigail had seen an occasional dog running loose at home, she had never encountered packs of apparently wild dogs. But the lieutenant didn’t want to talk about the fort’s canine population. He’d asked about Jeffrey and Charlotte.

“They didn’t know I was coming,” Abigail admitted. “Charlotte might have tried to dissuade me if I’d told her.” And Abigail had had no intention of being advised to stay home. As dearly as she loved Charlotte, her older sister was overly cautious. When Charlotte heard about the would-be bandits, she would undoubtedly tell Abigail she had acted foolishly. But what else was a sister to do when her questions remained unanswered and her worries multiplied?

Ethan’s arms swung rhythmically as they walked toward Charlotte’s new home. It was, he’d explained, at the far end of the parade ground, the southeast corner. Officers’ housing and public buildings like the store lined the southern and western sides of the parade ground, while barracks stood along the other sides.

“So you just climbed on a train and came all the way from Vermont, almost getting yourself robbed or possibly kidnapped in the process.” There was no mistaking the surprise in the lieutenant’s voice. “Are you always that impulsive?”

Impulsive? Perhaps. Papa had claimed that Abigail listened to her heart and disregarded her head, but she wouldn’t admit that to this man. Even though it might have been true once, a schoolteacher needed to set a good example, and so she had spent years ensuring that she thought before she acted. “I prefer to think of myself as the sensible sister.” That was the term Woodrow used, and it was, he maintained, one of Abigail’s most attractive characteristics. Woodrow had never accused her of being impulsive.

The tall lieutenant who was so different from Woodrow grinned. “And so that sensible sister suddenly got the notion of coming to boring Wyoming Territory.”

Though he phrased it as a statement, Abigail sensed that he sought an explanation. Instead, she countered with a question. “Do you have any siblings?” When Ethan shook his head, Abigail nodded slowly. “Then you may not understand how much I miss my sister. The last time I saw her was over a year ago at her wedding.” There was no need to tell him that since their parents’ deaths, her sisters were Abigail’s whole family.

Ethan shooed another group of dogs away before he turned back to face her. “Jeffrey mentioned that they were newlyweds when they arrived. His company was transferred here a couple months before mine.”

Abigail looked around. Though the fort was more pleasant than she had pictured, it was still a far cry from Vermont’s pastoral scenery. The surrounding hills were a lighter green than at home, and the trees lacked the variety that characterized Wesley and the other small towns where Abigail and Charlotte had lived. And even though there was an undeniable charm to some of the mansard-roofed houses, Abigail doubted they contained the luxuries Charlotte had always craved. “I can’t imagine honeymooning here.”

The lieutenant slowed his pace a mite and looked down at Abigail, his blue eyes sparkling with barely controlled mirth. “Believe it or not, Abigail, some of us consider Wyoming beautiful.” He gestured into the distance. “You can see almost forever. Out here, you’re not closed in by trees.”

“That may be true, but who wants to see miles of grasslands? They’re . . .”

“Boring.” As they had on the stagecoach, his lips twitched as if he were trying to restrain a smile. “You’re wrong about that. The prairies aren’t boring. When you look closer, there’s more variety than you might think.”

“I’ll take your word for that.” No matter what Ethan Bowles said, Abigail had no intention of being here long enough to explore the surroundings. Once she satisfied herself that Charlotte was all right, she was heading back East. Vermont—and more important, Woodrow—were waiting for her.

“We’re almost there.” They had walked the distance of what Ethan had called Officers’ Row and were approaching the next corner of the parade ground. Just around the bend was a large building under construction, the noise of hammers and workmen’s shouts carrying clearly on the wind. “The new administration building,” Ethan said when Abigail glanced in that direction. “When it’s done, it’ll house the school and library as well as the commanding officer’s and adjutant’s offices.”

Abigail’s ears perked up at the mention of a school. It was silly to care about that when she wouldn’t be here long—two weeks at the maximum. Still, she stared at the cement walls taking shape and wondered what the classroom would be like.

“This is it.” The lieutenant stopped at the gate to a large house with a wraparound verandah. Although a single set of steps led to the porch, a wall divided the porch, and a door on each side indicated that the structure served as two residences. “Your sister’s is the one on the left,” Ethan said. Touching his hand to his cap in a brief salute, he added, “I’ll leave you now.”

Abigail swallowed. There was no reason to feel apprehensive, and yet she did. Perhaps it was the aftermath of the aborted robbery, but what had seemed like a good idea now seemed . . . impulsive. She held out her hand to the lieutenant. “Thank you again for what you did on the stagecoach.”

He touched his hand to hers briefly, then shook his head. “I’d prefer if you didn’t mention the incident to your sister. News travels quickly here. I’d like my commanding officer to hear it from me.”

Abigail smiled. If gossip was common, it appeared that Fort Laramie resembled a small town in yet another way. “Certainly.” She could delay no longer. She placed her hand on the gate. “Good-bye, Lieutenant . . . er . . . Ethan.”

As his brisk footsteps receded, Abigail climbed the three steps and knocked firmly on the door. In a moment she would know whether coming to Wyoming had been a mistake. Her heart pounded at the thought of being reunited with Charlotte. How she’d missed her sister! In the space of two months, both Charlotte and Elizabeth had moved away, leaving Abigail the only Harding sister in Vermont. But now she was here, and she and Charlotte would be together, even if only for a short time.

But Charlotte wasn’t home. Abigail was about to rap on the door again when it cracked open. For a moment, Abigail simply stared. Then she pushed the door open and stepped inside, closing it behind her. “Charlotte.” The woman standing before her looked like her sister, and yet she did not. Though it was late afternoon, Abigail’s normally fashionable sister was dressed in a loose wrapper and house slippers, her dark brown hair undone as if she’d only just arisen from bed. More concerning, though, were Charlotte’s pallor and the fact that her face was thinner than Abigail had ever seen it.

If she was shocked, so was Charlotte. Her sister pressed her hand to her heart and her face lost even more color. “Abigail.” The word was little more than a whisper. “What on earth are you doing here?” She looked around. “Is Woodrow with you?”

It wasn’t the welcome Abigail had hoped for, but ever since she’d arrived in Wyoming, nothing had been what she’d expected.

Why would Charlotte think that Woodrow would have accompanied her? “I came because I missed you, Charlotte.”
And I was worried.
Though she did not voice the words, Abigail knew her worries had been well-grounded. Something was desperately wrong. She took a step forward and wrapped her arms around her sister, trying not to wince at the realization that Charlotte’s body was little more than skin over bones.

Charlotte drew back slightly and looked at Abigail, her eyes studying her face, almost as if she wanted to reassure herself that the woman who hugged her was not an illusion.

“Oh, Abigail, I missed you too, but I never imagined you’d go anywhere without Woodrow. When I saw you standing here, I thought perhaps you’d eloped and were spending the summer traveling.”

Abigail shook her head at the notion. Ethan Bowles might find her impulsive, but that was one adjective no one would apply to Woodrow Morgan. Woodrow was sturdy and stable, a man who planned his life as carefully as he did his lessons. “Woodrow believes we need to wait another year before we marry, but I couldn’t wait that long to see you.”

“I’m so glad you’ve come.” Color returned to Charlotte’s face. “What am I doing, leaving you standing in the hallway?” She gestured toward the first of two doorways leading off this section of the narrow corridor. “Let’s go into the parlor.”Though the hallway with its highly polished dark wood floor extended the length of the house, if closed, a second door would keep visitors from viewing the less formal rooms. That door was now open, allowing Abigail to see that there were two more doors on the left side of the hall, and that a staircase led from the back entrance to the second floor.