Summer of Promise (30 page)

Wonderful, unforgettable Abigail.

18

H
ow could this be so difficult? Her arms ached, her neck was stiff, and her eyes felt as if someone had tossed a cup of dust into them. Abigail squinted, raised her arms again, and squeezed the trigger. Though her ears registered the noise and her arms jerked from the recoil, she didn’t have to look to know that she had missed again, for there was none of the satisfying sound of wood splintering that had accompanied Ethan’s shots. They’d been here for what felt like hours, and Abigail showed no signs of improvement. The only good thing she could say was that she had overcome her fear of firing a gun. When she had first picked up the revolver, images of Luke’s lifeless body had flooded her mind, and it had taken all her willpower to replace them with memories of the snake’s menacing fangs.

“I’m afraid I’m hopeless.” Though she wanted to toss the gun aside in frustration, she laid it carefully on the stump that was serving as their table. No matter how inept she was, the Colt was still a valuable sidearm.

Ethan raised his eyebrows in an expression that could have been either surprise or disapproval. “I never thought you were a quitter,” he said softly. To Abigail’s relief, his voice held no note of disapproval.

“I’m not, normally, but this isn’t normal. It seems like we’ve been here forever, and I still haven’t hit the target.” A target large enough that even a novice like Abigail should have been able to hit it. Instead of the small targets the soldiers used, which were positioned a substantial distance from the shooter, Ethan had appropriated the lid from Puddles’s crate, and he’d placed it only a few yards away. If she couldn’t hit something that big, how would she ever defend herself and Puddles against a snake? At least Ethan had set up the target far enough away from the fort that no one else would watch her ineptitude. Ethan was nothing if not considerate.

Abigail didn’t know whether he had somehow realized how deeply she had been affected by their closeness yesterday, but if he had, he had been careful not to do or say anything that would embarrass her. Instead, he had told her of Puddles’s nocturnal visit to the BOQ and had suggested checking the door each night. Then he’d handed her a Colt. Now he was trying to help her hit the target.

“This is only your first day.” It must have been her imagination, but Abigail thought she detected a hint of amusement in Ethan’s voice. He was wrong. There was nothing amusing about being such a miserable failure. Before she could form a response, he continued. “What would you tell your pupils if they were discouraged when they couldn’t read one of Mr. Dickens’s stories their first day of school?”

Abigail shrugged. The answer was obvious. “I’d tell them to be patient.”

“Precisely. You need to be patient. Straight shooting is a skill that requires time. No one is perfect the first day.”

“But you make it look easy.” She glared at the pistol. “I would never have guessed that it was so heavy or that the bullets would go so far astray.”

“You’ll get used to it. I felt just as awkward my first time.”

But that, Abigail suspected, had been a long time ago. “When did you learn to shoot?”

“My grandfather gave me a pistol on my tenth birthday. His housekeeper was appalled, but Grandfather informed me that every gentleman needed to know how to defend himself.”

“And so he taught you to shoot.”

Ethan shook his head. “No. He hired someone, just as he hired people to teach me everything from Latin to waltzing.”

Though she knew Ethan had come from a wealthy family, his story underscored the differences in their backgrounds. “I never had a tutor. My parents couldn’t afford one, even if they wanted to. We attended school, but they claimed they should be the ones who taught us the important lessons.” And much of that teaching had been by example. It was from watching Papa do his best to right every injustice that Abigail had learned how important it was to help others.

The wind carried the sound of soldiers shouting, the incessant hammering at the administration building, and a crow’s raucous cry, but Ethan appeared to hear none of them. His eyes filled with something that might have been sorrow, he nodded shortly. “Make no mistake. I learned a great deal from my grandfather. The problem is, I cannot think of a single good thing that he taught me. What I learned from him was to be suspicious of people’s motives and not to trust anyone.”

Abigail’s heart plummeted at the bitterness she heard in Ethan’s voice. “That is so sad.” If his grandfather had been that cold, it was no wonder Ethan did not want to see him again. Still, Abigail could not shake the belief that Ethan would someday regret their estrangement. She sought a way to help him understand and possibly reconcile with his only living relative. “Your grandfather must be a very unhappy man.”

Ethan was silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on the distance. When he spoke, his voice was flat, as if he were trying to control his emotions. “He wouldn’t agree, but I suspect you’re right. Now, let’s talk of something more pleasant, or—even better—let’s get back to your lesson.”

With a sigh, Abigail picked up the pistol, trying to mimic the posture Ethan had shown her. She squinted, fixing her eyes on the target, and squeezed slowly. The recoil jerked her arms backward and her eyes stung from the smoke, but Abigail didn’t care, for the sound of splintering wood filled her ears. “I did it!” she cried in exultation. While it was true that she’d clipped only the edge of the target, she had hit it. “Oh, Ethan, I hit it!”

Placing his hands at her waist, he lifted her off the ground and whirled her around. “I knew you could do it.” As he set her back on her feet, Ethan grinned. “You’re an amazing woman, Abigail Harding. I was right. You can do anything you set your mind to.”

If only that were true. If only she could find a way to heal the emptiness she knew was deep inside him.
Please, God, show me the way.

Once again, the days had fallen into a routine, and it was a good one. Abigail smiled as she walked toward the schoolhouse to conduct her class. There were many reasons to give thanks, the most important of which was that her sister was fully recovered from her physical ailments and seemed happier than ever. Charlotte didn’t appear to mind that Jeffrey was gone every evening. For a while, he had returned home a few hours after the baseball games ended, but now he was out until close to midnight every night. Though Abigail would hear the heavy tread as he climbed the stairs, she gave silent thanks that she had detected no scent of perfume. Instead, his clothing frequently stank of cigar smoke. While the odor was detestable, it raised no unpleasant speculation, for her brother-in-law had announced that he was spending his evenings at the Officers’ Club.

Her classes were going well too. Perhaps it was the knowledge that Abigail would not leave until mid-autumn that encouraged her pupils. Whatever the reason, the men were attentive and were making excellent progress. If only Abigail could find a way to help Ethan and Leah, her gratitude would be boundless.

Ethan tugged off a boot. He ought to be happy, or at least content. The men were in better spirits than they’d been all summer, and there hadn’t been a single desertion in weeks. Captain Westland believed the baseball games were responsible for the change in the men’s attitudes, and he was giving Ethan credit for them.

“I can’t expedite your promotion,” the captain had told Ethan when he’d summoned him to his office this morning. “I wish I could, but you know that’s not possible. What I can—and will—do is give you a citation. I want the men in Washington to know you’re doing a fine job.”

That was what Ethan wanted too—recognition of his abilities and accomplishments. That ought to be enough. Captain Westland’s praise should have been what reverberated through his mind. Instead, he kept remembering Abigail’s words.
“Your grandfather must be a very unhappy man.”
It was as if she’d thrown rocks into a small pond, stirring up the mud, turning what had been clear water cloudy.

Was Grandfather unhappy? Ethan had never considered him in that light, but now that Abigail had churned up the waters, he had to admit it was possible. Grandfather had been widowed at an early age. His beloved daughter had married a man he despised, and then she had died, leaving him with the responsibility of raising a child. If that had caused unhappiness, was that the reason Grandfather had treated Ethan the way he had?

Again, Ethan conceded the possibility. All right. Say it was true. Just because he understood his grandfather a little better didn’t mean he could change him. It wasn’t as if Grandfather would suddenly turn into a benevolent man, a man who loved his grandson. Some people changed. Ethan believed that. But not Curtis Wilson. He would go to his deathbed the same curmudgeon he’d been when Ethan had lived with him. Ethan knew that, and yet he wished Abigail had not raised the subject, for he did not want to think about his grandfather.

Nor, for that matter, did he want to think about Abigail. Beautiful, sweet, caring, courageous Abigail. The woman who confronted her fears and surmounted them occupied far too many of his thoughts, and that was wrong. Abigail belonged to Woodrow, and while Ethan might not recall too many of the many Bible verses Mrs. Eberle had helped him memorize as a child, he did recall “thou shalt not covet.” It was one of the commandments, the rules Mrs. Eberle had told him God expected everyone to obey. He would try—oh, how he would try—not to covet what was not his.

“There you are!” Oliver’s voice boomed as he opened the door. “What are you doing indoors?”

He’d planned to polish his boots and brass, but instead he’d wound up staring sightlessly out the window. “Thinking.”

“That’s dangerous. A man should never think, unless it’s about a woman.” Oliver paused for a moment, then asked, “Is it?”