Summer of Promise (34 page)

An exasperated sigh greeted his question, but the doctor walked toward one of the tall cabinets and opened the door. Withdrawing a brown bottle, he said, “I’d give him this to slow down his heart rate.”

“Can we try that?” Ethan didn’t care what the medicine was, only that it might help Puddles.

Another harrumph was followed by a reluctant nod. “I suppose it can’t hurt. The dog will die without it, so you might as well try.” Dr. Pratt measured out a teaspoonful, mixing it with a cup of water. “Let’s see if we can get him to drink this.” As Ethan held Puddles’s mouth open, the doctor poured the liquid down his throat. “Good,” he said when the puppy swallowed. “If it’s going to work, we’ll know within a quarter hour.”

But it took less than ten minutes to see the difference in the dog’s condition. His legs stilled, and his breathing sounded more normal. Dr. Pratt pressed his stethoscope to Puddles’s belly, then nodded. “It’s working . . . so far.”

“What do you mean, so far?”

“Just what I said. This was only the first treatment. He’ll need three more before we know if he’s going to recover. You need to give him a dose every two hours. If you wait too long, he’ll die. If you give him too much, he’ll also die. It’s up to you, Lieutenant. I’ve done all I can.” The surgeon reached for his coat and medical bag. “I’ve got two men who need me, so don’t bother me again, no matter what happens.”

Ethan nodded. “Thank you, doctor.” At least now Puddles had a chance.

As he left the surgeon’s office, Ethan debated telling Abigail and Charlotte what had occurred, then shook his head. There was no point in disturbing their sleep when he would do everything possible to save the puppy. Morning would be soon enough, for by then Puddles’s recovery would be assured. Ethan refused to consider the alternative.

Even though it was only next door, by the time Ethan reached his quarters, the dog appeared to be asleep. The medicine had obviously taken effect, for Puddles’s breathing was regular, and the whimpers had ceased. His own exhaustion returning in full force, Ethan placed a folded blanket on the floor, laid the puppy on it, then climbed into bed, knowing he’d waken in less than two hours. His West Point training had given him the ability to sleep deeply but waken when needed, almost as if he set an internal alarm clock. Seconds later, Ethan was asleep.

When he woke, he was disoriented for a moment, knowing only that it was the middle of the night and something was wrong. Then the sound of the dog’s snuffling brought back the events of the night. It was time. Carefully, Ethan measured out the potent medicine, diluting it with water from his pitcher. Though Puddles still slept, he woke the dog and poured the liquid down his throat.

“Halfway there,” he told Puddles. “By morning you’ll be feeling much better.” And so would he.

Though he couldn’t explain what led him to do it, as he climbed back into bed, Ethan flicked open his watch. No! It couldn’t be. Ethan gasped at the realization that his internal alarm clock had failed him. It had been only an hour since Puddles’s last medication.

“If you give him too much, he’ll die.”
Dr. Pratt’s words echoed through Ethan’s mind. He’d done it. He’d given Abigail’s dog more medicine than he could tolerate, and now the puppy would pay the price. Puddles would die, and it would be Ethan’s fault, his and his alone.

He knelt on the floor next to the dog, listening to his breathing. There was no question about it. Each breath grew more strained as the puppy’s small body tried to overcome the effects of the medicine. Though Dr. Pratt had told him not to disturb him again, Ethan didn’t care. He would take Puddles to the hospital and beg the surgeon to help. But as he reached to gather the dog into his arms, Ethan heard Puddles’s breathing weaken again. It was too late. He wouldn’t live long enough to get him up the hill to the hospital.

“Oh, Puddles!” Ethan’s face contorted with agony as he realized there was no hope. There was nothing more he could do. His shoulders slumped, and he bowed his head, waiting for the inevitable. And as he did, a spark of hope ignited deep inside him. There was nothing he could do, but if Abigail was right, there was One who could save Puddles. She claimed he was a God of love. Surely that love extended to a desperately ill puppy.

“Dear Lord, show me what to do.” Ethan spoke the words aloud, imploring Abigail’s God to help him. “Puddles is innocent. He doesn’t deserve to die. Show me how to heal him.”

There was no answer, no message carved on tablets, no voice coming from the mountain. But as Ethan stared at the dog and listened to his uneven breathing, a memory surfaced. He’d been seven or eight, and though he could not recall what he had eaten, the pain in his stomach had been worse than anything he’d ever experienced, twisting his insides, making him cry out as the waves of agony increased. He remembered gripping the bedsheet so tightly he’d torn it and gritting his teeth when the pain became unbearable, but nothing helped. And then Grandfather had come into the room.

“You idiots!” he’d yelled at the servants who stood at Ethan’s bedside. “Get me the ipecacuanha.” Grandfather had forced Ethan to drink the foul-tasting liquid, then held his head as he vomited the contents of his stomach into the chamber pot. “I know you feel awful,” he said, “but you can’t let the poison remain.”

Ethan blinked. That was it. He would force Puddles to vomit. It might not be enough, but purging was the only way he could slow the medicine’s progress. How? That was the question. He had no ipecacuanha. Undoubtedly there was some in Dr. Pratt’s office, but he would waste precious minutes carrying Puddles there and trying to find it. He couldn’t wait that long. There was only one thing to do.

“Sorry, boy,” he said as he forced the dog’s mouth open and inserted his fingers. As he had hoped, the puppy gagged and regurgitated liquid. “Please, Lord, let it be soon enough.” Puddles looked up at Ethan, his eyes dull and filled with pain.

“I know it hurt,” Ethan said, “but it had to be done. Don’t worry. I won’t do that again.” Unfolding the blanket, he wrapped the puppy in it and held him in his arms. There would be no more sleep tonight.

Ethan settled on the floor, his back against the bed. Though he dared not close his eyes for fear of sleeping, his mind wandered, returning to that horrible night of his childhood. After Ethan had emptied his stomach, Grandfather had put him back in the bed, smoothing the sheets over him, and he’d remained at his side until daybreak, holding Ethan’s hand.

A warmth that owed nothing to the August heat began to spread through Ethan. He had forgotten that night, perhaps because Grandfather was gone when he wakened, and when he’d felt well enough to descend the stairs, he found that his grandfather had reverted to his normal demeanor, demanding perfection, dispensing criticism but never praise. And yet the night had happened. Ethan knew that, just as he knew that he had been wrong. His grandfather might not have been demonstrative. He might never have said the words. But he had loved him. His actions proved that.

By the time the sun rose, Puddles was sleeping peacefully. Though he appeared weak, and Ethan doubted he’d spend any time running today, there had been no more seizures, and his breathing was slow and even.

“Thank you, Lord.” Ethan bowed his head as he knelt next to the bed. “Thank you for saving Abigail’s dog. Thank you for showing me that Grandfather loved me. Most of all, thank you for loving me.”

Abigail woke suddenly, aware that something was wrong. She lay for a moment, trying to determine what had alarmed her. There were no cries or groans from Charlotte’s room. Nothing seemed amiss, but Abigail could not dismiss her fears. She dressed quickly, then descended the stairs. And as she did, she knew what bothered her. The house was too quiet. Normally by this time, Puddles was demanding to be let outdoors. But there was no sound of the dog, and his bed was empty.

“Puddles,” Abigail called as she opened the back door. Somehow the puppy must have gotten out of the house again and was probably chasing ground squirrels through the yard. But the yard was empty. “Puddles!” Where could the little scamp be hiding?

Slowly, Abigail walked around the house, looking for the dog, dreading Jeffrey’s reaction if Puddles had run away again. When she reached the front, she saw a soldier headed her way. She started to smile, for there was no mistaking Ethan’s gait, but her heart plummeted at the realization that Puddles was not at his side. Wherever the dog had gone, it was not to the BOQ. Abigail’s eyes narrowed. How odd. Ethan was carrying something in his arms, and it appeared that something was wrapped in a blanket. As he drew closer, she saw a dark head emerge. Puddles!

Abigail raced toward Ethan. “What’s wrong?” For something was definitely wrong if he had the puppy wrapped like a baby.

Her gaze moved from the dog to Ethan. Though she’d expected to see concern etched on his face, Ethan was smiling. Not an ordinary smile but one so filled with joy that his face appeared almost radiant. Never before had Abigail seen Ethan look like this. The pain that had clouded his eyes was gone, replaced by the clear sparkle of happiness. And yet he was carrying the dog.

“What’s wrong?” She repeated the question. The Puddles she knew would not tolerate being carried.

“Nothing’s wrong, at least not anymore.” Ethan looked down at the dog, and his smile faltered ever so slightly. “Puddles must have eaten something poisonous. I don’t know how he got out or why he came to me, but he’s all right now. He’s a bit worn out from the ordeal, but he’ll live.”

Poison. Abigail’s heart recoiled from the idea. Even spoiled meat could kill an animal, and a puppy was especially vulnerable. “What did you do? How did you save him?” Abigail stroked Puddles’s head and was rewarded with a soft whimper.

Ethan waited until she was looking at him again before he spoke. “It wasn’t what I did. It was what God did. He saved your dog. Puddles would have died if it had been left to me.” As he recounted what had happened, Abigail watched the play of emotions on Ethan’s face—dismay, fear, relief, then joy.

“I don’t know why Puddles came to me,” Ethan said, “but I’m glad he did. Despite everything you told me and everything I read in the Bible, I was a doubting Thomas. I needed a sign before I’d believe it. Puddles was that sign. What happened last night showed me that love is more than a word. It’s real.”

Abigail watched as the man she loved nodded slowly. His voice was low and intense, filled with awe. “I knew that if God loved a puppy enough to save his life, what you said was true. God loves me too. He answered my prayers.” Wonder shone from Ethan’s eyes and colored his voice.

Abigail smiled as she laid her hand on top of his. “Mine too.”

21

T
elegram, sir.”

Though Ethan kept his expression impassive, his pulse raced as he accepted the folded piece of paper. “Thank you, private.” This was what he’d been waiting for, the answer to his inquiries. Feeling like a traitor, he had telegraphed the hotel manager to ask whether anyone remembered Oliver Seton’s illness. It seemed wrong to need corroboration of a fellow officer’s story, and yet Ethan knew he had no choice. He had to discover the truth.

He took a deep breath before unfolding the telegram. A moment later he grinned, for the hotel staff confirmed Oliver’s tale. The bellboy had heard him retching and had offered to call a physician. Even better, the maître d’ remembered the blonde woman who had ordered Oliver’s dinner, specifying that the green beans be cooked in mushroom broth.

Oliver had not lied. That was good news. Excellent news. Unfortunately, it did not bring Ethan any closer to finding the outlaws’ leader.

Abigail smiled as she warmed the water for Puddles’s bath. The pup wouldn’t enjoy it. Much as he seemed to find delight in rolling in mud puddles, he protested each time she bathed him. Unfortunately for Puddles, if he was going to continue to live inside the house, he had to be cleaner. Even Charlotte, who rarely complained, had wrinkled her nose at the smell emanating from his fur. Part of the cause was undoubtedly the medicine he’d been given, but some of the stench was due to the dog’s continued fascination with anything that smelled awful. If he lived in Wesley, Abigail had no doubt he would have joined the skunk family’s nightly parade across the town square, with predictable consequences. As it was, his curiosity had almost killed him. The morning Ethan had brought Puddles back, he and Abigail had found a partially eaten dead squirrel in the backyard. It appeared the Puddles could not tolerate squirrel meat any more than Oliver could mushrooms.

“All right, boy. It’s time.” Abigail reached for the dog, who had attempted to hide under the bench, and hoisted him into the makeshift tub. As she soaped his back, she smiled again. The two weeks that had passed since the night of Puddles’s ordeal had been the busiest she could recall, and the happiest.

Part of what kept her so busy was Puddles’s training. When it became obvious that Charlotte was having no success, Abigail had assumed full responsibility for teaching the dog to obey simple commands. He now understood “fetch,” as well as “come,” “sit,” and “lie down.”

Puddles was making good progress. Abigail was thankful for that. She was even more thankful that he had recovered completely from his squirrel dinner, but the greatest cause of her happiness was Ethan’s newfound faith. The change was remarkable. Ethan’s walk was jauntier, as if he had cast off a tremendous weight. He laughed more often, and the faint lines between his eyes had disappeared, replaced by an expression of peace. Ethan was a new man. Though Abigail knew he was still troubled by his inability to prove who was behind the stagecoach robberies, he no longer seemed haunted by the lack of progress. Instead he was confident that he would capture the gang . . . in God’s time.

“He’s teaching me patience,” Ethan confided one day before he began Abigail’s shooting lessons.

Patience was a lesson she had yet to learn, for she chafed over her slow progress. It was true that she could now hit the target consistently, but it was a very large target. Still, Ethan seemed to think that was good enough. Even though she had never hit the bull’s-eye, he had announced that next week they would use a smaller target. Abigail was not looking forward to that.

She did look forward to their nightly walks. Each evening they took Puddles out for exercise, and while the puppy gamboled beside them, she and Ethan would talk. Sometimes they spoke of significant things like Ethan’s reading of the Bible. Other times they spoke of nothing more important than whether the dark clouds that filled the sky would bring hail along with thunderstorms. The subjects didn’t matter. What did matter was that their conversations gave Abigail a new understanding of Ethan. Each day brought her closer to him, and though she had known him only a few months, she could deny it no longer. Ethan meant more to her than anyone else, even her sisters. She loved him.

“Yes, Puddles, it’s true,” Abigail said softly, admitting her love as she hauled the puppy out of the tub and began to towel him dry.

Charlotte had been right when she had said that Abigail would know when she met the man God intended for her. Unlike Charlotte’s love for Jeffrey, which had happened practically at first sight, Abigail’s had taken longer to blossom. At first she hadn’t recognized the depth of her feelings, because they were so different from what she felt for Woodrow. Now she knew the truth. The love she had for Woodrow was sisterly love. She cared for him as she did for Charlotte and Elizabeth. Abigail’s feelings for Ethan were far different. When she was with Ethan, she felt complete. Though she had not been aware that there was an empty spot deep inside her, when she was with Ethan, that spot was filled.

“All right, Puddles. We’re done.” Abigail drew the brush through Puddles’s fur one last time before letting the dog go. As he raced in circles to chase his tail, she smiled.

A mere two weeks, but so much had changed. It wasn’t only Ethan who had changed; Abigail had too. Ethan’s faith had strengthened hers and made her realize that he was the man she wanted to marry, the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Though they had never spoken of their feelings, there were times when Abigail believed Ethan shared her longings. There were times when she caught a wistful look, and other times when his smile seemed particularly warm. Was that love? Though she hoped it was, Abigail knew it was possible that Ethan regarded her as she did Woodrow, as a sibling or a friend.

Puddles whined and scratched the door, reminding Abigail that he was ready to go outside. She ran her fingers through his fur, smiling at the way the dog responded to a gentle touch. Woodrow had never wanted a dog, claiming they were too much work.

Woodrow. Abigail’s smile faded at the thought of the man she had once planned to marry. She now knew that, no matter what happened with Ethan, she could not marry Woodrow. The orderly life he offered was no longer the one she wanted, for what had once seemed comfortable now appeared boring. Abigail bit her lip, thinking of how she had described Wyoming as boring. It wasn’t. It was beautiful and alive, and being here had changed her in ways she had not dreamt possible. No matter what the future held, Abigail knew she would never forget this summer, for it had shown her what true love was. That was why she could not marry Woodrow. He deserved a wife who would love him the way she did Ethan.

The problem was how to tell him. Should she send him a letter or wait until she returned to Vermont to pack her belongings? Either way, Woodrow would be disappointed, possibly hurt, and knowing that wrenched Abigail’s heart. Though Woodrow was a good man who deserved nothing but happiness, she was not the one to give him that happiness. Her hand on the doorknob, Abigail closed her eyes and bowed her head. “Dear Lord, you know what is in my heart. Show me the way. Give me the words I need.”

When she’d tied Puddles to his favorite tree, Abigail frowned. The apron she’d worn hadn’t protected her skirt from the dog’s exuberant shaking, and it bore unmistakable water stains. There was nothing to be done but change her skirt and hope that a good soaking would remove the stains.

As she climbed the stairs, the sound of soft sobbing came from Charlotte’s room, setting Abigail’s heart to pounding. Her sister was supposed to be having tea with the sewing committee this afternoon. Why hadn’t she heard her return?

After a perfunctory knock, Abigail turned the knob and entered her sister’s room. “What’s wrong?” she asked. Charlotte lay face down on the bed, her shoulders shaking from the force of her sobs. “Is the baby all right?”

For a moment there was no sound save Charlotte’s crying.

“Charlotte, please. You’re scaring me.” Never before had Abigail seen her sister like this. Even when their mother had died, Charlotte’s grief had seemed muted compared to this.

Her sister turned, revealing a face blotched with tears. “Oh, Abigail, I don’t know how much longer I can continue. I feel as if I’m living a lie.”

Abigail crossed the room in a few swift strides and sank onto the bed next to Charlotte. Wrapping her arms around her shoulders, she drew Charlotte to a sitting position. “Sometimes it helps to talk,” Abigail said as she handed her sister a folded handkerchief. “You know I’m a good listener.”

Charlotte dabbed at her eyes. “I didn’t want anyone to know. Today when Mrs. Montgomery was telling us how her husband dotes on her, I couldn’t bear it. If I’d stayed, I would have cried like this, and I couldn’t let anyone know.”

“Know what?”

Charlotte’s face crumpled again as she said, “My marriage was a mistake.”

Abigail tried not to wince as she remembered the strange perfume. Though she had worried about her sister and Jeffrey for months, she had hoped she was mistaken in her fears, that there was an innocent reason for Jeffrey to smell of another woman’s perfume.

“Why do you think that?” Abigail asked, tightening her grip on her sister’s shoulders. “I know you love Jeffrey, and he loves you. I see it in his eyes when he’s with you.”

“He doesn’t love me. Not anymore.” Sobs wracked Charlotte’s shoulders, and she covered her face with her hands. “I’m so ashamed. I thought I could be a good wife, but I’ve failed.”

Poor Charlotte! If she truly believed that, it was no wonder her nerves were fragile. “You haven’t failed. You’re a good wife, and you will be a wonderful mother.”

Charlotte looked up, her eyes filled with pain. “I know you love me and want me to feel good, but it won’t work. I can’t escape the truth. If Jeffrey was happy with me, he wouldn’t be with another woman almost every night. I’m not as dumb as he thinks. I can smell the cheap perfume on his clothes.”

“Perhaps there’s a good explanation.” Abigail was grasping at straws, but she had to do something to comfort her sister.

“What could it be? The only explanations I can find are that Jeffrey’s either tired of me or he’s upset because I’ve been ill so often. The result is the same: he’s spending time with one of those women at Peg’s Place.”

As much as she wanted to disagree, Abigail could not. “I hope you’re wrong.”

Charlotte shook her head again. “I’m not. The only question is whether I can continue to live like this.” She touched her abdomen. “My baby needs a father, but he needs a good one. I don’t know if Jeffrey can be that kind of father.”

“What would you do?” Surely Charlotte wasn’t thinking of leaving Jeffrey. Though she had more skills and money than Leah, living alone would be difficult. And there was the baby to consider.