Summer of Promise (8 page)

“Oh, my dear, you must tell us all about your ordeal.” Mrs. Montgomery, the taller of the two women who’d come to visit Charlotte, peered over the top of her spectacles. If she minded that her hostess had disappeared into the kitchen to order tea for them, she gave no signal, but addressed her conversation to Abigail. “I was simply appalled when I heard you’d ridden that stagecoach all alone.”

“Now, Adele, she wasn’t alone,” the second woman, who’d been introduced as Mrs. Alcott, said. “Lieutenant Bowles was on the coach.” She gave Abigail a sly smile. “You couldn’t have asked for a better traveling companion. Why, Lieutenant Bowles is the most eligible bachelor at the fort.”

Abigail nodded slowly as she chose her words. Whatever she said, she did not want to give these women, who appeared to devour gossip as Puddles had the dried ends of the roast, any misconceptions. It was true that Ethan’s company was pleasant and that she enjoyed his ready sense of humor as well as his obvious concern for his men, but that didn’t mean Abigail cared about him romantically. She did not. It was Woodrow she loved, not a man who’d never have a permanent home, not a man who wore a gun and was trained to kill.

“I was thankful Lieutenant Bowles was there,” Abigail told her sister’s guests. “I don’t know what would have happened to the other passengers and me otherwise.” When she closed her eyes, she could still picture the German-speaking deserter’s malevolence.

“Who else was on the coach?” Mrs. Alcott asked.

As Abigail named the other passengers, Mrs. Montgomery raised an eyebrow. Tall and what Mama would call statuesque, though Abigail would have applied the adjective “plump,” Mrs. Montgomery appeared to believe that her carrot-red hair and green eyes were best complemented by flamboyant clothing. That was the only reason Abigail could imagine that she had chosen a peacock blue dress. In contrast, her companion’s demure cream-colored muslin appeared almost mousy. “Mrs. Hiram Dunn?” Mrs. Montgomery asked.

“I don’t believe she mentioned her husband’s name. All I know is that they owned a ranch north of here and that she’s been widowed for a few years.”

“Then that’s not Mrs. Hiram Dunn. He was a miner who struck it rich at Deadwood and settled in Cheyenne. It’s odd, though.” Furrows appeared between Mrs. Montgomery’s brows. “I thought I knew all the ranchers in this part of the territory. You see, my husband is considering settling here once his commitment is over, so he’s taken it on himself to learn who’s who among the ranchers. I don’t recall any Dunns, though.”

Mrs. Alcott intervened. “It’s of no importance, Adele. What matters is that Abigail is here, and we need to welcome her to Fort Laramie properly. I think we should hold a dance in her honor. That will give all the men a chance to meet her.”

Where was Charlotte when she needed her? Abigail smiled as sweetly as she could, addressing her reply to both women, though she sensed that Mrs. Montgomery was the dominant one. “It’s very kind of you to offer, but it would be unfair to give anyone the impression that I’m . . .” She paused, once again searching for the right word. At last she settled on
available
. “When I return to Vermont, I expect to be betrothed to one of my colleagues.”

Mrs. Montgomery gave a small harrumph. “My dear, it’s only a dance.” As Charlotte entered the parlor carrying the tea tray, Mrs. Montgomery smiled. “Isn’t that right, Charlotte?”

Charlotte nodded. “The enlisted men will have their baseball games, and we’ll have a dance. It’s perfect.” Lifting the teapot, Charlotte filled a cup and handed it to Mrs. Montgomery. “Now, ladies, what do you think would be the best date?”

5

A
bigail smiled. What else could she do, when Puddles sat at her sister’s feet, gnawing on a bone and occasionally giving her adoring looks, looks that Charlotte returned? In the three days since the puppy had become part of the family, Charlotte had regained much of her sparkle. She laughed at Puddles’s antics, did not complain when the puppy chewed one of her favorite slippers, and had somehow placated Mrs. Channing when Puddles refused to remain in the wooden crate that was supposed to be his bed. Charlotte had even managed to eat a normal breakfast this morning, and though it would take weeks for the hollows in her cheeks to disappear, at least today her face had a rosy hue.

As if she sensed her sister’s scrutiny, Charlotte looked up. As soon as they’d finished breakfast, she and Abigail had repaired to the parlor, planning to finish their sewing before the day’s heat made having extra yards of fabric draped over one’s lap unpleasant. “Do you think Elizabeth would like living here?”

Abigail blinked, surprised by the question. She had written their sister a letter yesterday, trying to make Wyoming sound appealing but feared she had failed. “I don’t know. She seems to like New York. Even though her studies keep her busy, I think she enjoys city life.”

“Cheyenne’s a city.”

“That’s true.” Abigail stared at her sister. “Why are you asking this?”

“Because it’s wonderful having you here, and I was trying to figure out a way to get all three of us together.” A wistful smile crossed Charlotte’s face.

Abigail couldn’t let her sister continue. “You don’t honestly think I’d stay here permanently, do you?”

Shaking her head, Charlotte said, “I know it’s just a dream and that your place is back in Vermont with Woodrow, but it would be nice.”

Abigail fingered the petticoat she was hemming while Charlotte put the finishing touches on Abigail’s dress for the dance. “I’m not like you, Charlotte. I don’t want to live somewhere where the wind howls every day. I don’t want to move every year or two. I want a home of my own.”

Charlotte nodded shortly. “I understand.” She clipped a thread, then rose, holding the dress she’d been sewing in front of her. “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful.” Abigail fingered the dark green muslin that had been nothing more than an ordinary summer frock two days ago. Now, thanks to her sister’s talented needle and the judicious application of lace, it was a ball gown. “It’s truly amazing how different it looks.” Charlotte had lowered the neckline, declaring the original one frumpy, but had acceded to Abigail’s desire for modesty by adding a lace insertion to the bodice. Then, in what Abigail considered sheer genius, her sister had appliquéd medallions from the remaining lace onto the skirt. The result was the loveliest gown Abigail had ever owned. “You have a real gift,” she told her sister. “I would never have thought that a bit of lace would turn a plain dress into something so pretty.”

Though Charlotte’s eyes sparkled at the praise, she said only, “Mama used to claim I had an eye for fashion.”

“She was right. It’s a wonderful talent.” Puddles barked, as if agreeing.

Charlotte draped the dress over a chair. “Let’s go to the sutler’s store and see if we can find a gift for Elizabeth. If she can’t be with us, at least she’ll know we’re thinking about her.”

With Puddles firmly attached to his leash and jumping with apparent glee as the women led him out the front door, Abigail and Charlotte descended the steps. “Let’s take the long way,” Charlotte said, gesturing to the right. “It’s such a nice day.”

It was a pretty day. The wind was gentle, at least by Wyoming standards, and did not threaten to blow Abigail’s hat away, and several puffy cumulus clouds drifted across a sky that was almost as deep a blue as Ethan’s eyes. Abigail nodded. Though she’d accompanied Charlotte on several walks, they had always gone the opposite direction, retracing the route Abigail had taken when she arrived.

As they rounded the corner, Puddles strained at the leash, trying to reach the wagon loaded with freshly cut lumber and six disgruntled-looking soldiers that was making its way toward the site where the administration building was taking shape. “No, Puddles. The men can’t play.”

That elicited a chuckle from the men. “Well, ma’am,” one said with a grin, “that would be a sight better than cutting trees. I shore didn’t think this was what I’d be doin’ when I signed up for the Army.”

When they were out of earshot, Abigail turned to her sister. “I didn’t want to hurt the men’s feelings, but I think Puddles was more interested in the wood than in them. He seems to be attracted by smells.” Abigail had noticed that when she opened a jar of pickles and again when she dabbed toilet water on her wrists. In both cases, Puddles had bounded to her side, his nose twitching.

“There are even more smells here,” Charlotte said as they passed a long adobe building. “This is one of the infantry barracks. The other ones are on the far side of the parade ground.”

Abigail had seen the buildings from Charlotte’s house, but a closer look revealed the gap between officers’ and enlisted men’s housing. There was no doubt the Army had a caste system. While Charlotte’s home boasted many amenities, these edifices were almost spartan. No wonder the enlisted men were resentful enough to desert.

Ethan and Jeffrey had reported that the men had been excited by the prospect of playing baseball and had exhibited friendly rivalry as they’d decided who would play each position. At the time Abigail had wondered whether part of the reason for the men’s enthusiasm was that the rules about fraternization were relaxed for sports, with officers and enlisted men playing together. Now she wondered if they looked forward to an opportunity to demonstrate their superiority, if only on the ball field.

“I wouldn’t want to live there,” she said as she looked at the barracks.

Charlotte laughed. “It’s not just the barracks or even Wyoming. You never wanted anything to do with soldiers. I remember that you’d run away when the boys played war games at recess. The rest of the girls used to watch.”

But the rest of the girls had not seen what could happen when boys played soldier with their fathers’ rifles.

Abigail tried not to shudder as the memories washed over her. Instead, she did what Papa had always advised: she tried to think of something more pleasant. “What kind of gift did you have in mind for Elizabeth?”

Charlotte shrugged. “I’m not sure. We’ll have to see what the sutler has.”

When Puddles plopped himself in front of her and refused to move, Charlotte bent down and scratched his head. Apparently mollified, the puppy began to scamper again. “Silly dog. Now, what was I saying? Gifts. Jeffrey and I gave his siblings canned oysters for Christmas, and they seemed to enjoy them.” Charlotte’s brow furrowed. “From the little he’s said, I’ve gathered that the family had a difficult time when Jeffrey was a child. There was rarely enough food for all of them—Jeffrey has eight brothers and sisters—and he told me he’d never received a gift at Christmas. I think that’s why he was so happy to be able to buy something for all of them.”

And that would explain why he insisted on Charlotte having the best of everything.

They’d reached the corner of the parade ground. If they continued straight, the road led toward the bakery, the commissary, and what everyone called Suds Row, the laundresses’ homes. Charlotte started to turn left to continue circling the parade ground, but Abigail’s attention was caught by two women approaching from the other direction. Their hair was the brightest blonde she had ever seen, and the flamboyant colors of their dresses would have made Mama wince.

“Come on.” Frowning, Charlotte grabbed Abigail’s arm and pivoted on her heel, heading back toward her house.

“What about the sutler?”

“We’ll go when
they
aren’t there.” Charlotte’s frown deepened. “No decent woman would be in the same room with them, but just you watch. Some of the men will follow them.” Charlotte glanced at the company of soldiers drilling on the parade ground, as if she expected them to break formation and run after the women. “I don’t understand why the Army lets them onto the fort. It’s bad enough that they work at Peg’s Place, selling whiskey and . . .”

Charlotte’s face reddened, perhaps with anger, perhaps embarrassment. Though she clamped her lips together and refused to pronounce the final word, Abigail knew exactly how the women earned their living.

Frances uncorked the bottle and splashed some of the amber liquid into a glass. The whiskey might not be as good as some she’d drunk when the troupe had been on tour, but it was decidedly better than the stuff served on the opposite side of the building. This back room where she waited for her visitor was off-limits to all but the high rollers. Not that this one would be rolling any dice today. Today was all business—their other business.

“You told me there weren’t going to be any Army personnel on that coach.” Frances almost laughed at the man’s confusion. He’d probably expected some sort of greeting, but she’d learned it was best to open with a sally, letting your opponent see that you held the upper hand. You’d have thought the Army would have taught him that, but he appeared unprepared for her attack.

“Bowles wasn’t supposed to come back for another day. How was I supposed to know he’d be bored in Cheyenne?”

The beads of perspiration dotting the man’s forehead bore witness to his discomfort. Good. He deserved to be uncomfortable. The baron had certainly made her uncomfortable when he’d heard about the stagecoach fiasco.

“You’re paid to know.” Frances took another sip of whiskey, watching the man’s unease grow. Enough. She needed him almost as much as he needed her. “Want a drink?” She poured a generous quantity into a second glass and pushed it toward him. As he drank greedily, she adopted a friendly tone. “We need a replacement for Schiller. He’s useless until his hand heals, and I don’t want to wait that long. The baron’s getting anxious. We need another soldier to go over the hill.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t heard of anyone planning to desert.”

Frances let out a sigh. “It’s not likely they’ll tell you, is it? You’d be honor bound to report them, and then where would they be? Locked up in that guardhouse. But you’ve got to know who’s unhappy. It’s mighty hard to hide that. Just give me a couple names. I’ll take care of the rest.”

The man shook his head, and for a moment Frances thought he would refuse, but then he downed the rest of his whiskey. When he’d wiped his lips, he muttered two names, keeping his eyes on the table as he pronounced them. “Is that all?” he asked.

“Yes.” For now.