Waiting for Spring (22 page)

“Oh, Charlotte, it's lovely.” Miriam admired her reflection in the long mirror. “I never thought brown would look good on me.”

Charlotte smiled. “It's russet, not brown.”

Fingering the lightweight wool, Miriam smiled again. “Only you would know the difference and which one I ought to wear. Mama would have insisted on blue again, but I
wanted something less . . .” She hesitated, as if searching for a word. “Flamboyant,” she said at last. “I want to look nice when I'm at his side, but I want the attention to be on Barrett.”

Nodding, Charlotte handed Miriam the pair of gloves she had made to match the new dress. It appeared that Mrs. Slater and the other women were mistaken, for if there were any estrangement between Miriam and Barrett, Miriam would not be planning to be with him at the polls next week.

“Did you have a happy Christmas?” Miriam asked as she slid her hand into the gloves, smoothing each finger.

“Indeed, I did. This was the first year David understood opening gifts.” Charlotte smiled, remembering how excited her son had been by the wooden animals Barrett had given him.

“I heard that Mrs. Amos dined with Mr. Duncan at the InterOcean.”

Charlotte turned abruptly, startled by the odd note in Miriam's voice. Surely she did not disapprove of Gwen having a special meal. “Yes, she did.”

“Mama was horrified, but you know Mama. She has a set of rules, and woe to anyone who dares to flout them.”

Charlotte knew she shouldn't have been surprised that the story of Gwen's dinner had spread or that Mrs. Taggert found something disagreeable about it, but she could not imagine what social convention Gwen had broken. “What bothered your mother?”

“His age.” Miriam pursed her lips as if she'd bitten into a sour lemon. “A woman should not marry a man old enough to be her father, especially here in Wyoming where there are a dozen men to every woman,” she announced, mimicking her mother.

“I don't believe marriage has been mentioned, but even if they were considering it, I think a man's character is far more important than his age.” And it was Warren's character that worried Charlotte, not the fact that he was twenty years Gwen's senior.

“That's what I told Mama.” Color flooded Miriam's cheeks. “She wouldn't listen. She claims anyone who's foolish enough to consider an older man is doomed to be a young widow.”

Though that was possible, it was by no means assured. Besides . . . “Gwen is already a widow, and her husband was only two years older.”

Miriam looked confused. A second later, she nodded. “You're right. We were talking about Gwen.”

“I'm surprised you're here.” Herb Webster clapped his hand on Barrett's shoulder and motioned toward a less crowded corner of the courthouse. Though the older man held no official position within Barrett's party, he was well known as one of the organization's men behind the scenes. If he wanted to speak with someone, a man refused at his own peril.

“Why wouldn't I be here?” Barrett asked as they made their way through the lines of people waiting to vote. It was January 11, Election Day in the city of Cheyenne. “I agreed to help, because we all know some voters need encouragement as they enter the polls.”

Herb's lips formed a crooked smile. “Most of the men who are providing what you refer to as encouragement are also trying to advance their own prospects.”

“I won't deny that that's part of the reason I volunteered to be here.”

Nodding slightly, Herb lowered his voice. “And that's why I'm surprised to see you here. I thought you'd abandoned your hopes of running.”

“That's a false rumor.”

“I'm glad to hear that. The party needs you, and so does the territory. We've got to get past this stage of having the president decide who'll govern us.”

“You don't like Moonlight?” It had been less than a week since President Cleveland had appointed Thomas Moonlight as territorial governor.

Herb shrugged. “I don't know enough about him to say. He may be a fine man, but he's from Kansas. The citizens of Wyoming deserve a governor who lives here.”

“You'll get no argument from me on that.” While he'd been greeting voters, discussing issues with them and promoting his party's candidates, Barrett had also been stressing the importance of Wyoming's becoming a state. Like Herb and many of the politicians, he believed that self-government was essential.

“Where's Miriam?” Warren clapped Barrett on the shoulder and led him away from Herb. “I thought she was supposed to be with you today.”

“She'll come.” In the two and a half weeks since Christmas, Barrett had seen Miriam three times. They'd attended a New Year's party at a friend's house, they'd gone for a ride in Minnehaha Park so that Miriam could admire the frozen lagoons, and they'd attended a play last night. Each time, Miriam had mentioned that she would be at Barrett's side on Election Day. She'd even said that she was having a new dress made for the occasion. She would be here.

“There she is.” Barrett gestured toward Miriam, who stood in the doorway, her smile radiant, her hand on Richard's arm. As her gaze met Barrett's, she nodded and headed toward him, never letting go of Richard.

“You look lovely today,” Barrett said when she reached him. It was no lie. The reddish brown dress made her hair seem as bright as sunshine, and the smile she'd been wearing when she entered the room set her face aglow. Barrett had never seen her looking more beautiful. While Warren engaged Richard in a discussion of the various candidates' chances, Barrett kept his attention focused on Miriam. “You and Richard appeared deep in conversation when you arrived.” Though she'd been smiling, her animated expression had left no doubt that she had been engaged in something that touched her emotions.

Miriam's smile widened. “We were talking about ‘The Raven.' Richard doesn't agree with me that there are several layers of meaning to it.”

“I'd have to agree with him. How much meaning can a bird have?”

“Oh, Barrett.” He could see that Miriam was trying not to laugh. “You may be the territory's best hope for sensible government, but your knowledge of literature is sadly lacking. ‘The Raven' is a poem by Edgar Allan Poe.”

A poem. No wonder he was confused. The only book Barrett had thought about in the past month was the one he'd given Charlotte, and that one had assumed almost monumental importance. He'd spent far too much time worrying whether it would help her learn the specialized techniques that were needed to teach David. He'd worried about why the child wouldn't roll his ball unless Barrett was there and what that might mean for his future. Most of
all, he'd worried about David growing up without a father. That was far more important than poetry.

“I'm going next door,” Charlotte told Molly as she snipped the last thread and pulled the fabric from the sewing machine. “I shouldn't be long, but if someone comes, you can offer them coffee or tea and a few cookies while they look at the new pattern books.” Though she never ate or drank while sewing, Charlotte kept pots of tea and coffee for customers. Some days, like today, when she also had freshly baked cookies, the shop was redolent with delicious aromas.

A perplexed expression crossed Molly's face. “Now? You're going now?”

Charlotte nodded. It was no wonder that her assistant was confused. Charlotte had a firm schedule, and it was rare for her to deviate from it. She wouldn't be leaving now, for there was still work to be done on Mrs. Slater's new dress, but Charlotte couldn't ignore the feeling that she ought to check on Mr. Yates immediately. Normally, she stopped in at the end of the day, making excuses because she knew the elderly man would protest if she admitted that the reason she visited his shop was to provide him with a bit of companionship. He'd seemed sadder than normal since Christmas, though he'd denied that anything was wrong other than missing Prudence and wanting to move to Arizona.

Charlotte could find no reason for her feeling of urgency, but her instincts told her this was the time to visit Mr. Yates, and so she hung the partially finished dress on a hook, tossed her cloak over her shoulders, and headed for the door. Though she would occasionally dash next door
without a coat, yesterday's snow and the continuing bitter cold made that impractical today.

“Good morning, Mr. Yates,” Charlotte called as she entered the mercantile, a covered plate in her hand.

“Ah, Madame Charlotte. It's good to see you.” To Charlotte's relief, her neighbor seemed more cheerful than he'd been yesterday. Perhaps that was because she'd come during the morning today. Perhaps Mr. Yates was a person who dreaded sunset. She had heard that some people, particularly the elderly, were afflicted with that malady.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, leaning forward on the counter. “More socks for David?”

Charlotte laughed. “You know he doesn't need any.” Mr. Yates had given him half a dozen pairs for Christmas. “I thought you might enjoy some of Gwen's cookies.” She removed the covering before handing him the plate.

As the scent of gingerbread filled the room, a broad smile crossed the shopkeeper's face. “My favorite. Thank you, but do you mind if I share them with someone?”

“Of course not. They're yours.”

Charlotte took another step toward the counter, intending to cover the plate again, but to her surprise, Mr. Yates called out, “Mrs. Cox, would you and Nancy like a cookie?”

Charlotte spun around, startled by the realization that there were other customers in the store. She had neither seen nor heard anyone. The reason for the first was evident as a woman emerged from behind the counter stacked with table linens. Less than five feet tall, the tiny blonde who was carrying a child had been hidden by the display.

“Thank you, Mr. Yates. We'd enjoy that.” Her voice was soft, almost tentative, as if she were afraid of drawing
attention to herself. Perhaps that was why Charlotte had heard no sounds. Mrs. Cox settled the little girl on the counter and turned toward Charlotte, a question in her eyes.

Before Charlotte could speak, Mr. Yates performed the introductions. “Mrs. Cox, I'd like you to meet Madame Charlotte. Her shop is next door. Madame Charlotte, this is Mrs. Cox, one of my best customers, and her daughter Nancy.”

Charlotte tried not to stare at the little girl with the clouded, unfocused eyes. Instead, she smiled at the mother, a woman Charlotte guessed to be in her midthirties.

“I'm pleased to meet you,” Mrs. Cox said in response to Charlotte's smile. “I've heard so much about you, and I've seen the wonderful work you do.” Her smile faded slightly. “I'd like to own one of your dresses, but it's difficult to find time for fittings. Nancy occupies almost every hour of my days, and I know you're not open past her bedtime.” She kept her hand on Nancy's shoulder, perhaps to reassure her, perhaps to keep her from falling.

“You could bring Nancy with you.”

The woman shook her head. “Oh, I couldn't do that. I always hold her when we're in a store, but I couldn't do that if you were fitting a dress. You see . . .”

“Yes, I see.” Charlotte couldn't ignore the irony in the words. She and Mrs. Cox might see, but Nancy could not. Like David, she was blind.

“Cookie,” the little girl said.

Charlotte watched as Mrs. Cox handed her daughter a gingerbread man. Though David was adept at breaking them into smaller pieces and eating the morsels one at a time, Nancy tried to stuff the entire cookie into her mouth at once, with the inevitable result that pieces fell out and onto the floor.

“I'm afraid she's not a very neat eater.”

“That's not a problem.” Mr. Yates's voice was calm and reassuring. “I'll get a broom.” He headed toward the back room, leaving Charlotte alone with his customer.

She looked at the little girl who was obviously enjoying her treat, even though half of it was on the floor. Small and thin like her mother, the child appeared to be older than David, though her eating skills were less developed.