Waiting for Spring (4 page)

“You were the one who helped us,” Gwen countered, “but let's not be maudlin. Especially not tonight. Supper's ready.”

Charlotte moved to the dry sink. “Did you hear that, David? It's time to wash our hands. Come to Mama.” She watched, a proud smile on her face as he crawled toward her. Other children his age were starting to walk, but for David, crawling had been a major accomplishment.

“You know what comes next.” David giggled before raising his arms so she could lift him onto the counter. “Now, give me your hands.” When she positioned them over the pail, he giggled again. Getting wet was one of David's favorite parts of the day. “Okay, rub,” Charlotte said when she'd poured water over her son's hands. “Now we'll dry them.” She gave him a towel. Though he hadn't quite mastered the art of drying his hands, he seemed to enjoy the texture of the cloth. “Off to your chair now.”

It had seemed strange at first, narrating every step she was planning to take, but when Charlotte had blindfolded herself and tried to imagine what David's world was like, she had realized how important it was to compensate for his lack of sight by stimulating his other senses. David's hearing appeared to be acute, and he would often sniff, wordlessly telling Charlotte he had detected an odor she had not.

The meal went well. David enjoyed eating, once he knew where the foods were placed, and though he made a mess of the cake, smearing it all over his face, his grin left no doubt that he'd savored it.

When she had washed her son's face and hands and tossed his bib into the laundry basket, Charlotte settled him on her lap and reached for the first of the packages Gwen had laid on the now clean table. “David, your aunts sent presents for
you.” She handed him a box wrapped in heavy brown paper and tied with a coarse string. “This is from Aunt Abigail. Feel the tie.” She moved his fingers over the twine, showing him how it circled the box. “We need to pull it loose.” Handing him one end, Charlotte encouraged her son to tug on it. When it came undone, he crowed with delight. “Feel the box now. The string is gone.” She guided David's fingers over the package. “Let's open the box.” When she'd slid the paper off it, Charlotte removed the top. “Oh, it's a book.” A book her son would never read. Elizabeth's gift was another book with beautiful pictures, the perfect gift for most one-year-old boys but not for David. Though he'd enjoy hearing her read the stories to him, only the richly textured blanket Gwen had made was something Charlotte's son would fully appreciate.

“You need to tell them,” Gwen said when the children were in bed and she and Charlotte had returned to the sitting area of their main room. Furnished with a horsehair settee and two tapestry-covered chairs, it was large enough for the four of them and accommodated the few visitors the women had. Charlotte lit an oil lamp. Although the apartment had electricity, there were times when she preferred the softer light of the lamps.

Gwen's expression was solemn as she set her empty teacup on the small table positioned between the two chairs. “Your sisters deserve to know that David is . . .” She hesitated for a second before saying, “Special. You should have told them at the beginning.”

It was a familiar argument. “I didn't realize he was blind when I left Fort Laramie.” Though Gwen was reluctant to voice the word
blind
, Charlotte was not. “Even if I'd known, I'm not certain I'd have told Abigail.” It was only after she'd
moved to Cheyenne that Charlotte had noticed that David's eyes never followed her. “Probably not. I couldn't disrupt my sisters' lives. Elizabeth would have postponed her medical studies, and Abigail and Ethan would have interrupted their honeymoon to be with me. I couldn't let that happen.”

At the time that Charlotte had learned about David's blindness, Abigail and Ethan had been back East, paying a brief visit to Elizabeth while Ethan made the final decisions about his inheritance. Though both he and Abigail were confident that he'd been right in renouncing all claims to the fortune his grandfather had amassed, leaving it instead to a distant cousin who shared the grandfather's passion for railroads, if Ethan had known that David was handicapped, he might have made a different decision. Charlotte could picture Ethan sacrificing his own happiness in order to provide for her and David, and she could not allow that to happen. David was her son. She alone was responsible for him.

And now? It was difficult to explain when she didn't fully understand it herself. Charlotte had always been reluctant to let her sisters see her life as less than perfect. That was why she hadn't told either Abigail or Elizabeth the truth about her marriage. She hadn't even mentioned she was expecting a child, for fear they'd visit her and discover that the man she'd believed to be her knight in shining armor was troubled.

Gwen poured herself another cup of tea, shaking her head when Charlotte refused a second piece of cake. “You think because you're the oldest you should be the strong one. Abigail and Elizabeth are grown women now. They could have helped you. You don't always have to be strong.”

“I wasn't.” Charlotte closed her eyes, remembering.

Her legs quivered as she tied her bonnet under her chin and smoothed on her gloves. Though she could blame her weakness on recent childbirth, it was fear that made her tremble like a sapling in the wind, fear that she would be unable to do what she must.

“I'll go with you, if you like.” Abigail, who had spent the summer with her, put her arms around Charlotte's shoulders and squeezed gently. “You don't need to go alone.”

But she did. “Only I can forgive her.” And that was best done alone.

If the soldiers who'd drawn guard duty were surprised when Lieutenant Crowley's widow asked to visit the prisoner, they were too well trained to show it. They offered to accompany her to the cell but seemed unfazed when Charlotte refused. “If you need us, ma'am, we'll be right outside,” they said as they resumed their pacing in front of the guardhouse. It was a routine day for them, but an anything but normal one for Charlotte.

She could hear the hesitation in her footsteps and forced herself to walk briskly.

The woman who'd been captured two nights before glared as Charlotte approached her cell. “Who are you?” she demanded in a drawl that suggested she had been raised in the South. Before Charlotte could answer, the prisoner narrowed her eyes. “You must be the wife, the nosy one's sister.”

Ignoring the slur to Abigail, Charlotte said simply, “I'm Charlotte Crowley. I came to tell you that I forgive you for your part in Jeffrey's death.”

For a second, the woman stared at Charlotte, as if in disbelief. “I didn't kill him.”

“I know that, but if it hadn't been for you . . .”

The woman with the graying brown hair interrupted. “I don't need your forgiveness. It won't help me, anyhow. I know where I'm going when I leave this world, and there ain't nothing anybody can do to change that.”

When Charlotte started to speak, to tell the prisoner that there was hope, the woman held up her hand. “Save your breath and listen to me. Listen good, because I'm only going to say it once. The baron knows that Jeffrey found Big Nose's stash.”

Charlotte gasped. Even though he had met his fate at the end of a hangman's noose several years before she had come to Wyoming Territory, Charlotte had heard of George Parrott, better known as Big Nose. The notorious outlaw had been famous for his robberies, and with his death, speculation about the large shipment of gold that had never been recovered had only increased. Now it appeared that someone named “the baron” thought her husband had it.

“The baron is a mighty determined man,” the woman continued. “He won't rest until he finds the gold, and you're the only link. Watch your back, missy. You don't wanna cross the baron. He kills folks the way you'd swat a fly.”

The next morning, the fort was buzzing with the news that the prisoner was dead. Somehow, someone had snuck into the guardhouse and slit her throat. Though there were no clues, Charlotte was certain the baron was responsible . . .

“I know it's David's birthday.” Gwen's voice brought Charlotte back to the present. “But I have a gift for you. For both of us, really.” She handed Charlotte an envelope. “I know how much you love Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, and I thought
maybe you and I could go together.” Gwen's habitual smile faded slightly, as if she feared Charlotte's reaction. “Molly will watch the children. I already asked her.”

Charlotte turned the envelope over in her hand, gazing at her name, inscribed by Gwen's untutored hand. “I don't know what to say. This is so generous of you.” Though she paid Gwen a salary in addition to providing food and lodging, theater tickets were a luxury Gwen could barely afford.

The heavyset woman shook her head. “This is a thank-you for giving Rose and me a home. I didn't want to tell you at the time, but I was desperate. I had only enough money for another week. Once it was gone, I didn't know what I'd do. I'd looked everywhere for work, but no one wanted a widow with a small child. I was afraid I'd wind up at Sylvia's,” she said, referring to the brothel next door to the boardinghouse where Gwen and Rose had taken refuge after her husband's death. “It was a miracle that you and I were in Mr. Yates's store at the same time.”

Charlotte shook her head. “Not a miracle, but the hand of God. He put us together for a reason.”

“Then you'll accept the ticket?”

Perhaps it was the fact that the memory of the woman's warning was so fresh. Perhaps it was only because this would be the first time she'd appeared at a large public gathering. Charlotte didn't know the reason. All she knew was that fear assailed her. The baron could be anywhere, even at the Cheyenne Opera House. If he recognized her . . . Charlotte swallowed deeply, reminding herself of what had become her favorite Bible verse. She didn't have to live in fear. Joshua 1:9 promised that the Lord would be with her wherever she went, even to the opera house.

Slowly, she nodded.

His mother used to say that envy was a sin. Warren Duncan tugged off his boot, placing it carefully next to its mate. No matter how annoyed he might be—and he was mighty annoyed—there was no reason to damage good shoe leather by not caring for it properly. That would be foolish, and he was not a foolish man. Far from it. But he was an envious one.

Warren did not doubt that envy was a sin and that his mother would have been displeased if she'd lived long enough to know of it. He reached for the blacking and began to polish his boots. Ma would turn over in her grave if she knew that he'd been guilty of other, far more serious, sins. Those Ten Commandments she was so fond of spouting also said, “Thou shalt not steal” and “Thou shalt not kill.” But words, whether written on the pages of Ma's Bible or carved on stone tablets, hadn't stopped him from relieving more than one person of his valuables. They hadn't stopped him from slitting his partner's throat, and they most definitely were not doing anything to lessen his envy.