Waiting for Spring (17 page)

Invitations to the Taggerts' Christmas Eve gathering were as prized as membership in the Cheyenne Club. Held from eight until eleven, the party was designed to fill the hours before guests left for church. Barrett had known he'd be invited. He also knew that Miriam's parents expected them to announce their engagement no later than Christmas Day. The party would be the perfect time.

“Yes, of course, I'm planning to be there.”

From the corner of his eye, Barrett saw Mrs. Taggert nod. She'd been listening more closely than he'd realized. Perhaps that was the reason Miriam lowered her voice as she asked, “Have you read any of Shelley's works?”

What an odd question. They'd been speaking of Christmas. Surely Miriam wasn't hinting that she wanted a book instead of a betrothal ring.

“I can't say as I have,” he admitted. “One of our customers ordered a copy of
Frankenstein
but said she didn't care for it. We never got another one.”

This time there was no doubt about it. Miriam's eyes reflected disappointment. “Not that Shelley. The other one. Percy. The poet.”

Barrett shook his head. “I never had time for reading.” Miriam didn't seem to understand how different his life had been from hers. While she had been the pampered daughter
of a prosperous newspaperman, he'd been working in a store that barely managed to support his family. And when the mercantile closed for the day, there'd always been chores—chopping wood, pumping water, milking the cow—not to mention repairing the house and outbuildings. Barrett's life had been far from leisurely.

“It's all right. I understand.” Miriam darted a glance at her mother. “Mama hopes you'll go to church with us as well.”

“It would be my pleasure.” If the evening went the way Barrett planned, that would be only the first of many times he attended services with Miriam and her parents, for although it was Miriam he was marrying, there was no doubt that he was allying himself with the entire Taggert family.

Miriam glanced at her mother again. “Mama says we're the perfect couple.”

Barrett refused to cringe at the realization that, at least in Miriam's mind, if Mrs. Taggert declared something, it had to be true.

“The red velvet is perfect on you.” It wasn't flattery. The sumptuous fabric highlighted Miriam's willowy figure, and the ruby hue brought color to her face.

“I love the style.” Miriam stroked the soft fabric. “Once again, you were right.” Unlike most evening gowns Charlotte designed, this one had long sleeves and a modest neckline, because Miriam had announced that she intended to wear it to church as well as her parents' annual Christmas Eve party. “I feel like a queen in this dress.”

“And you should.” Though Miriam had said nothing, several other customers had repeated the speculation that
Miriam and Barrett's betrothal would be announced at the Taggerts' party. There was no reason—absolutely no reason—why the thought should cause a lump to settle in the pit of Charlotte's stomach. Miriam deserved a wonderful husband, and Charlotte had no doubt that Barrett would be that kind of husband. When they stood together, they appeared to be the perfect couple. If Charlotte couldn't picture them as man and wife, well . . . that was her problem.

She managed a small smile. “He won't be able to keep his eyes off you when you're wearing this gown.”

Miriam's smile broadened. “I hope so. Sometimes I don't think he notices what I'm wearing, but I don't mind—not really. It's so exhilarating being with him and talking about all the things we have in common. He's the only man I know who's comfortable talking about poetry.”

That didn't sound like Barrett. Charlotte would have thought he'd be more likely to discuss current events or next spring's calf crop. Those and his hopes for Wyoming's future had been the subjects he'd mentioned while they'd sipped cocoa on Thanksgiving afternoon. It appeared that Barrett was a different man when he was with Miriam. Charlotte's smile faded as she reminded herself that that was natural. A man treated his future wife differently from a mere friend.

“He can even quote Shelley's ‘Queen Mab,'” Miriam continued. “Are you familiar with it?”

Charlotte nodded. “It's not my favorite, but I had to memorize it at school.”

Her green eyes sparkling with enthusiasm, Miriam asked, “Do you agree with Shelley that obedience makes slaves of men?”

As the lines from the poem reverberated through her brain,
Charlotte arranged the small train that fell from Miriam's bustle. “I guess it would depend on the context.”

“The Bible tells us to honor our parents, so I try to obey mine. And I know I'm supposed to obey my husband, but . . .” Miriam turned slowly in front of the twin mirrors that Charlotte had placed outside the dressing room, studying her gown from all directions. “I'm confused. I don't want to think that marriage will be like slavery.”

“It isn't.” Though life with Jeffrey had been far from perfect, Charlotte had never felt enslaved or even trapped. She simply hadn't felt as if Jeffrey loved her the way her father loved her mother. “When you love each other, it's not a matter of obedience or slavery. You respect each other, and so neither of you would do anything to hurt the other.”

Mama and Papa had listened to each other; they'd made decisions together. Not once had Charlotte heard Papa claim that Mama should do something simply because it was his wish.

“That's what I was hoping you'd say. Thank you, Charlotte.” Miriam's smile was once more radiant. “I don't know what I'd do without you.”

“Are you certain you won't stay?” Barrett stamped his feet, trying to warm them while he and Harrison stood at the depot, waiting for the train to arrive. “I had hoped you'd be here for Christmas.”

Harrison shook his head. “My feet are starting to itch.”

“Funny, mine are turning to ice.”

“That's another reason for me to leave. It's too cold here.” When Barrett feigned umbrage, Harrison grinned. “I don't
want Camden to get too used to running the store by himself. He and Susan might decide they don't need me.”

“If that happens, you can always come back. Maybe raise those horses you were talking about. You wouldn't have to worry about a place to live. You know I've got plenty of room for you.”

The distant whistle heralded the approach of the eastbound train. “Maybe now,” Harrison said with a rueful expression, “but once you're married, things will change. Your wife may not want a houseguest.”

Barrett couldn't believe Harrison was spouting such nonsense. “That's absurd. You'll always be welcome in my house.”

“Ah, little brother, you don't understand.” Harrison reached for the small suitcase he planned to carry onto the train. “Once you're married, it's her house.”

Warren grinned as he slid his arms into his shirtsleeves. Two months ago he would not have thought it possible, but his dreams were coming true. For the first time he had a reason to celebrate. This Thanksgiving had been the first one that he was truly thankful. That was unexpected. But so was Gwen. She would be the perfect wife. She wasn't beautiful, but he was old enough to know that beauty was overrated. What Gwen possessed was far more valuable than physical beauty. She had what his mother would have called class. She was well-mannered, soft-spoken, and never felt the need to draw attention to herself.

Warren fastened the last button before reaching for his collar. When they were married, he hoped Gwen would want to tie his cravat and nudge his collar points until they were
perfectly aligned. He'd seen his mother perform those tasks for his father until the day Pa died. Warren didn't know whether that was part of every marriage. All he knew was that the thought of Gwen standing so close to him, her fingers perhaps grazing his cheeks as she arranged the cravat, was surprisingly appealing.

She wasn't like Sylvia's girls. Gwen was an extraordinary woman. More than that, she was a lady. The men who made the decisions about membership in the club would see that. They'd be impressed, just as Gwen was obviously impressed with him. Love—if that was what he felt—was meant to be reciprocated. She did. Equally important, Gwen didn't feel the need to ask too many questions. She seemed content with the information he gave her and didn't probe too deeply. Unlike his former partner, Gwen was not nosy. The other woman . . .

Warren scowled as he remembered the last time he'd seen the woman who'd been his partner for half a dozen years. Though he had told her very little, somehow she had learned—or deduced—too much about him, leaving him no choice but to kill her. He'd seen her shock during her last moment, when she'd realized what was about to happen, and he knew she was remembering his vow never to kill a woman. He hadn't. Until that night. But there had been no alternative. He couldn't risk anyone connecting Warren Duncan with the man who'd masterminded a string of successful stagecoach robberies. That was why the woman who had been the sole occupant of Fort Laramie's guardhouse that night had had to die.

Gwen wouldn't ask questions. She wouldn't poke and pry. She'd believe him if he told her he had to meet with a client one or two evenings a month. She'd never realize that there was no client and that he was going to Sylvia's.

Gwen would be perfect. All he needed was Big Nose's money so that he could build a house. A big house. One to rival Joseph Carey's. Once construction was started, the Cheyenne Club would realize that Warren Duncan was a man they wanted as a member. But that took more money than he had. The question was, where was it? Only one person knew, and she had disappeared.

Warren walked to the window and stared at the street. Where was the Widow Crowley? Folks at the fort had claimed she'd taken her child back to Vermont. Though the story sounded plausible, it was a lie. Warren had sent a messenger east to find her, but no one in Wesley, Vermont, had seen Charlotte Crowley since her marriage. The town was still buzzing with the news that her sister had married a soldier. As if Warren cared. He didn't. Not a whit. All he cared about was finding Jeffrey Crowley's widow and all that money.

Where was she? As he watched two men striding down Eddy Street, their brisk pace telling him they were late for something, Warren scowled again. There was no point in staring out the window. Widow Crowley wasn't in Cheyenne or anywhere in Wyoming Territory, for that matter. Everyone knew that the gold Big Nose had taken from that stagecoach amounted to a fortune. With that much money, she could be living anywhere—Paris, London, New York. It was no wonder she hadn't returned to a backwater town in Vermont. Widow Crowley was living the life of luxury somewhere. He would find out where.

That money was supposed to be his.

 11 

I
t was surprising how empty the house seemed. Barrett walked briskly down Ferguson Street, thankful to be out of the place that now seemed as quiet as the empty prairie. Harrison had been in Cheyenne less than two months, but that had been long enough for Barrett to become accustomed to his brother's company. Now that he was gone, Barrett's days seemed longer than normal, his meals endless. Hoping to banish the unexpected loneliness, he had ridden to the ranch. At least there the news had been good. Not only had Dustin not found any more dead steers, but the snow had melted, and, thanks in part to the hay he and Harrison had brought to the ranch, the cattle once again had easy grazing. It was surely Barrett's imagination that they appeared a bit thinner than last year, for Dustin claimed they were as heavy as ever.

He ought to be happy, Barrett told himself as he approached his destination. Christmas, always one of his favorite times of the year, was less than a month away. That was the reason he was visiting Mullen's jewelry store.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Landry,” the proprietor said as Barrett entered the shop. Of medium height and weight, with medium brown hair and eyes, the man could have blended into any crowd without notice were it not for his moustache. Thicker than normal, it was waxed into elaborate curls that extended several inches past his cheeks. “Can I show you something today?”

Barrett approached the main counter and pointed to a display of rings. “I'd like a ring for a lady.”

Mr. Mullen nodded as he fingered one end of his moustache. “Did you have a specific type of ring in mind?”

“Betrothal.” Was it his imagination again, or did his voice sound strained? Even though Harrison claimed it was normal and that even normally unflappable Camden had been nervous when he'd asked Susan to marry him, Barrett disliked the feeling that he was entering an unknown world.

“Very good. We have some fine ones.” Mr. Mullen opened a drawer, then looked up at Barrett. “Were you looking for a diamond or colored stones?”

This was definitely a new world. Barrett couldn't recall whether his mother's rings had any stones at all, and he hadn't thought to ask Harrison what type Camden had given Susan. He shrugged. “I'm not certain. Why don't you show me what you have?”

The jeweler nodded and placed a tray of rings in front of Barrett. “Any one of these would please a lady.”

The assortment was more extensive than Barrett had expected, with stones in every color of the rainbow. Though he admired the rubies, sapphires, and emeralds, his eye was drawn to one that reminded him of a flower. Six petals of an unusual milky color surrounded a central diamond.

“Those stones are opals,” Mr. Mullen said when he saw the direction of Barrett's gaze. “Came all the way from Australia.” He withdrew the ring from the case and handed it to Barrett. “Hold it to the light.”

When Barrett did, he discovered that the opals were not the simple color he had thought. Instead, they shimmered with sparks of red and gold and green. As he turned the ring, each new angle revealed a different combination of colors. He took a deep breath as he stared at the most beautiful piece of jewelry he'd ever seen. This ring had depths he'd never imagined possible.

“You've chosen well, Mr. Landry. This is my finest ring. Any lady would be proud to have it on her finger.”

Not just any lady. Unbidden, the image of Charlotte's face floated before him. This was the perfect ring for her, a woman with depths as great as the opals, a woman who sparkled like the diamond, a woman whose beauty would complement the ring's magnificence. This was Charlotte's ring, but he wasn't buying a ring for her.

Reluctantly, Barrett handed the opal back to the jeweler. “I think a diamond would be better. A large one.”

Trying to mask his disappointment, Mr. Mullen placed the opal ring back on the colored stone tray and pulled out one that contained only diamonds. “These are all fine rings too,” he said.

And they were. Though none could compare to the beauty of the opal, these were rings Barrett could imagine Miriam wearing. He chose one with a large oval stone in a simple setting. Miriam would like the fact that the stone was a little different from her mother's round one, and she would probably be pleased that it was larger. Yes, this was the ring for Miriam.

As the jeweler searched for a box, Barrett wandered around the shop, looking at the displays in the other cases. Though he had no intention of buying a second piece of jewelry, when he saw a gold filigree bracelet, he stopped and gave it another look. “I'll take this too,” he told Mr. Mullen.

The man twirled the end of his moustache. “Your lady will be very happy.”

“I hope so.”

He ought to be happy, Barrett told himself as he headed home. He'd found a ring for Miriam. Her father had already blessed their courtship. All Barrett had to do was ask her to marry him. He'd do that. Soon. And then they'd begin planning their life together. The prospect ought to fill him with happiness or at least anticipation. But it did not. He felt as empty as he had when he'd left home.

Though his house was on the east side of the street, Barrett crossed to the west when he reached 17th Street. It was a ritual he'd begun the day he met Charlotte. Whenever he traveled that block of Ferguson, he walked next to her store, looking at the display in the plate-glass window. Sometimes he would see her, and he'd wave. Those were the good days. Other times, though the store was open, there was no sign of Charlotte, and he guessed she was in her workroom, putting her Singer sewing machine through its paces the way he did his horses. Those days, he was aware of a sense of disappointment.

Barrett looked ahead, trying to see whether the store was open, and as he did, he saw Charlotte locking the door. By the time he reached her, she had begun to climb the stairs to her apartment.

“Charlotte!” he called in greeting. “I'm surprised you're not still in the store.”

She turned, nodding slightly at the yards of fabric in her arms. “I need to finish three gowns tonight, so I closed the store to work.”

Barrett recalled her saying that, even though she had a workroom in the store itself, she found that she completed handwork more quickly when she was in her apartment. It made no sense to him, for he knew that David would interrupt, but Barrett suspected Charlotte preferred the interruptions to worries about what her son was doing.

From the first time he'd seen her with David, Barrett had wondered about her decision to open a dressmaking shop. While there was no doubt that she was talented, he didn't understand why Charlotte hadn't taken the path most widows would have: a second marriage. If she'd remarried, she would not have had to open the store, and she would have been able to spend all her time with David. A woman as beautiful as Charlotte should have had her choice of husbands, particularly here in Wyoming Territory, where men far outnumbered women and widows often remarried well before their year of mourning was completed, sometimes mere days after their first husband's death. The only reason Barrett could imagine that Charlotte was still unmarried was that the men were unwilling to consider a widow with a blind child. Stupid men!

When he realized that he'd clenched his fists in anger, Barrett straightened them. Inclining his head toward her sewing, he said, “I understand. You don't need any additional interruptions. It's just . . . I thought I'd stop by to see how David is doing.”
And his mother.
Though thoughts of Charlotte were never distant, Barrett had been able to think of little else since he'd left Mr. Mullen's shop. He didn't need to close his
eyes to picture himself sliding the opal ring onto her slender finger, nor was it difficult to imagine her smile of pleasure.

As he watched, Charlotte smiled, and for a second Barrett wondered if she'd read his thoughts. She must not have, for her words were matter-of-fact. “You're welcome to come in. I can't promise I'll be much company, but David will enjoy your visit.”

When they reached the landing, Barrett opened the door. Flashing him a smile of thanks, Charlotte hurried into the apartment, her eagerness to see her son almost palpable. “David, I'm home,” Charlotte called as she laid the fabric on the table. A cry of delight was accompanied by the sound of knees slapping the floor as David scurried toward her, crawling faster than Barrett knew a child could. On the opposite side of the room, Gwen smiled a greeting while Charlotte scooped her son into her arms and hugged him.

“You're a lucky boy, David. Mr. Landry has come to visit you,” Charlotte said as she tousled his hair.

Though David had raised his face to Charlotte's for a kiss, he began to struggle, clearly signaling that he no longer wanted to be held. “Baw!” he cried.

Charlotte gave Barrett a rueful smile. “I told you it was his favorite toy,” she said as she placed her son back on the floor. “That appears to mean that you're now his favorite person. He used to let me hold him for a lot longer than this.”

“Perhaps he knows you need to work.”

“Perhaps.” Charlotte's grin said otherwise. “But I won't complain, because I do need to sew.” She gathered the crimson gown and a pile of lace from the table and settled onto the settee in the parlor area. “Where's Rose?” she asked Gwen.

“Napping. I didn't think it was possible, but playing with David wore her out today.”

Even if getting worn-out would be Barrett's fate as well, it was a small price to pay for spending time with Charlotte.

Gwen rose and moved toward the door to what Barrett surmised was the front bedroom. “I'll keep Rose occupied if she wakens. That way she won't bother you.”

“Rose is no bother.”

Gwen's lips twisted into a smile at Charlotte's words. “Barrett's not used to one child, much less two. We don't want to scare him away.” Softly, she closed the door behind her, leaving Barrett alone with Charlotte and her son.

David sat at his feet, the ball clutched to his chest. “I see you have your ball, David. Are you going to roll it to me?”

When David tightened his grip on the toy, Charlotte shook her head. “He still won't do that. I think he's afraid of losing it.”

Closing his eyes for a second, Barrett tried to imagine what it must feel like for David, releasing his toy, not knowing where it was going. It could be scary, and yet he was missing so much by not playing with it. There had to be a way to show him that rolling the ball was fun.

Apparently convinced that no one would take his toy, David shifted the ball from one hand to the other, seemingly content to play by himself. Barrett turned his attention back to Charlotte, who was attaching lace to some part of the crimson dress. “Business must be good.”

She nodded without looking up from the tiny stitches she was taking. “I have twice as many orders as last month. If this continues, I may have to hire another assistant, especially if I start making bridal gowns.” She knotted the thread, then clipped it close to the lace. “Bridal gowns require considerably more time than ordinary dresses.”

“The customers are probably fussier too.” Though Barrett doubted that Miriam would be demanding, he was certain that her mother would insist on being involved. Barrett could imagine Mrs. Taggert changing her mind about the position of a piece of lace a dozen times before she was satisfied that it was absolutely perfect.

Her face reflecting mock horror, Charlotte looked at Barrett. “I hadn't considered that. I should probably charge twice as much as normal.”

“Somehow I can't picture you doing that.”

“Probably not. It would seem like stealing.”

“Baw!” Apparently bored by the adult conversation, David banged his toy on the floor.

“I think your son is reminding me that I'm supposed to be playing with him.” Barrett grinned as he settled on the floor, stretching his legs out to the side. “All right, David. I'm here.” He touched the boy's thigh so he could realize how close Barrett was. “Roll the ball to me.”