Waiting for Spring (31 page)

By the time he reached the fort that stood at the confluence of the Laramie and Platte Rivers the next day, Barrett was tired. So, too, was Midnight. They both needed rest and food.

“State your business,” the sentry barked as Barrett approached the post.

Barrett looked around, surprised that the fort resembled a small town more than a military establishment. With no surrounding walls, a mixture of architectural styles, and ladies strolling along boardwalks, it did not meet his mental image of a fort.

“I want to see Captain Westland.” Charlotte had given him the name of the company commander, adding that she wasn't certain the man would still be there. The Army, it seemed, transferred its men regularly.

“That way, sir.” The sentry pointed toward a large L-shaped building at the southeast corner of the parade ground. “That's the administration building. You'll find him there.”

One hurdle passed. The captain was still here. Now all Barrett needed was for him to know the baron's identity. Glad to stretch his legs after the hours on horseback, Barrett lengthened his stride as he passed what appeared to be barracks on the way to the limestone building the sentry had indicated. Less than a minute later, he was introduced to the fort's commanding officer.

“What can I do for you?” Captain Westland proved to be a stocky, bespectacled man whose graying hair made him appear to be about the same age as Warren. He was also as matter-of-fact as Barrett's attorney, eschewing any small talk once the introductions had been made.

Taking the seat the captain indicated, Barrett looked around the room. While it couldn't compare to Cheyenne's mansions, the room was less stark than he had expected. The crossed flags—United States and Army—on top of the mantel were no surprise, but the beautifully carved cherrywood desk and bookcases were, as was the potted plant that had grown spindly, trying to reach the windowsill.

“I want to learn what I can about Jeffrey Crowley's death and a man called the baron,” Barrett said, fixing his eyes on the captain.

The commander frowned slightly. “You know that I can't discuss an officer's military record with you.”

“I wouldn't expect you to. I realize that's confidential information.”

Barrett's response appeared to surprise the captain. “Then why are you here?”

“I trust that what I'm going to tell you will remain as confidential as Lieutenant Crowley's record.” Barrett looked back at the door, ensuring that it was fully closed.

“Certainly.”

“I've met his widow.”

The captain's surprise deepened. “How? Where? You said you were from Cheyenne, but I heard she had gone back to Vermont.”

Barrett debated how much to tell the commanding officer, finally deciding on the basics. “Mrs. Crowley”—it felt strange
to refer to her by that name—“moved to Cheyenne. She's worried that the baron might be searching for her.”

Captain Westland removed his spectacles, polishing them carefully as he said, “That could be. The man's a bit of a legend. No one seems to know where he came from, where he lives, or even how he got his name. An eyewitness said he was the one who killed Lieutenant Crowley, but he stayed in the shadows so no one could identify him. Whoever he is, the baron is a wily man.”

After hearing the captain's explanation, Barrett agreed with Charlotte that the man who frightened Sylvia's girls was likely the same one who'd led Jeffrey deeper into crime. He might have traded the shadows for a mask, but he hadn't changed his nature. Charlotte had said he was evil. Barrett agreed, especially now that he knew the baron had killed at least two people.

“I heard the baron might have been involved in stagecoach robberies,” Barrett said.

“I heard that too.” The captain replaced his spectacles and peered over them at Barrett. “There's no proof, though. The robberies stopped when Crowley died.”

“And now the stagecoach has ceased running.”

“Precisely.” Captain Westland frowned. “I'm afraid I haven't been much help.”

While it was true that the captain hadn't been able to identify the baron, Barrett had learned at least one new facet of the man's past. Whether he'd tell Charlotte that the baron was responsible for her husband's death remained to be seen.

“Thank you, anyway. I appreciate your time.” Barrett rose and took a step toward the door, turning abruptly. “One more thing. Could you tell me where Lieutenant and Mrs. Crowley
lived?” It wouldn't help him find the baron, but it might help him understand Charlotte.

“Certainly.” The captain led Barrett outside and pointed to the west. “See that white house there?” he asked, indicating a good-sized building at the curve of the road. “It's divided into two residences. The left side was theirs.”

Barrett walked the short distance and stared at the place where Charlotte had once lived. It was a pleasant enough building, two stories high with three dormers on the front and two on the back of the second story. Judging from the placement of the windows and chimneys, Barrett guessed the first floor contained a parlor and dining room and that the one-story addition to the back housed the kitchen. Though not huge by any standards, it was considerably larger than the apartment Charlotte now shared with three others. Did she feel cramped in Cheyenne? Did she miss the wide wraparound porch? Barrett could picture her sitting there, rocking slowly on a warm summer night.

He peered around the side of the building, noting that in addition to the normal outbuildings, the yard contained what appeared to be a small garden. Perhaps Charlotte had been the one who'd hoed the ground in that backyard garden. Perhaps she had done her sewing sitting by that front window, watching soldiers march on the parade ground. Or perhaps her days had been whiled away visiting with other officers' wives. There was so much Barrett wanted to know, so much he needed to understand about her past. If they were going to have a future together—and he was determined that they would—they both needed to know what had made them the people they were today. But first he had to find the baron.

“Tomorrow is March 1, and we haven't had any snow for ten days.” Gwen looked up from the lace she was attaching to a collar, her face wreathed in a smile. “Spring can't be far away.”

“I hope so. It seems like all of us are waiting for spring.” Charlotte didn't add that she was also waiting for Barrett to return from Fort Laramie. She hoped he'd discover something there but wasn't optimistic. Instead, she worried that the only thing he would discover was more dead cattle along the way. At least the action of pulling a thread and needle through fabric helped settle her nerves. That was one of the reasons she was sewing tonight, that and the fact that she wanted to get another dress to Mrs. Kendall by the end of the week. This time, though, she would not make her delivery on foot. Barrett had insisted that he would take her in his carriage, and remembering the fear she had felt when she'd known she was being followed, Charlotte had not argued with him. It would be safer, not to mention more enjoyable, to go with Barrett, and, since she was no longer trying to expand her dressmaking business, she wouldn't worry about her customers learning what she was doing.

Gwen knotted her thread. “This awful winter has to end. It's making everyone miserable. Even Warren's been in a disagreeable mood.” She frowned, then looked up at Charlotte, a question in her eyes. “I hope it's nothing to do with me.”

“I'm sure it isn't.” Charlotte had managed to overcome her initial reaction to Warren, telling herself that while he wasn't a man she would want to marry, he was kind to Gwen and Rose and had brought a sparkle to Charlotte's friend's eyes. “As you said, everyone's discouraged. According to
today's paper, the loss of cattle is staggering. That will affect everyone, not just the cattle growers. Warren will have fewer clients if they go out of business.”

Gwen wasn't convinced. “As awful as it sounds, I hope you're right and that's the only reason Warren's been out of sorts,” she said, a tremor in her voice. “I don't know what I'll do if Warren doesn't love me. He's everything I ever dreamt of.” Tears welled in Gwen's eyes. “I thought he loved me, but if he does, he should have declared himself by now.” She dashed the tears from her cheeks. “Why hasn't he? I want to know that we have a future together. Rose and I need him.”

Charlotte tried not to frown at Gwen's use of the word
need
. Her parents had taught their daughters that marriage should be based on love and respect, not need, but Gwen didn't want to hear that. And perhaps there was no reason for Charlotte to say anything, for it appeared that Gwen did love Warren, not simply the idea that he would take care of her and her daughter.

“Lent has started,” Charlotte said, grasping at straws. “He may be waiting until it ends. You know that almost no one marries between Ash Wednesday and Easter.” It was such a solemn time of the year that few engagements were announced then, and there were even fewer weddings.

Gwen's tears vanished, replaced by a smile. “You must be right. Warren wouldn't do anything that wasn't proper.” Laying her sewing aside, she rose and hugged Charlotte. “Thank you. You've made me feel much better.” When she returned to her seat, she raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn't it be perfect if Warren and Barrett proposed at the same time? We could have a double wedding.”

Charlotte couldn't let Gwen continue to weave fantasies
that would not come true, fantasies that Charlotte only admitted in her dreams. “I don't expect to remarry,” she said firmly. “The school will be my life.”

“I thought you'd given up that idea.” Gwen stuck her needle into the fabric and looked up, frowning. “Honestly, Charlotte, I think you're mistaken. Why would you want to spend your life teaching other people's children when you could have a life with Barrett? He'd take care of you and David. You could even have other children. Don't you see? It would be perfect.”

Perfect
appeared to be Gwen's favorite word today. The problem was, her idea of perfect was different from Charlotte's. “The school is important.”

“It is,” Gwen agreed, “but you don't have to be the teacher. If you married Barrett, you could use some of his money to hire someone. You don't have to do everything yourself.”

It wasn't the first time Charlotte had heard that advice. “That's what Abigail and Elizabeth said.” Her sisters had not been enthusiastic about her plan for a school. Part of the reason, Charlotte suspected, was that they had been hurt that she hadn't confided the truth of David's blindness sooner, and that feeling of hurt colored everything else.

“You should listen to us,” Gwen said, a smug smile on her face. “We can't all be wrong.”

But they were. Establishing the school was what God wanted her to do. Charlotte was certain of that.

Charlotte was helping a customer the next day when Barrett entered the shop. Though he said nothing beyond a brief greeting, the slump of his shoulders told Charlotte his trip had been discouraging.

As soon as the customer left, she turned to Barrett. “Welcome back,” she said, infusing her voice with as much enthusiasm as she could. “I'm glad you're here.”

“You won't be when you hear what I have to say.” Barrett refused the chair she offered, and so Charlotte remained standing rather than have to crane her neck to look at him.

“What I learned at the fort is that the baron is even more dangerous than you feared,” he said, his voice tinged with regret. “I know the school is important to you, but I'd advise waiting until we've found him.”

Barrett swallowed, and Charlotte realized there was much he wasn't telling her. Though anger mingled with regret that he felt the need to shelter her from unpleasant news, Charlotte said nothing. After all, Barrett was only trying to help her. He would probably argue that it was caring, not coddling. Perhaps he was right and she was being overly sensitive.