Waiting for Spring (34 page)

Thanks to Charlotte's foolish pride, her life had been more difficult and decidedly less pleasant than it could have been. It was time to change.

 23 

A
s the clock on the church steeple chimed the hour, Barrett shook his head at the realization that once again he had arrived early for a rendezvous with Charlotte.

Ever since he'd returned from Fort Laramie, he had found a reason to spend time with her each day. Some days he included David; others he and Charlotte simply spent a half hour or so together. It didn't matter what they did or what they discussed. What was important was that they were together. Ma had been right. Courtship was a good thing. According to her, the purpose of courting was to let the woman know that the man cared about her, that he was interested in more than friendship. What Ma hadn't told her boys was that courtship benefited the man too. At least it did Barrett. The time he spent with Charlotte deepened his love for her and strengthened his conviction that she was the one woman he would love for the rest of his life.

Courtship was good. Though he had yet to mention words like
love
and
marriage
, Barrett did not believe he was mistaken
in thinking that Charlotte harbored tender feelings for him. Those lovely brown eyes warmed when she greeted him, and the smiles she gave him were unlike those she bestowed on others. It was true that she was disappointed that he'd been unable to discover the baron's identity, but she seemed less anxious than she had a few weeks ago. “We'll find him,” she said confidently.

Barrett wished he shared that confidence. He'd continued his inquiries, even going to Sylvia's to talk to some of the girls. He'd learned little from them other than that his dream had been eerily accurate. The girls could not describe anything more than his eyes. Light blue, they had said, and he smelled of cigars. Unfortunately, there were dozens of men in Cheyenne with light blue eyes who smoked cigars.

Barrett shook his head again as the chimes faded. He wouldn't think about the baron. Not when he had the opal ring that he'd bought for Charlotte nestled in his pocket. It had taken less time than he'd expected to exchange Miriam's diamond for the ring that had caught his fancy the first time he'd entered Mr. Mullen's store. That was why he was so early. A full half hour early.

Barrett couldn't interrupt Charlotte, not when she had customers, but he didn't want to return home, either. He smiled, knowing there was another place where he'd be welcome. Seconds later, he pushed open the door of Yates's Dry Goods.

“No, I'm sorry, but that's not quite right.” The woman's querulous voice carried to the doorway. Judging from the pile of garments on the counter, the short, heavyset woman with the navy blue hat had said that a number of times before.

Though he looked up when the bell signaled Barrett's arrival, Mr. Yates did nothing more than nod at him. The fussy
customer must have rattled the elderly man more than usual, for normally he had a warm smile for anyone who entered his store.

Barrett scanned the interior of the shop. No wonder Mr. Yates looked so harried. He had two other customers waiting, the tapping of one woman's toe signaling her impatience. Both were well-dressed, the tall, toe-tapping one in a maroon cloak and hat, the shorter one in a shade of brown that reminded Barrett of Charlotte's eyes. Years of experience in his family's store told Barrett they were serious shoppers, not women like the fussy one who'd spend an hour looking at dozens of articles but would leave without purchasing a single one.

Barrett turned and started to leave, but as he did, he overheard the taller of the women addressing her companion.

“Come, Mildred. It is obvious Mr. Yates does not need our business. We shall see if Mr. Myers can wait on us.”

Though she started to turn, the woman called Mildred put a restraining hand on the tall shopper's arm. “But, Gertrude, my Horace likes Mr. Yates's shirts.”

Barrett's gaze moved to Mr. Yates. The flicker of pain in the shopkeeper's eyes confirmed his fear of losing this sale. One morning when Barrett had been visiting, the older man had confided that sales had declined over the winter and that he was concerned that any further losses would discourage a prospective buyer. At the time, though Barrett had been sympathetic, he had had no idea how to help Mr. Yates. Today was different. Surely Mr. Yates wouldn't object to what he hoped to do.

Stepping forward, Barrett bowed to the two women. “Good afternoon, ladies. Perhaps I can assist you.” He glanced to the
side and saw Mr. Yates's shoulders straighten ever so slightly. He didn't disapprove.

The women turned toward Barrett, and the shorter one's eyes widened. “I know you. You're Barrett Landry. You don't work here.”

“You are correct, madam, but I grew up in a mercantile, and I know what fine merchandise Mr. Yates carries.” He kept his gaze fixed on her as he added, “It's true that there are other dry goods establishments in Cheyenne, but I wouldn't want you to settle for lesser quality.”

The woman named Gertrude frowned. “I don't know, Mildred. It doesn't seem quite right to have Mr. Landry helping us.”

Mildred was wavering. Barrett could see that. If he didn't do something quickly, the two women would leave the shop, possibly never to return. The anticipation of salvaging a sale coursed through his veins, startling him with its intensity. It had been years since he'd worked in a mercantile, and it seemed he'd forgotten how heady the challenge of convincing customers could be.

Barrett gave both women a warm smile but focused his attention on Gertrude, who appeared to be the dominant one. “Would you deprive me of the pleasure of serving two lovely ladies?” Gertrude raised an eyebrow. It would take more than a little flattery to convince her. “We rarely had such discerning customers in my family's store.”

Mildred eyed a stack of shirts as she said, “We're here, Gertrude. Let's stay.”

“Oh, all right.” Though the words were less than gracious, Barrett didn't mind. What mattered was that the women had not left. That and the surprising feeling that he was exactly
where he was supposed to be. It hadn't been coincidence that he'd arrived at Élan early and that he'd been drawn into Mr. Yates's store.

“I appreciate your confidence in me, ladies. Now, what can I show you?”

“I need some shirts,” Mildred said as she pointed toward the ones she had been eyeing. “My Horace always wears those.”

Barrett nodded. He retrieved one from the shelf along with a shirt from a different stack. When he placed both on the end of the counter, he addressed Mildred. “This is a very fine shirt,” he said, gesturing toward the one she said her husband preferred, “but you might want to consider this.” He laid a hand on the other shirt he'd selected. “If you feel the cotton, you'll see that it's a smoother weave. Some gentlemen prefer these, believing they're worth the extra cost.”

Mildred hesitated. “I don't know . . .”

“Let me see.” Gertrude jostled her companion so she could touch the shirt Barrett had recommended. “You're right, Mr. Landry. These are better. They're just what my Benjamin needs. I'll take half a dozen.”

That was all the encouragement Mildred needed. “So will I.”

Barrett gave Mr. Yates a glance. Though he was still attempting to please the fussy customer, the wrinkle lines between his eyes seemed to have lessened. “You've made a fine choice, ladies. I knew women of your refinement would appreciate the superior quality,” Barrett said as he smiled at his customers. “Have you seen the new cravats? The silk ones are particularly attractive.” He broadened his smile, directing it at Gertrude. “I know, because I bought one last week.”

She took the bait. “Show me which one you chose.”

By the time the women were finished, Barrett had sold them not just shirts and cravats for their husbands but stockings and corset covers for themselves. It was true they'd looked askance when he'd mentioned the corset covers, until he assured them that his mother had taught him what ladies sought in their undergarments. “She wouldn't sell something unless it was pretty,” he explained. “She told my brothers and me that a lady should be elegant from head to toe, but there's no need for me to tell you that. Your clothing shows you understand fashion far better than my mother ever did.”

When the women had declared their shopping complete, Gertrude looked at the pile of garments she had acquired and frowned. “Oh, my. How will I ever carry all this home? Perhaps I should take only one or two shirts.”

As Mildred nodded, Barrett gave them another smile. “Surely you weren't planning to carry anything at all. The James Sisters have some new spring hats,” he said, referring to the millinery shop that was less than a block away. “You wouldn't want to miss them, and I'm certain you don't want to worry about carrying packages when you're trying on a hat.” Both women nodded. “If you'll give me your addresses, I'll have your purchases delivered to your homes later today.”

Pursing her lips, Gertrude gave Barrett a long look. “Mr. Yates has never done that.”

“Perhaps he didn't mention that's a new service he's considering.”

The fussy customer must have overheard Barrett, for she fixed her gaze on Mr. Yates. “Is that true?” When he nodded reluctantly, she pointed to two pairs of shoes that she had discarded. “In that case, I'll take these too.”

Minutes later, when the three women had left the shop, Mr. Yates slumped onto a chair. Though he appeared weary, his voice was firm. “Delivery service?” he demanded. “When did I consider that? And, more to the point, how will I pay for it?”

“I'm sorry, sir.” Barrett was sorry that he'd worried Mr. Yates, though he could not regret the decision. “It seems old habits are hard to break. My parents taught all of us not to let a sale get away, but I'm afraid my tongue ran away with itself.” He reached for the sheet of paper with the women's addresses. “Mr. Bradley will deliver their purchases.”

Mr. Yates was not mollified. “That's fine for today, but what am I to do going forward? You know those three women will tell everyone about my free delivery service.”

Biting back a smile, Barrett said, “I want to talk to you about that. I have a plan.”

The place had not improved. It had been dark the last time, and though daylight made many things more attractive, that was not the case with Fort Laramie. A collection of mismatched buildings; soldiers marching on the parade ground for no good reason; a passel of stray dogs running around the perimeter. Unlike Cheyenne's Fort D.A. Russell, this was not Warren's idea of an ideal military installation.

“I need to see your commanding officer,” he announced to the guard who asked his business. The flunkies might know something, but Warren was betting that the man in charge would be a better source of information.

The soldier nodded. “Captain Westland's office is in the Administration Building.” He pointed to an L-shaped building at the opposite corner of the parade ground.

“Thank you, soldier. I can find my way.”