Waiting for Spring (6 page)

“Oh, look,” Gwen whispered as they joined the crowd that filed through the front door, then up the grand staircase to the second floor lobby. “The chandelier is even more beautiful than I'd heard. Do you suppose there really are fifty-two lights?”

Charlotte didn't need to count the bulbs. Whether it had fifty-two or some other number, the chandelier was magnificent, providing decoration as well as illumination. Miriam had told her that until the city was electrified, the chandelier was rarely lit because of the unpleasant smell from the oil, but now it was one of the most admired parts of Cheyenne. Like the building itself, the chandelier was designed to impress, and it succeeded. As discreetly as she could, Charlotte looked up, wanting to see the skylights that were almost as famous as the lighting fixture. During the day, light spilled through them, but now though the glass expanses were dark, a close to full moon cast its glow on the symphonygoers, and a few stars twinkled, giving the opera house an almost magical aura.

“I can't believe we're here.” Gwen's voice cracked with emotion as they reached their seats. “Look at those boxes.” She gestured toward one of the four private boxes whose red velvet swags announced that they would be occupied by the city's elite. “It's a different world.”

Charlotte nodded, trying not to frown. Gwen's innocent words had resurrected a host of painful memories. This was the world Jeffrey had wanted to enter. Places like this were the reason he had taken the risks he had, and ultimately, they were the reason Charlotte was a widow. Forcing herself to smile, she murmured something innocuous, then smiled with genuine pleasure when the lights dimmed and the music began. Within seconds, the glorious strains of Beethoven's epic symphony transported Charlotte to another world, a world where memories of Jeffrey's foolishness and worries about a man called the baron did not exist.

When the music faded and the conductor announced that they would take a brief intermission, Gwen touched Charlotte's arm. “Would you mind if we walked around? I'd like to see who's here.”

“Looking for a husband?” Charlotte couldn't resist teasing Gwen.

Gwen's eyes widened as if she hadn't considered that. “Maybe we should both be looking. You never can tell where you'll find the right man.” When Charlotte started to frown, Gwen continued. “A husband would be nice, but what I really want is to see the other women's gowns. I doubt any of them can compare to mine.” She smiled as she fingered the rich blue silk. “When Rose is old enough to remember, I want to be able to describe everything about tonight.”

Joining the throng, Charlotte and Gwen descended the staircase. It was almost amusing, seeing the momentary confusion of young women wearing gowns she'd fashioned. They would look at Charlotte, perplexed, as if struggling to recognize her. It was as Mama had claimed: people rarely noticed servants, and though Charlotte was not technically a
servant, she was also a woman few of Cheyenne's elite would expect to see at a social gathering. Rather than embarrass the women by speaking, Charlotte merely smiled and continued the slow progress toward the first floor. There, the doors had been propped open, the cool air of mid-October helping to dissipate the heat that had been generated by more than five hundred bodies.

“Mr. and Mrs. Carey are here,” Gwen said, inclining her head toward the couple whose mansion was considered the most beautiful in the city. Gwen lowered her voice as she added, “Her gown isn't as nice as mine, and I bet she ordered it from Paris.”

“You're simply prejudiced, but I'm glad you are.” Charlotte squeezed her friend's arm when they reached the floor.

“Madame Charlotte.”

The voice came from the left, startling Charlotte. How had she not seen him? She had known he would be here, accompanying Miriam in her emerald green gown. Though she hated to admit it, she'd been watching the crowd, looking for . . . Miriam. Of course she had been looking for Miriam, wanting to assure herself that the gown was perfectly draped. She hadn't been searching for a tall, dark-haired man who was even more distinguished in formal clothing than he was in his ordinary suits. For a second, she stood speechless, drinking in the sheer masculinity that was Barrett Landry. Then, reluctantly, her gaze shifted further to the left, where she saw Miriam deep in conversation with two gentlemen Charlotte didn't recognize.

“I hadn't realized you planned to be here too.” Mr. Landry raised an eyebrow, as if asking for an explanation.

“The tickets were a gift from my friend.” She turned toward
Gwen, who was standing silently watching the exchange. “Gwen, let me introduce you to Mr. Landry. Mr. Landry, this is Mrs. Amos.”

Turning slightly, Mr. Landry included Miriam and the other men in the conversation. “You know Miss Taggert,” he said with a smile for the woman he'd escorted to the concert. Miriam nodded as she greeted Charlotte, her smile promising they'd discuss this evening the next time they were together. For the present, neither woman would admit they were anything more than modiste and customer, lest Miriam's mother disapprove.

Oblivious to the silent conversation, Mr. Landry continued. “These gentlemen are Richard Eberhardt and Warren Duncan.” Though of the same height, a couple inches shorter than Mr. Landry, the two men had little else in common. Mr. Eberhardt was thin with brown hair and eyes and undistinguished features, while Mr. Duncan appeared to be at least ten years his senior, with steel gray hair. Although his eyes were an unusual shade of light blue, it was his prominent nose that caught Charlotte's attention. It might be uncharitable—after all, the man couldn't help being born with it—but the nose, combined with his intent expression, reminded Charlotte of an eagle searching for its prey.

Fortunately, that attention was not directed at her. Instead, Mr. Duncan took a step forward, stopping only inches from Gwen. “Tell me, Mrs. Amos,” he said in a voice that betrayed an eastern education, “why I haven't seen you before. A beautiful woman like you would not normally escape my attention.”

A becoming flush colored Gwen's cheeks. “I live a quiet life,” she said. “With my new gown, I feel like Cinderella tonight.”

“One of your creations, I assume.” Mr. Landry pitched his voice so that Charlotte could hear it but not loud enough to disturb the conversation Gwen and Mr. Duncan were having. From the corner of her eye, she saw Miriam's lips curve in amusement. More than once, Miriam had admitted that she was surprised that the man who might become one of Wyoming's first senators was interested in women's fashion.

Charlotte nodded in response to Mr. Landry's question. “It was the least I could do after she bought the tickets.” For a man with his wealth, the cost was insignificant, but Charlotte knew the gift must have substantially depleted Gwen's savings.

His eyes moved slowly from the top of Charlotte's carefully coiffed hair to the hem of her gown. When he finished his appraisal, Mr. Landry smiled. “I was right. The orange . . .”

“Apricot,” she corrected him.

“Ah yes, apricot. Whatever you call it, the color flatters you.”

A rush of pleasure swept through Charlotte. She shouldn't care what this man thought. While it was true that she would undoubtedly see him around Cheyenne, especially if he entered politics, his life and hers would intersect only if Miriam continued to buy her gowns from Charlotte and if Mr. Landry accompanied her to Élan. Charlotte turned, planning to include Miriam in the discussion, but before she could speak, Mr. Eberhardt gave Miriam a dazzling smile.

“Clothes may make the man, but when a woman's as beautiful as you,” he said, his voice low and intimate, “she could wear rags and still attract every man in the room. Come, my dear,” he said, bending his arm so she could place her hand on it. “Let's leave these boring people to their boring conversation. I want to talk to you about the symphony.”

As Miriam and Mr. Eberhardt made their way toward the door, Mr. Landry appeared unconcerned. “Are you enjoying the concert?” he asked Charlotte.

“Very much. This is my favorite Beethoven symphony. What about you?” Miriam had speculated that Barrett, as she called him, attended concerts only because it was the thing to do.

He wrinkled his nose, and once again Charlotte found herself wondering how he'd broken it. That wasn't a question one could ask a mere acquaintance, and so she would probably never know the answer.

“I hesitate to admit it, but I prefer lighter music,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh.

“Such as?”

“Stephen Foster,” Mr. Landry whispered, his fingers cupped around his mouth, as though he were confiding a dark secret.

Pressing her hand to her chest and widening her eyes in feigned horror, Charlotte tried not to laugh. “I probably shouldn't admit this, but I used to like ‘Old Folks at Home.' The problem was, my dog hated it. Every time I started to sing ‘Way down upon the Swanee River,' he'd howl.”

Though Charlotte had expected Mr. Landry to chuckle, his expression was quizzical. “You have a dog?”

“Not anymore. I gave him to my sister.” Though she still missed Puddles and his antics, she knew that had been the right decision. “He was more her dog than mine. Besides, I couldn't picture him being cooped up in a city house.”

“I know what you mean. My family always had dogs, but there was plenty of room for them to run.” Mr. Landry brushed a speck of dust from his shoulder before he said, “Tell me about your sister. Is she older?”

Charlotte heard Gwen laughing. Whatever she and Mr.
Duncan were discussing, it appeared that Gwen was enjoying their conversation. Charlotte, however, had ceased to enjoy her conversation with Mr. Landry. Though she hadn't intended it, they had ventured into personal subjects. Still, what he had asked wasn't anything more than she had told Gwen. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Both my sisters are younger. Abigail—she's the one with the dog—married a soldier. They're in Washington Territory now. Elizabeth is the youngest. She's finishing her medical studies in New York.” Before Mr. Landry could ask questions she wasn't prepared to answer, Charlotte posed one of her own. “What about you? Do you have sisters?”

He shook his head. “No sisters. I'm the youngest of three boys. Camden and Harrison run our parents' mercantile back home in Pennsylvania.”

“And yet you became a cattle rancher.”

Once again, his smile was self-deprecating. “My brothers claim that I'm the renegade. The truth is, I wanted to see if the stories I'd heard about the Wild West were true.”

“Are they?”

As a couple anxious to reach the door jostled him, Mr. Landry shrugged. “Hard to say. I haven't seen any shoot-outs, and I've never experienced a stagecoach robbery.”

Charlotte felt the blood drain from her face as his last two words registered. He was only making conversation, she told herself. There was no special reason why he'd mentioned stagecoach robberies. He had no way of knowing that the very thought made her shudder because it resurrected memories best left buried.

Swallowing deeply in an attempt to dislodge the lump that settled in her throat, Charlotte feigned nonchalance. “If you
were hoping that I could give you a firsthand account, I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you. I confess that I've had no experience with either of those supposedly quintessential Western events. My life is very quiet.” Except for the worry that the man known as the baron might find her and David. She wouldn't tell Mr. Landry that. Not even Gwen knew of Charlotte's fears. She managed a smile as she said, “Some might find my life boring, but it suits me. You didn't say, though. Are you disappointed that the West isn't as wild as you thought?”

“Hardly, but then I'd never describe my life as quiet or boring. If you've ever seen a herd stampede, you'd agree that raising cattle is anything but quiet, and rustlers keep life from being boring.” His eyes darkened until they resembled Gwen's gown, a clear indication that he cared deeply. “As much as we try to stop it, rustling is still big business in Wyoming. It's bad enough when they steal mavericks, but when they take full-grown steers and alter the brands, well . . . it sets my blood to boil.”

Charlotte knew she would be angry if someone had stolen bolts of fabric from the store. How much worse must it be when a living thing was taken? As Mr. Landry's lips tightened, Charlotte knew she needed to do something to take his mind off the rustling. “You mentioned mavericks. What are they?”

“Motherless calves.” To Charlotte's relief, he seemed to relax as he explained, “During the spring roundup, we separate the cows by their brand. The calves haven't been weaned, so they stay close to their mamas. That's how we know whose cattle they are. Some of the youngsters aren't attached to a cow, most times because their mothers died. Those are the mavericks.”

“So, who do they belong to?”

A smile lit his face. “All of us. They're sold, and the money goes to the stock growers' association.”

Charlotte's smile mirrored his. “I probably shouldn't laugh, but I still find the term ‘stock grower' unusual. I keep imagining something planted in the ground.”

He shrugged. “I prefer stock grower to cattle baron. That sounds so pretentious.” And Mr. Landry did not appear to be a pretentious man.

He pulled his watch from his pocket. “We should probably return to our seats, but before we go, I hope you'll satisfy my curiosity. You know why I came to Cheyenne, but I'd like to know what brought you to Wyoming.”

“My husband.” Though few of the guests had started to move toward the staircase, from the corner of her eye Charlotte saw Miriam approaching with Mr. Eberhardt. Relief flowed through her at the realization that she would not have to say anything more and she wouldn't have to lie.

“Is it time already?” Mr. Duncan frowned as he asked the question. When Mr. Landry nodded, the older man murmured something that made Gwen flush. Charlotte's friend was not given to blushes, but this was at least twice in less than fifteen minutes that her cheeks had been pink.