Summer of Promise (19 page)

Abigail felt her mouth gape with surprise. It sounded as if he was jealous. She couldn’t imagine Woodrow caring if she spoke to another man, yet Ethan did. As an unfamiliar warmth flowed through her veins, Abigail nodded. “Corporal Keller looked lonely to me, so I thought I’d talk to him.” She wouldn’t admit that she had thought him close to deserting. The man did not deserve to be questioned simply because he missed his sweetheart. “He told me about his girl back home and how he’s saving money to bring her here.”

“I see.” Abigail heard Ethan’s intake of breath. “It was kind of you to talk to him.”

Smiling at Ethan’s obvious relief, Abigail added, “I know you worry about men deserting. I thought that if I helped boost Corporal Keller’s spirits, he might be happier. Happy men do not run away.”

“You were right.” Ethan’s smile warmed Abigail’s heart. He was her friend—only her friend, of course—but that was enough. Her friend glanced at the sky. “The fireworks are about to start. Will you join me for them?”

Abigail could think of nothing she’d enjoy more.

As Ethan led the way to seats on the perimeter of the canvas, Charlotte waved from the opposite side, her smile once more radiant, for Jeffrey sat beside her. Neither one seemed to care that Abigail was not with them. That was fortunate, for Abigail did not want to share the evening with anyone other than Ethan.

Who was this man seated so close that she could feel the warmth radiating from his arms? He was unlike any man she had ever met, complex and changeable and compelling. Like many men, he seemed reluctant to express his feelings, and yet Abigail did not doubt that he had deep emotions. He cared for his men, and though he might deny it, she sensed that he had strong feelings for his grandfather. Ethan was a passionate man, but there was more to him than passion. Though quick to anger, he was also quick to admit he was wrong. No one, not even Papa, had been so willing to confess his own faults. Only a strong man would do that. Ethan was strong, he was passionate, he was . . .

Boom! Abigail shuddered as the first of the fireworks exploded, and then she smiled. Ethan was like the fireworks. Though there was an almost deafening noise when shot into the air, it was followed by moments of breathtaking beauty. Unforgettable. The fireworks were unforgettable, and so was Ethan.

10

I
t was somethin’ terrible.” The woman shuddered as she pronounced the words, and if she hadn’t been seated, Ethan was certain her legs would have crumpled beneath her. Though Mrs. Cassidy was taller than most women, with the sturdy build he associated with farm women, the day’s events had clearly taken their toll, leaving her shaking with fear. “They stole our valuables, and then . . .” Unable to pronounce the words, the woman began to sob, burying her face in her husband’s chest.

Mr. Cassidy looked directly at Ethan, his gray eyes sober. Ethan guessed him to be in his midthirties like his wife, his face weathered from too many years in the sun and wind. “What my wife was fixin’ to say is that them bandits took a woman with ’em. There she was, on her way to visit her grandson, and they drug her off the coach and put her on a horse. It were downright awful, it were.”

Ethan pulled his chair an inch closer to the couple, as if to reassure them that he meant no harm. The other occupants of the stagecoach had given basically the same story, but he needed to interview each one, for it was always possible that he’d learn something—some tiny detail—that would help him find the people who’d perpetrated the crime.

The bandits had been both clever and lucky—clever by choosing a new spot for the holdup, one so far from the previous ones that no one was patrolling in the area, and lucky that there were no soldiers on the coach. Two men had come in from Cheyenne yesterday, and three more were scheduled on tomorrow’s coach, but there had been no military presence today. Had there been a soldier on board, Ethan knew the outcome would have been far different.

As Mrs. Cassidy raised her head to look at Ethan, he saw that sorrow had replaced fear in her expression. “She was the nicest folk you ever did want to meet. Why, she had some of the best-tasting lemonade. She made it specially for her grandson, but she weren’t selfish. No, sir. She made sure all of us got a good taste of it.” Mrs. Cassidy licked her lips, as if recalling the taste.

Her husband’s frown deepened the lines in his cheeks. “If you ask me, Mavis, there was somethin’ funny about that lemonade. I was downright sleepy after I drunk it, and you know I don’t never sleep during the day.”

“You’re talkin’ nonsense, Herb. That coach put a body to sleep. It weren’t the lemonade. You’re just riled that the widow wouldn’t give you a second helpin’.”

Though Ethan had little interest in the couple’s spat, his ears perked at the word
widow
. Was this the information that would help him find the robbers? He shook himself mentally. The chances that this was the same widow who’d ridden the stagecoach with him and Abigail were slim. After all, Wyoming was a big territory with plenty of widows. There was no reason to think that Mrs. Dunn had been kidnapped, and though she’d talked almost constantly on the trip from Cheyenne, she had said nothing of having a grandson in Deadwood. She wasn’t from Pine Bluffs, like this widow. Instead, she had claimed to have a ranch near the fort. Moreover, Mrs. Dunn had not been as elderly as the passengers had indicated. They’d been consistent in that detail. The woman who had been in such a hurry to reach Deadwood had snowy white hair and more wrinkles than a prune. But he still had to ask.

“By any chance, did the widow tell you her name?”

Mrs. Cassidy nodded, her tears gone. “Why, naturally, she did. I told you she was right friendly like. Said her name was Mrs. Black.”

Not Mrs. Dunn. It had been a long shot, but even if it had been the same woman, Ethan couldn’t see how that would lead him to the bandits. All it would prove was that Mrs. Dunn traveled to Cheyenne occasionally and that she had neglected to mention her grandson on the previous trip.

“What did she look like?” Though he could see little value in asking, the captain was counting on Ethan to be thorough.

“Just like any other granny.” The man muttered the words.

His wife jabbed him with her elbow. “You men don’t notice anything.” She turned to Ethan and said, “She had the prettiest red dress you ever did see. Said she was done mournin’ and wanted somethin’ to give her a bit of color, bein’ as her hair was so white.”

As he had expected, the woman who had been kidnapped was not Mrs. Dunn. Her hair, what Ethan had been able to see beneath her black veil, had been brown, mottled with a little gray. “Do you remember anything else? I want to find her, and every detail helps.”

The woman looked thoughtful. “She wore spectacles—real thick ones—and she uses a cane.”

There was nothing unusual in that. Many people of Mrs. Black’s age relied on spectacles and a cane.

“Anything else?”

“Nope.”

Ethan rose. There was nothing more to be learned here. All that remained was to report to Captain Westland. He made his way to the post headquarters, dreading the next quarter hour.

When Ethan completed his report, the captain removed his spectacles and wiped them with a cloth. It was not a good sign, Ethan knew, but rather a delaying tactic while his commanding officer decided what to do. “Less than a month.” Captain Westland sighed. “Those bandits are getting bolder, or maybe they’re more desperate. Taking the money is bad enough, but a woman? They’ve got to be stopped.” He made a show of folding the cloth and putting it back in his pocket. “There’s only one thing to do. You and Seton head up a couple search parties. We’ve got to find that lady.”

But by nightfall they had found nothing. The trail was cold, almost as if the bandits and their prisoner had vanished. Ethan shouldn’t have been surprised, for the road agents had been remarkably good at disappearing after earlier robberies, but he had hoped that this time would be different. It had to be more difficult to hide three people than two, especially when one of them was a woman being held against her will, but the result was the same: nothing.

Abigail closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of Charlotte brushing her hair. For a moment, she was drawn back to their childhood, when they told secrets as they gave their locks the hundred strokes Mama had declared essential to good grooming.

“He’s smitten.” Charlotte’s words destroyed the pleasant illusion as they wrenched Abigail into the present. This was no secret, simply a young man’s misguided attention. Tonight had been the fourth consecutive night that the lieutenant had come to the house, asking for what he called the privilege of Abigail’s company. She would have refused him, but the duets he and Charlotte sang brought her sister so much pleasure that she had not.

“He only thinks he’s interested in me,” Abigail said firmly. “Ethan told me Oliver makes a practice of falling in love with every single woman on the post. It seems he falls out of love as quickly.”

Charlotte’s hand stopped, and she stared into the mirror, meeting Abigail’s glance. “Then you wouldn’t consider Oliver as a husband?”

“No. I don’t love him.” Unbidden, Ethan’s image danced through Abigail’s mind. How silly! Ethan was an intriguing man. There was no doubt that he was the most interesting man she had ever met, but he was not the man she was meant to marry. His life was far different from the one she craved, and beside that, there was Woodrow. While they might not be officially engaged, they had an understanding. “I’m going to marry Woodrow.”

Charlotte raised her eyebrows as she began to plait Abigail’s hair. “Are you sure?”

Though Abigail nodded, something in her sister’s voice made her ask, “How did you know Jeffrey was the right man for you?”

A soft smile crossed Charlotte’s face. “I was so lonely after Mama died. You and Elizabeth had your own lives, but I felt as if I were cast adrift. I didn’t know what to do. I knew I didn’t want to teach again, but I wasn’t sure what else I could do, so I prayed for help, and Jeffrey came. You know how he practically swept me off my feet.”

Abigail had heard the story of Charlotte’s trip to West Point for a friend’s wedding and how she’d met the dashing young first lieutenant there. Though they had not been introduced, Jeffrey had kept Charlotte from falling when she had started to slip on some wet steps. Declaring himself her knight in shining armor, he had refused to leave her side for the rest of the day, and—as Charlotte told the story—by evening they knew they were in love.

Another smile softened Charlotte’s face. “I love Jeffrey dearly. You know I do.” She laid down the brush and placed her hands on Abigail’s shoulders, turning her so they were facing each other. “I know you don’t want advice, but I’m going to give it anyway. Don’t marry anyone unless you love him so much you can’t imagine living without him.”

The morning was not going well, in large part because Abigail had not slept well. She had lain awake for hours, thinking about her sister’s advice. Surely Charlotte was wrong. It wasn’t difficult to imagine living without Woodrow. Abigail had done that before she met him, and she was doing it now, but that didn’t mean she shouldn’t marry him. They shared the same values, the same interests. Those were reasons for marriage. Good reasons.

And then, just when she’d dozed off, Abigail had heard Jeffrey return to the house. Though she hadn’t looked at the clock, she knew it was late. She had thought it was her imagination that the cloying scent of perfume wafted under the connecting door, but when the perfume had been followed by the sound of Jeffrey’s snores and Charlotte’s muted sobbing, Abigail knew she was not imagining it. Her sister might love Jeffrey, but all was not well in her marriage.

Abigail had fallen asleep praying that there was an innocent explanation for both the perfume and Jeffrey’s frequent absences, but Jeffrey had departed early this morning, and now Charlotte was indisposed. Claiming that her stomach was once again upset, she had accepted a cup of peppermint tea and asked for time alone. There was nothing Abigail could do for her sister but continue to pray.