Waiting for Spring

by Amanda Cabot

  “His age.” Miriam pursed her lips as if she’d bitten into a sour lemon. “A woman should not marry a man old enough to be her father, especially here in Wyoming where there are a dozen men to every woman,” she announced, mimicking her mother.

  “I don’t believe marriage has been mentioned, but even if they were considering it, I think a man’s character is far more important than his age.” And it was Warren’s character that worried Charlotte, not the fact that he was twenty years Gwen’s senior.

  “That’s what I told Mama.” Color flooded Miriam’s cheeks. “She wouldn’t listen. She claims anyone who’s foolish enough to consider an older man is doomed to be a young widow.”

  Though that was possible, it was by no means assured. Besides . . . “Gwen is already a widow, and her husband was only two years older.”

  Miriam looked confused. A second later, she nodded. “You’re right. We were talking about Gwen.”

  “I’m surprised you’re here.” Herb Webster clapped his hand on Barrett’s shoulder and motioned toward a less crowded corner of the courthouse. Though the older man held no official position within Barrett’s party, he was well known as one of the organization’s men behind the scenes. If he wanted to speak with someone, a man refused at his own peril.

  “Why wouldn’t I be here?” Barrett asked as they made their way through the lines of people waiting to vote. It was January 11, Election Day in the city of Cheyenne. “I agreed to help, because we all know some voters need encouragement as they enter the polls.”

  Herb’s lips formed a crooked smile. “Most of the men who are providing what you refer to as encouragement are also trying to advance their own prospects.”

  “I won’t deny that that’s part of the reason I volunteered to be here.”

  Nodding slightly, Herb lowered his voice. “And that’s why I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you’d abandoned your hopes of running.”

  “That’s a false rumor.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. The party needs you, and so does the territory. We’ve got to get past this stage of having the president decide who’ll govern us.”

  “You don’t like Moonlight?” It had been less than a week since President Cleveland had appointed Thomas Moonlight as territorial governor.

  Herb shrugged. “I don’t know enough about him to say. He may be a fine man, but he’s from Kansas. The citizens of Wyoming deserve a governor who lives here.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me on that.” While he’d been greeting voters, discussing issues with them and promoting his party’s candidates, Barrett had also been stressing the importance of Wyoming’s becoming a state. Like Herb and many of the politicians, he believed that self-government was essential.

  “Where’s Miriam?” Warren clapped Barrett on the shoulder and led him away from Herb. “I thought she was supposed to be with you today.”

  “She’ll come.” In the two and a half weeks since Christmas, Barrett had seen Miriam three times. They’d attended a New Year’s party at a friend’s house, they’d gone for a ride in Minnehaha Park so that Miriam could admire the frozen lagoons, and they’d attended a play last night. Each time, Miriam had mentioned that she would be at Barrett’s side on Election Day. She’d even said that she was having a new dress made for the occasion. She would be here.

  “There she is.” Barrett gestured toward Miriam, who stood in the doorway, her smile radiant, her hand on Richard’s arm. As her gaze met Barrett’s, she nodded and headed toward him, never letting go of Richard.

  “You look lovely today,” Barrett said when she reached him. It was no lie. The reddish brown dress made her hair seem as bright as sunshine, and the smile she’d been wearing when she entered the room set her face aglow. Barrett had never seen her looking more beautiful. While Warren engaged Richard in a discussion of the various candidates’ chances, Barrett kept his attention focused on Miriam. “You and Richard appeared deep in conversation when you arrived.” Though she’d been smiling, her animated expression had left no doubt that she had been engaged in something that touched her emotions.

  Miriam’s smile widened. “We were talking about ‘The Raven.’ Richard doesn’t agree with me that there are several layers of meaning to it.”

  “I’d have to agree with him. How much meaning can a bird have?”

  “Oh, Barrett.” He could see that Miriam was trying not to laugh. “You may be the territory’s best hope for sensible government, but your knowledge of literature is sadly lacking. ‘The Raven’ is a poem by Edgar Allan Poe.”

  A poem. No wonder he was confused. The only book Barrett had thought about in the past month was the one he’d given Charlotte, and that one had assumed almost monumental importance. He’d spent far too much time worrying whether it would help her learn the specialized techniques that were needed to teach David. He’d worried about why the child wouldn’t roll his ball unless Barrett was there and what that might mean for his future. Most of all, he’d worried about David growing up without a father. That was far more important than poetry.

  “I’m going next door,” Charlotte told Molly as she snipped the last thread and pulled the fabric from the sewing machine. “I shouldn’t be long, but if someone comes, you can offer them coffee or tea and a few cookies while they look at the new pattern books.” Though she never ate or drank while sewing, Charlotte kept pots of tea and coffee for customers. Some days, like today, when she also had freshly baked cookies, the shop was redolent with delicious aromas.

  A perplexed expression crossed Molly’s face. “Now? You’re going now?”

  Charlotte nodded. It was no wonder that her assistant was confused. Charlotte had a firm schedule, and it was rare for her to deviate from it. She wouldn’t be leaving now, for there was still work to be done on Mrs. Slater’s new dress, but Charlotte couldn’t ignore the feeling that she ought to check on Mr. Yates immediately. Normally, she stopped in at the end of the day, making excuses because she knew the elderly man would protest if she admitted that the reason she visited his shop was to provide him with a bit of companionship. He’d seemed sadder than normal since Christmas, though he’d denied that anything was wrong other than missing Prudence and wanting to move to Arizona.

  Charlotte could find no reason for her feeling of urgency, but her instincts told her this was the time to visit Mr. Yates, and so she hung the partially finished dress on a hook, tossed her cloak over her shoulders, and headed for the door. Though she would occasionally dash next door without a coat, yesterday’s snow and the continuing bitter cold made that impractical today.

  “Good morning, Mr. Yates,” Charlotte called as she entered the mercantile, a covered plate in her hand.

  “Ah, Madame Charlotte. It’s good to see you.” To Charlotte’s relief, her neighbor seemed more cheerful than he’d been yesterday. Perhaps that was because she’d come during the morning today. Perhaps Mr. Yates was a person who dreaded sunset. She had heard that some people, particularly the elderly, were afflicted with that malady.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked, leaning forward on the counter. “More socks for David?”

  Charlotte laughed. “You know he doesn’t need any.” Mr. Yates had given him half a dozen pairs for Christmas. “I thought you might enjoy some of Gwen’s cookies.” She removed the covering before handing him the plate.

  As the scent of gingerbread filled the room, a broad smile crossed the shopkeeper’s face. “My favorite. Thank you, but do you mind if I share them with someone?”

  “Of course not. They’re yours.”

  Charlotte took another step toward the counter, intending to cover the plate again, but to her surprise, Mr. Yates called out, “Mrs. Cox, would you and Nancy like a cookie?”

  Charlotte spun around, startled by the realization that there were other customers in the store. She had neither seen nor heard anyone. The reason for the first was evident as a woman emerged from behind the counter stacked with table linens. Less than five feet tall
, the tiny blonde who was carrying a child had been hidden by the display.

  “Thank you, Mr. Yates. We’d enjoy that.” Her voice was soft, almost tentative, as if she were afraid of drawing attention to herself. Perhaps that was why Charlotte had heard no sounds. Mrs. Cox settled the little girl on the counter and turned toward Charlotte, a question in her eyes.

  Before Charlotte could speak, Mr. Yates performed the introductions. “Mrs. Cox, I’d like you to meet Madame Charlotte. Her shop is next door. Madame Charlotte, this is Mrs. Cox, one of my best customers, and her daughter Nancy.”

  Charlotte tried not to stare at the little girl with the clouded, unfocused eyes. Instead, she smiled at the mother, a woman Charlotte guessed to be in her midthirties.

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” Mrs. Cox said in response to Charlotte’s smile. “I’ve heard so much about you, and I’ve seen the wonderful work you do.” Her smile faded slightly. “I’d like to own one of your dresses, but it’s difficult to find time for fittings. Nancy occupies almost every hour of my days, and I know you’re not open past her bedtime.” She kept her hand on Nancy’s shoulder, perhaps to reassure her, perhaps to keep her from falling.

  “You could bring Nancy with you.”

  The woman shook her head. “Oh, I couldn’t do that. I always hold her when we’re in a store, but I couldn’t do that if you were fitting a dress. You see . . .”

  “Yes, I see.” Charlotte couldn’t ignore the irony in the words. She and Mrs. Cox might see, but Nancy could not. Like David, she was blind.

  “Cookie,” the little girl said.

  Charlotte watched as Mrs. Cox handed her daughter a gingerbread man. Though David was adept at breaking them into smaller pieces and eating the morsels one at a time, Nancy tried to stuff the entire cookie into her mouth at once, with the inevitable result that pieces fell out and onto the floor.

  “I’m afraid she’s not a very neat eater.”

  “That’s not a problem.” Mr. Yates’s voice was calm and reassuring. “I’ll get a broom.” He headed toward the back room, leaving Charlotte alone with his customer.

  She looked at the little girl who was obviously enjoying her treat, even though half of it was on the floor. Small and thin like her mother, the child appeared to be older than David, though her eating skills were less developed.

  “How old is she?”

  Mrs. Cox’s expression said she understood Charlotte’s unspoken concerns. “Nancy will be two next week. That’s why I was shopping today. I wanted to buy a new dress for her birthday. I had hoped she’d be walking by now, but . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Have you tried having her hold on to a doll carriage?” Barrett’s book had suggested that technique for encouraging children to walk. Though he still wasn’t walking independently, David seemed to be gaining confidence from holding on to Rose’s little carriage.

  “I haven’t.” Mrs. Cox’s light blue eyes clouded with confusion. “How . . . ? Why . . . ?” She seemed unable to complete her questions.

  “How do I know about using a perambulator?” When Mrs. Cox nodded, Charlotte said simply, “My son is blind.”

  To Charlotte’s surprise, Mrs. Cox smiled. “You don’t know how happy that makes me.” As soon as the words were spoken, the woman flushed, and her smile disappeared. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t misunderstand me, Madame Charlotte. I’m not happy that your son cannot see, but I am happy that I’m not alone. It’s been so difficult.” She picked up another cookie, this time breaking off a bite-sized piece to hand to Nancy. “I love my daughter dearly, but sometimes it’s hard to know what to do, and there’s been no one to ask. I’ve met several mothers whose children are hard of hearing, but none who are blind.”

  Mrs. Cox stretched out her hand and touched Charlotte’s arm. “Oh, Madame Charlotte, I’m so glad you were here today.”

  14

  Charlotte drew her cloak closer, trying not to shiver as the wind buffeted her. It had howled all night, its mournful cry keeping her from sleeping and making David restless. When it seemed to lose some of its ferocity in the predawn hours, she’d donned her widow’s weeds and set out for the boardinghouse. Mrs. Kendall had admitted that the women needed warm clothing, so today’s delivery consisted of half a dozen heavy flannel petticoats. Though they lacked the fancy stitching and crocheted edging Charlotte’s customers expected, she had added pintucks to each garment, wanting Mrs. Kendall’s boarders to have at least a small touch of luxury. They had so little.

  But it wasn’t the women from 15th Street who had occupied Charlotte’s thoughts for the past four days. It was Nancy Cox. Like Nancy’s mother, Charlotte had believed she was the only person in Cheyenne raising a blind child. Now she knew that she was not alone and that at least one other person believed as she did, that children benefited from being with their parents.

  “We’ll do anything we can to help Nancy, but we can’t send our only child away.” Mrs. Cox confided that Nancy’s had been a difficult birth and that the midwife had warned she would be risking her life if she had another baby. “Mr. Cox and I won’t do that, especially since Nancy is . . .” She hesitated before saying, “Special. We want to be close to her as she grows up.”

  Just as Charlotte wanted to be close to David. The problem was that the book Barrett had given her stressed the importance of having trained teachers, particularly after the first three years. Charlotte would not delude herself. While she had indeed been a teacher, she was not trained to work with blind children. But there had to be a solution.

  Scraping her boots on the step to dislodge the packed snow, Charlotte knocked on the boardinghouse door. There would be time to worry about David’s and Nancy’s education on her walk back home. For the present, she would devote her attention to Mrs. Kendall.

  “I have hot coffee if you’d like some,” the older woman said when she’d ushered Charlotte into the kitchen.

  Charlotte shook her head. Though she would welcome the warmth, she did not want to raise her veil. While she doubted Mrs. Kendall would reveal her identity if she knew it, there was always the possibility that one of the boarders would enter the kitchen and recognize Charlotte. It was better to remain anonymous.

  “I will warm my hands at the stove, though,” Charlotte said as she removed her gloves. She nodded toward the package she’d placed on the table. “I brought petticoats today.”

  Eagerly Mrs. Kendall unwrapped the garments, her face glowing with pleasure when she felt the heavy fabric. “My gals are convinced you’re an angel.”

  “Hardly. I’m just a widow who wants to help.”

  “That’s why Sylvia’s gals have took to calling you the angel widow.” Mrs. Kendall hung one of the petticoats over a chair and stepped back to admire it. “They don’t mean nothin’ bad by it, ma’am. They give all their regular customers nicknames. You’re different, though. When they say your name, it’s respectful-like, not like when they talk about the baron.”

  Charlotte felt the blood drain from her face, and she grabbed a chairback when light-headedness threatened to overcome her. “The baron?” she asked, hoping her voice did not betray her distress. “Who’s he?” It was probably coincidence, nothing to worry about, but she had to be certain.

  Pursing her lips, Mrs. Kendall let out a small huff. “He’s a bad man, is what he is. Sylvia’s gals don’t say much except that no one wants him as a customer. He’s real mean.”

  That sounded like the same man. Tamping down her fear and revulsion, Charlotte managed to squeak out a question. “What does he look like?”

  Though Mrs. Kendall’s eyes narrowed as if she were puzzled by Charlotte’s curiosity, she merely shrugged. “Nobody knows. The girls say he wears a mask—more like a hood with holes cut out for his eyes and mouth. We reckon he’s somebody important-like and he don’t want nobody to recognize him.”

  As her legs turned to jelly, Charlotte sank onto the chair. There was little doubt about it. The baron was in Cheyenne.

  “
It feels like spring, doesn’t it?” Warren flashed Barrett a grin as he climbed the steps to the Cheyenne Club.

  The rocking chairs that provided a comfortable place to meet friends and be seen by passersby during the summer months were still in storage, but the unseasonable warmth had brought Barrett and a few other men out onto the porch. Though it was only January 20th, the Chinook wind was a welcome change from the bitter cold that had plagued the city for what felt like an eternity.

  “I sure hope it lasts.” Barrett opened the door to usher Warren into the club. “I don’t mind telling you that I’ve been worried about my cattle. This is the worst winter I’ve seen.”

  “But it’s over now.” Though Warren grinned again, Barrett wasn’t certain whether it was because of the change of weather or the fact that he was inside the club. He seemed to derive an inordinate amount of pleasure from the time that he spent here. Barrett hoped Warren’s membership would be approved this time. Maybe then he’d realize that, while the club was a pleasant place to while away a few hours, there was nothing magic about it.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” Warren continued. “A week ago the men started harvesting ice, and now we’ve left off our overcoats.”

  “That’s not amazing. That’s Wyoming. You know the weather’s fickle.” And that was what Barrett feared: a resumption of winter’s frigid temperatures and this year’s unusually heavy snowfall. “I’m heading up to the ranch tomorrow. Want to come along?”

  Warren lit a cigar, shaking his head as he blew out the match. “Absolutely not. Why would I want to spend time with you and some bellowing, odoriferous cattle when I could be with a charming, soft-spoken, sweet-smelling woman?”

  “The one you want to marry?”

  “Exactly.” Warren nodded at Derek Slater as he entered the room. Rumor had it that Warren was hoping to land him as a client. “I just need to get a few things in line. Then I’ll ask her to be mine.”