Waiting for Spring

by Amanda Cabot

  “I tried not to lie any more than necessary, but I couldn’t let anyone know I was Jeffrey Crowley’s widow.”

  “Why not? Were you ashamed of his gambling?”

  If only Jeffrey had limited himself to gambling, she wouldn’t have had to lie, but he had wanted more money than gambling provided. Though she had never asked for it, Jeffrey had believed that Charlotte craved a life of luxury, and so he’d done whatever he could to pay for fancy china and silver, a Steinway piano, a cook and housekeeper. He had never asked whether Charlotte would have been happy without those things, and she’d been equally at fault, for she had never questioned the source of the money. It was only when it was too late to change anything that Charlotte had realized that if they’d talked more, Jeffrey might still be alive.

  “It wasn’t only gambling,” she told Barrett. “Jeffrey was a thief too. He got involved in stagecoach robberies.”

  Barrett nodded, his expression so calm that Charlotte wondered if anything she could say would shock him. Once he’d learned that Jeffrey had not been abusive, he’d relaxed. “In its heyday, there was a lot of gold on the Black Hills line.”

  The coaches that used to run from the Black Hills gold mines in Deadwood to Cheyenne were famous for the cargoes they carried, and until the company added specially armored coaches, they had been prey to robberies. After that, although passengers had been robbed of their belongings, there had been no spectacular holdups. And then, with the extension of the railroad, an era had ended. Since there was no further need for stagecoaches, the last one had left Cheyenne less than two weeks ago.

  “Jeffrey never got any gold, but one of his . . .” Charlotte searched for the correct word. “Partners,” she said at last. “One of his partners believes he found Big Nose Parrott’s stash, and he wants it. The man has already killed at least one woman trying to find the money.” Charlotte looked at Barrett, willing him to understand. “That’s why I’ve been lying. It’s not shame; it’s fear. I’m afraid he’ll find me and that he’ll hurt David to make me give him the money.” She clasped her hands together to still their trembling. “I thought we were safe in Cheyenne, but then I learned he was here. I think he was the man who followed me the other night.”

  “No wonder you were so frightened.” Barrett’s voice was warm and comforting. “Don’t worry, Charlotte. We’ll find him. Then you’ll be safe.”

  She wanted to believe him. Oh, how she did. Charlotte swallowed deeply, trying to tamp down the fears that thoughts of the baron raised. “I hope that’s true. I’ve hated living with lies, but I had to do whatever I could to keep my son safe.”

  Barrett was silent for a moment, and Charlotte sensed that he was trying to absorb everything she had told him. When he spoke, his voice was gentle. “I understand.” He paused, then added, “As well as anyone who’s not a parent can.”

  “Then you don’t hate me for lying?” The question slipped out, unbidden. She had heard no condemnation in his voice and had seen no revulsion on his face, and yet she had to be certain.

  “I could never hate you. Surely you realize that. I care for you and David. I want you both to be safe and happy.”

  This was the second time Barrett had said he cared for her, and this time he had included David in that declaration. Warmth flooded Charlotte’s cheeks, and her hands ceased their trembling.

  “If you’re going to be safe,” Barrett continued, “we have to find out who this man is. If he’s a murderer, he deserves to be behind bars until a jury can decide his fate. What does he look like?”

  “I don’t know. I never saw him. The woman at Fort Laramie who warned me about him only told me his name. She called him the baron.” Charlotte frowned, remembering that day. She had been so frightened by the woman’s words that she hadn’t been thinking clearly. By the time she regained her common sense, it had been too late. “I wanted to ask her more, but she was killed that night. I think the baron was responsible. She said he was ruthless and that nothing would stop him from getting the money.” Charlotte gripped the chair arms. “I don’t have it, but he doesn’t know that.”

  Barrett laid his hand on hers, and once again she drew strength from his warmth. “You’ll be all right, Charlotte. We’ll find the baron.” Though he’d said it before, Barrett seemed to know that Charlotte needed the reassurance.

  “Are you sure he’s actually a baron?” Barrett appeared skeptical. “We have a number of cattle barons here, but no one uses that as a title. We’ve even got some blue bloods from Europe. There’s a viscount and a couple earls, but no barons.”

  “It probably isn’t a real title,” Charlotte admitted, “but he still uses it.” She shuddered, remembering the stories she had heard. “I can’t believe that there are two such cruel men living in Wyoming and calling themselves the baron. It has to be the same one.” Quickly, she explained about how she knew that Sylvia’s girls feared him. “The worst part is, no one knows what he looks like because he wears a mask.”

  Barrett seemed disturbed. “If this Sylvia knows he’s cruel, why does she let him into her establishment? Surely the money can’t be worth it.”

  Charlotte had asked the same question. “It’s not just the money. Mrs. Kendall said he threatened to burn down the brothel with everyone inside. Sylvia believed he’d do that, and so do I. He seems to be a truly evil man.”

  Barrett rose and began to pace the floor. “Someone must know who he is. I’ll make some discreet inquiries.”

  It was necessary. Charlotte knew that, and yet she couldn’t help shuddering. What would happen if the baron learned that she was Jeffrey’s widow before Barrett found him?

  Barrett seemed to understand, for he stood next to her chair and looked down at her, his expression warm and comforting. “I won’t do anything to endanger you. I’ll only speak to my friends.”

  “Thank you.” Charlotte nodded as relief settled over her like a soft blanket.

  She was a remarkable woman. A truly remarkable woman. Barrett leaned forward, urging Midnight to gallop. He needed a chance to clear his head, and riding with the wind blowing across his face was the best way Barrett knew to do that. He could only hope that Midnight was enjoying the gallop as much as he was.

  The ride was giving him a chance to think. Though he ought to be focusing on finding the baron, Barrett couldn’t stop thinking about Charlotte and all that he’d learned about her. He’d been right in believing she had secrets, but never had he imagined either the depths of those secrets or the extent of her courage. She’d been frightened—terrified was probably a better word—by what had happened at Fort Laramie and the danger she and David faced. And yet she’d overcome that fear, replacing it with determination to make a new life.

  She could have returned to Vermont. She could have lived with one of her sisters. She could have remarried. Any of those alternatives would have been easy, but Charlotte hadn’t taken the easy way. Instead, she had chosen to remain independent and create a life for herself and David. Amazing. Charlotte Harding Crowley was an amazing woman.

  Barrett frowned as he looked at the sky. Buzzards continued to circle, reminding him of the devastation he’d seen the last time he’d headed north. It was worse today. Though it had been less than a week since he’d traveled this route, the number of carcasses was higher, some of the bodies so stiff with rigor mortis that he knew their death had been recent. Barrett didn’t want to look. He didn’t want to see the destruction of so many men’s dreams, and yet he could not ignore it. Cattle continued to die. Though the loss of life saddened him, what was worse was the knowledge that he could do nothing to change it. If, as Charlotte claimed, he was put on Earth to make it a better place, being a cattle rancher was certainly not the way to accomplish that. Helping Charlotte just might be.

  Midnight whinnied, and Barrett wondered whether he was disturbed by the dead cattle or whether he sensed Barrett’s own distress. In either case, there was nothing Barrett could do for his horse. Charlotte’s situation was differe
nt. He wouldn’t accept defeat where she was concerned. He wouldn’t give up until he’d found the baron, for until he did, Charlotte would continue to live in fear. There was only one solution. The baron must be brought to justice. That was why Barrett was on his way to Fort Laramie. He hadn’t spoken to Richard and Warren, for he doubted they could help him. The answers, he was certain, were at the fort. And so he’d saddled his horse at daybreak and was headed toward the Army post.

  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.”