Waiting for Spring

by Amanda Cabot

  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, a
nd 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.”

  As he crossed the boardwalks that lined this side of the parade ground, Warren looked at the square stone building on the opposite side. For some reason, it was situated at an odd angle, rather than lining up with the barracks alongside it. That was the Army for you. Couldn’t do anything right, including making a proper guardhouse. Warren’s lips twisted. He’d never thought he’d kill a woman. In fact, he had once declared that that was the one thing he would never do. And yet he had. Right there in that crooked guardhouse, he’d slit a woman’s throat. It had been easier than he’d thought, and once the deed was done, he’d realized that he would do it again. If it was the only way to get the money Jeffrey Crowley had stolen, he’d kill women, he’d kill children, he’d kill anyone who stood in his way.

  “How can I help you?”

  As he entered the CO’s office, Warren gave the man a quick assessment. Though he estimated Captain Westland’s age to be about the same as his, it was clear that Army living had taken its toll on him. Westland wore spectacles, and the paunch around his middle told Warren he hadn’t spent much time marching with his men.

  “I’m trying to reach an old friend of mine,” Warren said as he took the chair the captain indicated. “The last time I heard from him, he was stationed here. I’m hoping he still is.” Warren concluded the story he had fabricated with a piece of truth. “His name wa—is Jeffrey Crowley. Lieutenant Crowley.” He’d almost given himself away there, using the past tense. Fortunately, the captain didn’t seem to have noticed.

  The man shook his head. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Lieutenant Crowley was killed over a year ago.”

  “Killed?” Warren hoped his shock sounded sincere. “How did it happen?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, other than that the circumstances were unfortunate. Most unfortunate.”

  Indeed they were, for even though Jeffrey and the woman who’d wound up in the guardhouse were dead, Warren did not have Big Nose’s stash.

  “And his wife? Is she still here?” Surely it was reasonable for a man who claimed to be an old friend to inquire about the grieving widow.

  To Warren’s surprise, Captain Westland stared at him for a moment, his expression veiled. “No, sir,” he said at last. “She’s not here.”

  “Do you know where she went? I’d like to send her my condolences. They may be belated, but . . .”

  The captain’s expression altered, and this time there was no doubt about it. He was cautious. If Warren hadn’t known better, he would have said that the man was wary of him. That couldn’t be. Westland knew nothing about the baron and even less about Warren Duncan.

  “I believe she went back East,” Westland said. “New Hampshire, Vermont, somewhere like that.”

  He was lying. Oh, Warren would grant that he was a good liar, but a poker player like Warren knew when he was being bluffed. He also knew that he’d learned everything he could from this man.

  “Thank you, Captain. I appreciate your help.”

  He wouldn’t admit defeat. There had to be someone on this miserable Army fort who knew where Mrs. Crowley had gone. As he strolled around the parade ground, more slowly this time, Warren looked at the men who were marching. They had the look of new recruits. No point in asking them. He’d try the post store. Chances were that the men working there had been here a while.

  “You just passing through?” the clerk inquired when Warren asked what kind of tobacco he stocked.

  “You could say that. I thought I’d be here longer, but I learned that the friend I’d come to visit died. It doesn’t seem right that Jeffrey’s not here.” He looked at the clerk, as if a thought had just occurred to him. “I don’t suppose you knew him. Lieutenant Crowley?”

  The man nodded. “Sure did. Fine man. Had a pretty wife too.”

  Exultation raced through Warren’s veins. He’d been right in believing that the answers were here. Now all he had to do was extract them. It didn’t appear that would be too difficult, for the clerk seemed to be the talkative sort. “I don’t suppose you know where she went, do you? I’d like to see her and tell her how much I valued her husband.” He had. Until that last day, Jeffrey Crowley had been valuable.

  The clerk scrunched his nose, possibly trying to encourage his memory. “I don’t know where she went,” he said. “It seemed mighty odd that she left before her sister got hitched.”

  “Her sister?” Warren had forgotten that Jeffrey’s sister-in-law had come to the fort.

  “Yeah.” The clerk grinned. “Miss Harding was even prettier than Mrs. Crowley.”

  Harding. Warren tried not to frown. He knew he’d heard that name before, but he could not remember when. He paid for the tobacco he didn’t want and left the store. It was only when he’d mounted his horse that the memory resurfaced. Though she was always addressed as Madame Charlotte, Barrett had mentioned that her name was Charlotte Harding. Of course! It was no coincidence. Jeffrey’s wife had been named Charlotte. If her sister was Miss Harding, that meant that Jeffrey’s wife had once been Charlotte Harding.

  The fool! She could have gone to London or Paris, but Jeffrey’s widow thought she was smart by hiding in plain sight. She’d soon learn that Warren was smarter. Smarter and more determined. He clenched the reins as his anger began to simmer. There was a long, tedious ride ahead, but at least he’d accomplished his goal. He knew where to find Widow Crowley.

  24

  Charlotte’s fingers trembled as she fastened the last of the fourteen jet black buttons on the front of her bodice. It was silly, really. She shouldn’t be so nervous. It wouldn’t be the first time she had shared a meal with Barrett, but it would be the first time she had been the only guest for dinner at his home. Gwen was convinced that Barrett planned to propose and that was why he’d asked Gwen if she would be able to care for David. Charlotte didn’t know what to think. It was true that Barrett had seemed different the last few days, and he had appeared almost nervous when he’d invited her to have dinner with him. “I have something I’d like to discuss with you,” he’d said, his face uncharacteristically pale. They’d spent so much time together over the past month that Charlotte had learned to read Barrett’s moods. This one said that she should not ask, that he wasn’t ready to tell her his reasons.

  Smoothing the skirts of the blue silk dress she’d made especially for tonight, Charlotte tried but failed to still the trembling of her fingers. With its square neckline edged with pleated trim and the black Venice lace she’d ordered from New York, the dress was beautiful. She knew that. She looked her best. She knew that too. But still she couldn’t help being nervous. It was true that she loved Barrett, that he had aroused feelings that exceeded anything she had shared with Jeffrey, but if he did ask her to marry him, she wasn’t certain she should accept. She had to be certain that he loved her the way she did him and that his proposal—if indeed there was one—was not motivated by pity.

  Taking a deep breath, Charlotte reached for the Bible that she kept on her nightstand. The Psalms never failed to soothe her. But as she started to open the Bible, she shook her head. She needed the comfort of her old Bible, the one that had been a part of her life for so long. Charlotte opened the drawer and pulled it out, finding her fingers steadier as she stroked t
he familiar leather.

  “He’s here!” Gwen called a few minutes later.

  Charlotte glanced at the clock, grateful that her earlier nervousness had fled, chased away by the promises she’d found in God’s Word. Barrett was ten minutes early. Mama had always said that a lady should let the gentleman wait, but Charlotte couldn’t do that. Setting the Bible aside, she grabbed her cloak and hurried into the kitchen.

  “You look more beautiful than ever.” Barrett held out his arms for the cloak and settled it over her shoulders, smiling all the while.

  “Thank you.” Charlotte wished the blood hadn’t rushed to her cheeks. She wasn’t a schoolgirl. A man’s admiration shouldn’t cause her to blush. As she kissed her son good night, she stole another glance at Barrett. He was breathtakingly handsome with his suit carefully brushed, his hair freshly cut, his face devoid of even the slightest hint of a beard. But though the sight of him made Charlotte’s pulse race, she doubted he wanted to be told he was handsome. Instead, she focused on his clothing. “Is that a new cravat? It almost matches some fabric I received last week.”

  Barrett nodded as he escorted her down the steps and into his carriage. “It is new. I bought it from Mr. Yates yesterday.” Though the words were ordinary, Barrett’s eyes sparkled, and his lips curved in an almost secretive smile.

  She settled in the carriage for the short ride to Barrett’s house. Though the March days were growing longer, the sun had already set, and there were far fewer people out than during the day. Memories of the last time she had ridden with Barrett after dark flitted through Charlotte’s brain. The circumstances could not have been more different. Then she’d been frightened. Today she was filled with anticipation. Then she’d been disguised in her widow’s weeds. Today she wore iridescent dupioni silk and sat next to a man who found the occasion worthy of a haircut and a new cravat. Most importantly, then she’d believed Barrett loved Miriam. Today she knew otherwise.