Waiting for Spring

by Amanda Cabot

  Gwen sipped her coffee, her expression thoughtful as she settled the cup back on the saucer. “I wish I could believe that.”

  Morning sun spilled into the parlor, sending a shaft of light over the carpet. Though Charlotte felt as if she’d aged years, it had been less than twelve hours since Warren had been here, writing his note and forcing Gwen and the children to go with him. But the night of terror had ended, and so Gwen’s anguish would, too, in time.

  “Believe it,” Charlotte said. “And believe that God has good things in store for you, perhaps even another husband.”

  “I doubt that.” As Gwen spoke, tears welled in her eyes. “No one will want me once they learn about what Warren did and how gullible I was to believe him. They’ll say I’m a fool, and I was. I was so anxious for Rose to have a father that I didn’t think clearly.” A single tear rolled down Gwen’s cheek. “I lost my chance. Now I need to resign myself to the fact that I’ll be a widow for the rest of my life.”

  “I felt that way too,” Charlotte confided. “I was certain I’d never remarry. At first I worried that people would think I was like Jeffrey and would shun me for that reason. Then when I discovered that David was blind, I believed any man who might have considered marrying me would find David too much of a burden. I was wrong.” Charlotte looked at the ring that adorned her left hand. “God sent me a man who loves my son as much as I do.”

  “You were blessed.” Gwen brushed her tears away, giving Charlotte a forced smile. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’ll be all right. Rose and I have survived on our own before.”

  Barely. Charlotte remembered the day she had met Gwen and how desperate the woman had appeared. “Are you worried about where you’ll live after Barrett and I marry?” Perhaps that had added to Gwen’s distress this morning.

  When Gwen nodded, Charlotte reached across the table and laid her hand on her friend’s. “Barrett and I’ve talked about that. If you like, you can stay right here. With David and me gone, you’ll have more space. Rose can even have her own room.” Gwen nodded slowly. Though Charlotte hadn’t discussed the next idea with Barrett, she ventured it anyway. “If you want to be part of the school, there’s a place for you. I’ll need someone to watch over the children when they’re not in classes, and I can’t think of anyone better suited for that than you. It would mean you’d have to move to Barrett’s house, but the quarters on the third floor are as nice as our rooms here.”

  Gwen’s eyes widened, and she clutched Charlotte’s hand. “You’d do that?” she asked, her voice filled with surprise and wonder. “You’d trust me to care for your pupils after what I did?”

  So that was what was bothering Gwen. She feared that Charlotte would condemn her for showing Warren the Bible.

  “Of course. We all make mistakes.” Charlotte had made more than her share, including not hiding the Bible.

  Gwen smiled as she dashed new tears from her cheeks. “Thank you, Charlotte. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

  “Are you ready?” Barrett asked as he entered the apartment.

  It was early afternoon, and though he’d sent her several messages, this was the first time Charlotte had seen Barrett since he’d brought her and David home last night. The first message had told her that the authorities had been advised of what had happened at the Franklin ranch. The second detailed the simple burial he had arranged for Warren. The third had said there was an urgent matter regarding their wedding and that he would call for her this afternoon. Though she’d been puzzled, there had been no time to ask for an explanation, and now it no longer mattered, for Barrett was here, looking as handsome as ever, despite the evidence of his fight with Warren.

  “The minister apologized,” he told Charlotte, “but he needs to meet with us today.” Barrett chuckled. “Actually, his wife needs to meet with us. She’s the organist. It seems she’s leaving tomorrow for a trip to Omaha and wants us to choose our hymns before she leaves.”

  So that was the reason. “I’m ready.” Tying her bonnet ribbons, Charlotte looked down at her son, who clung to her skirts. “I’ll be back soon, David,” she said. “You can play with Rose while I’m gone.”

  At the sound of her name, the little girl scampered across the room and took David’s hand. “I play with you. I and you have fun.”

  “Is David all right?” Barrett asked as he and Charlotte descended the steps.

  She nodded. “He will be. He’s been more clingy than normal today, but I’m not surprised. Last night must have been frightening for him.” There was nothing she could do other than lavish love on him and hope that the memories would fade quickly.

  Charlotte looked up at Barrett when they reached the street. Though he’d smiled when he’d arrived, his eyes were clouded, and she knew his memories would not be so quick to fade. “Are you all right? You look troubled.”

  He bent his arm and placed her hand on it. While it was less than a block to the parsonage, a distance she had walked without assistance many times, Barrett was a stickler for courtesy. Charlotte didn’t mind. In fact, she welcomed the opportunity to be close to him, especially this afternoon when she sensed that he needed comfort. Not simply the salves she had applied to his face and hands to soothe his cuts and bruises, but loving touches to heal the wounds that last night had inflicted. Those wounds would linger long after the bruises faded.

  “I’m angry with myself for not seeing behind the mask.” Barrett spoke so softly that Charlotte had to strain to hear him. It was, she knew, a measure of his distress and perhaps his shame that he did not want to be overheard. “I thought Warren was my friend. Now I know he was only using me.”

  “You shouldn’t blame yourself.” Charlotte tightened her grip on Barrett’s arm as she found herself using the same words she had with Gwen just a few hours earlier. Unlike Gwen, who had been able to release some of her sorrow through tears, Charlotte was certain that Barrett had not allowed himself to cry.

  “Warren did wear a mask,” she said firmly. “He wore a real one when he visited Sylvia’s girls, but I think the one he donned when he was with you was even thicker. He didn’t plan for anyone to see through it, and we didn’t. He fooled us all.” Even she, who should have known better, had dismissed her concerns, telling herself that she was mistaken.

  They had reached the front of Mr. Yates’s store. When a woman came out of the shop, Barrett raised his hat and greeted her. In another month, she would be one of his customers. In another month, he and Charlotte would be wed. But first he had to heal.

  “I should have realized what was happening. I should have stopped it.”

  Charlotte heard the anguish in Barrett’s voice and knew he was berating himself for the loss of a man he had once considered a friend. She slowed her steps, then stopped, forcing Barrett to stop too. What she wanted to say was best said when she had his full attention. She looked up at him, hoping he’d understand.

  “We can’t change the past. It took me a long time to accept that and realize that all I can do is make the present the best it can be.”

  Barrett nodded slowly, and the corners of his mouth started to twitch. Though she hadn’t thought she had said anything funny, Charlotte would not quibble if her words amused him. Anything she could do to lighten Barrett’s mood was good.

  “You told me something like that the first time we met.” There was no doubt about it. He was smiling now, the lines of pain receding, his eyes brightening. “At the time, I thought you were an impractical idealist.”

  On another day she might have feigned indignation over the description, but not today. “And now? Have you changed your mind?”

  “Now I know you’re the woman I love, the one who’s seen me at my worst moments and who still wants to marry me.” His expression sobered. “I suppose I should ask you the same question you asked me. Have you changed your mind? Now that you’ve seen what a poor judge of people I am, are you sure you want to marry me?”

  Tightening her grip on his arm again,
Charlotte smiled at the man she loved. “More than ever.” Barrett’s face might be battered; his hands might be bruised; but to Charlotte he had never looked more handsome. The wounds he bore were wounds of honor, sustained defending her and David. They were visible proof of Barrett’s love, and though she might wish he had not had to incur them, she could not help but be moved by them.

  The momentary doubt in his eyes vanished, replaced by the sparkle of happiness. “I love you, Charlotte.”

  “And I love you.”

  As his lips started to curve into another smile, he flattened them, and for an instant Charlotte thought he would scowl. She couldn’t imagine what had changed his mood so suddenly.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  Barrett appeared startled. “No. Yes. Maybe.” He refused to meet her gaze. Instead, he stared into the distance as he said, “I suppose I ought to thank you for not giving Warren the ransom money, but you’ve created a problem.”

  “A problem?” He was making no sense. Charlotte had heard that people who sustained injuries to their heads could be confused for several days. Perhaps Warren had hurt Barrett more seriously than she had realized. Perhaps they should be on their way to see a physician, not a minister. “How can there be a problem?”

  Barrett’s lips quivered again, and once again Charlotte had the impression that he was trying to fight his smile. “Now I can’t collect the payment,” he announced.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Barrett’s eyebrows rose in what appeared to be astonishment. “How could you forget? Don’t you remember that when you insisted I should not sacrifice my savings, I told you I’d ask for payment when David was safe?” Charlotte nodded as the memory resurfaced. “That’s the payment I want to collect. The problem is, your son is safe, but it doesn’t seem quite fair to ask for anything when I still have all the money.”

  Though Barrett’s voice was solemn, his eyes sparkled with ill-concealed mirth, and Charlotte realized that he was neither serious nor injured. He was in his right mind, trying to bring a little levity to a day that had had more than its share of tragedy.

  “What kind of payment did you have in mind?” Charlotte tried to match Barrett’s solemnity, though the twinkle in his eyes told her that the payment he wanted couldn’t be onerous.

  “A huge one.”

  “How huge?”

  “Enormous.”

  She pursed her lips, pretending to be annoyed. “But you said I’d be able to afford it.”

  Barrett nodded. “You can. The question is whether you will want to pay it.”

  This was a side of Barrett Charlotte had not seen today, playful and joking, and—oh!—how she liked it. Living with a man like this would never be boring.

  “Unless you tell me what you have in mind, I’ll have no choice but to refuse. My mother taught me never to buy a pig in a poke.”

  “A what?”

  “A pig in a poke.” When Barrett did not seem to recognize the term, Charlotte explained. “Poke is an old-fashioned word for a sack. Not buying a pig in a poke means you shouldn’t take something without looking at it. If it’s still in the sack, you don’t know whether it’s a healthy pig or whether it’s a pig at all.”

  “I assure you, the payment I have in mind is no pig.” Oddly, the muffled noise that accompanied Barrett’s words sounded like a pig’s snort.

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s simple and yet complex.”

  “Sounds like a pig in a poke.” Charlotte shook her head in feigned indignation. “Just tell me, Barrett.”

  “All right.” As the sun dipped behind a cloud, Barrett’s lips curved into the sweetest smile Charlotte had ever seen. “The payment I want is a kiss.”

  Her smile matched his as she thought of the kisses they had shared last night. The prospect of a lifetime of those kisses broadened her smile. How glorious it would be to be married to this man!

  “That’s all?” she asked, pretending disbelief. “You were prepared to give up your entire fortune, and all you want is a kiss?”

  “Not just any kiss. I wanted a kiss from you.”

  “One kiss?” He’d given her many more than that last night.

  He nodded. “That’s all.”

  “Then you shall have it.” Though it was clear that Barrett expected his payment later, Charlotte had other ideas. Barrett was the man of her dreams, the one she’d been waiting for her whole life. He was the man who’d filled her heart with love and happiness. He was her hero. And so, in full view of anyone passing by, Charlotte wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his.

  “I love you, Barrett Landry,” she murmured.

  Dear Reader,

  Research is always one of my favorite parts of writing a book, and this time it was particularly enjoyable, since I was learning about my adopted hometown. If you visit modern Cheyenne, you’ll find it greatly changed from 1886. Most of the buildings from that era are gone, and to make it even more confusing, several of the main streets have different names. What hasn’t changed is the welcome that residents give to visitors and newcomers. That’s part of what attracted me to Cheyenne in the first place. Do I sound like the Chamber of Commerce? Sorry!

  One of the questions I’m frequently asked is how much is fact and how much is fiction in my stories. The background to Waiting for Spring is factual. Cheyenne’s wealth in the 1880s was based on cattle, but overgrazing and the devastating winter of 1886–87 destroyed many of the cattle barons’ fortunes. As the map at the beginning of the book indicates, many of the places Charlotte and Barrett visit were real. As for the characters, anyone who has a speaking role is fictional. I’ve alluded to real people, notably F.E. Warren and Joseph Carey, who became Wyoming’s first U.S. senators and who now have streets named after them, and the territorial governors of that era, but you’ll notice that they don’t speak.

  Since the weather played an important role in the story, I wanted to be as accurate as I could about it. Fortunately, I had access to a diary that mentioned the weather on specific dates, so I didn’t have to imagine when it snowed or rained. Other books provided photographs of both the interior and exterior of many houses and important buildings, so once again I didn’t have to rely on my imagination and possibly get some of the details wrong. But the story itself is pure fiction.

  I hope you enjoyed Charlotte and Barrett’s adventures and that you’re looking forward to the third of the Westward Winds books. Although it’s primarily the story of Elizabeth, the youngest of the Harding sisters, my heart ached for Gwen when she discovered Warren’s treachery, and so I’m giving her another chance at happiness in With Autumn’s Return. That book should be available in the spring of 2014. In the meantime, if you haven’t read Summer of Promise, the first of the trilogy, I hope you’ll find the story of Abigail’s summer at Fort Laramie intriguing. I have to admit that Puddles the puppy is one of my favorite characters in Summer of Promise, even though he’s not human.

  As always, I look forward to hearing from you. For more information, including my email address, I invite you to visit my website (www.amandacabot.com). You can also find me on Facebook, and you might be interested in my blog where my “Wednesday in Wyoming” posts give you an insider’s look at the state.

  Blessings,

  Amanda Cabot

  Acknowledgments

  I am privileged to have a team of talented, dedicated professionals working to turn my stories from rough manuscripts into finished books. The staff at Revell is, without exception, a true delight. To list everyone who’s been part of this book would take several pages, but I would like to single out four women whose efforts have made a huge difference.

  Vicki Crumpton’s title may be Executive Editor, but I call her Editor Extraordinaire. She has an innate sense of what readers want—and don’t want—in a book. That, combined with her wonderful sense of humor, makes revisions fun. Well . . . almost fun. Vicki’s the perfect editor: part cheerleader, part coach, co
mpletely fabulous.

  My project editor, Kristin Kornoelje, describes her comments as picky. I find them brilliantly insightful. Kristin’s the one who catches inconsistencies, overuse of individual words, and unclear motivation. I thank her, and so should you, because my stories are better as a result of her pickiness.

  Michele Misiak continues to amaze me with her innovative methods of promoting my books and her boundless energy. Although her title is Marketing Manager, she coordinates so many aspects of the publishing process that she’s become my go-to person whenever I have a question. And, even though her inbox is overflowing and her schedule packed, she’s unfailingly quick to respond. Thanks, Michele!

  Art Director Cheryl Van Andel is an author’s dream come true. She’s never content with a merely good cover but keeps working with the artists to make each one great. Since she’s given me consistently beautiful covers, I had high expectations for this one. What I didn’t expect was that Cheryl would leave me speechless. Those of you who’ve met me know that doesn’t happen very often, but when I received an email from Cheryl saying that the artist couldn’t find a suitable gown for the cover model and that she was going to have one made specifically for my book, I was flabbergasted, flattered, and—yes—speechless. As if that weren’t enough, Cheryl let me select the gown’s design and color. What can I say other than that I was thrilled to be part of the process and even more thrilled with the final product?

  I am deeply grateful to Vicki, Kristin, Michele, Cheryl, and the rest of the Revell staff for everything they do to make my books the best possible.

  Dreams have always been an important part of Amanda Cabot’s life. For almost as long as she can remember, she dreamt of being an author. Fortunately for the world, her grade-school attempts as a playwright were not successful, and she turned her attention to writing novels. Her dream of selling a book before her thirtieth birthday came true, and she’s been spinning tales ever since. She now has more than twenty-five novels to her credit under a variety of pseudonyms.