by Amanda Cabot
Start Reading
© 2012 by Amanda Cabot
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com
Ebook edition created 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-3594-7
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Praise for Amanda Cabot’s Writing
“Summer of Promise is an engrossing story of love and adventure that is sure to capture your heart!”
Kathleen Morgan, author, A Heart Divided and
A Love Forbidden
“Amanda Cabot’s characters and storytelling are extraordinary. I’m in love with her books.”
Laurie Alice Eakes, author, Lady in the Mist
“Cabot weaves a powerful story of healing.”
RT Book Reviews on Scattered Petals
“Crafting characters rich with emotion, Amanda Cabot pens a compelling story of transcending faith.”
Tamera Alexander, bestselling author, From a Distance,
on Scattered Petals
“Amanda Cabot does such a great job describing the setting of the Wild West that you almost feel you are there with the characters, sharing their life.”
Book Bargains & Previews
“Amanda Cabot has a tender skill for writing a novel that includes not only amazing characters and some bits of humor and love, but also the wonderful messages of God’s redeeming love and grace.”
www.ReviewsbyMolly.com
For Jane McBride Choate, a wonderful friend, a talented author, and a woman whose love for her sister helped define my heroine. Thank you, Jane, for your friendship, support, and inspiration.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Praise for Amanda Cabot’s Writing
Dedication
1 2 3 4 5 6
7 8 9 10 11 12
13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24
Dear Reader
Acknowledments
About the Author
Books by Amanda Cabot
Back Ads
Back Cover
1
Wyoming Territory, June 1885
There were times when Abigail Harding wished she were an only child. This was one of them. If it hadn’t been for Charlotte, she would not be cooped up in a stagecoach, crossing land so barren that not even coyotes favored it, all the while accompanied by a woman who had never heard that silence was golden.
“It’s a mighty pretty day, ain’t it?”
Abigail winced as the coach swayed, tossing her against the side for what seemed like the hundredth time. Though Concord coaches were reputed to be the most comfortable ever made, nothing could smooth a rutted road. Ruts, she had been informed by her talkative companion, were preferable to mud, which could bog down the wheels, leaving passengers no alternative but to disembark into the muck.
Thankful for small mercies, Abigail nodded. “The sky is beautiful,” she admitted. That was the only positive thing she could say about this desolate countryside. She certainly wasn’t going to claim that she found Wyoming Territory beautiful when she most definitely did not, but she also saw no need to insult Mrs. Dunn, even if she wished the woman would stop talking. Abigail was no stranger to loneliness, and, judging from the stories she’d told, neither was the widow. That was probably why she had taken Abigail under her wing when she saw her waiting for the stagecoach in Cheyenne, ignoring Abigail’s protests that she could manage on her own and had in fact come all the way from Wesley, Vermont, without a companion. It would be most unseemly, Mrs. Dunn had claimed, for Abigail to continue to travel unaccompanied, particularly when one of the other passengers on the coach bound for Deadwood was a single man.
“He’s a soldier,” her self-appointed protector had hissed, as if Abigail was unable to recognize a uniform. “That oughta mean he’s honorable, but you cain’t be too careful.” Even the sight of a married couple purchasing tickets wasn’t enough to dissuade Mrs. Dunn. She kept a firm grip on Abigail’s arm. “They’re rich folks,” she declared, pointing to the pile of finely tooled luggage that accompanied them. “They won’t want nothin’ to do with us.”
And so Abigail found herself on the backseat next to the woman who passed the hours knotting and unknotting her reticule strings, while the lieutenant lounged on the front seat next to the wealthy couple, one of his feet propped on the empty bench that formed the middle row of indoor seating, his cap tipped over his eyes. Propriety was clearly observed, for he and Abigail were separated by the entire length of the coach, and they spoke only when the stagecoach stopped and he helped Abigail and Mrs. Dunn descend the steep steps.
As Mrs. Dunn had predicted, the couple, who’d introduced themselves as Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald of New York City, had said little beyond complaining that they were forced to ride facing backwards. When Abigail had offered them her spot and the unoccupied one between her and Mrs. Dunn, the widow had protested. “You cain’t sit with the man. It ain’t done.” She’d clutched Abigail’s arm and kept her pinned to the seat. The obviously disgruntled Fitzgeralds had resorted to talking quietly to each other and completely ignored Mrs. Dunn. Though Abigail couldn’t blame them, that had left her as the sole object of the overly proper widow’s conversation.
“So, you like our sky.” Mrs. Dunn nodded at Abigail in approval. Her brown eyes, which had filled with tears when she spoke of her beloved husband’s death and the difficulty of maintaining their ranch without him, sparkled once more. Though her husband had been deceased for more than a year, Mrs. Dunn still wore full mourning, claiming that she would never cease to love him. Her decidedly unfashionable dress bore a heavy coat of gray-brown dirt, and even the veil that covered the top half of her face had dust motes caught in the mesh, compliments of the constant wind that stirred up dirt and propelled it eastward at what seemed like little less than tornado speed.
Though she felt no desire to continue the conversation, good manners forced Abigail to say, “I’ve never seen a sky so clear or such a deep blue.” All that was true. What was also true was that this part of the journey was the worst yet. The train had been reasonably comfortable, and Cheyenne had proved to be less primitive than she’d expected, even though it appeared that the entire male population believed that at least one weapon was a necessary part of a man’s wardrobe. Unfortunately, now Abigail was in the middle of nowhere, and nothing Mrs. Dunn could say would change that. There was no sign of life, unless you counted the brush that blanketed the rolling hills where trees should have been.
That brush was alive, all right. Alive and ready to attack. The cactuses were bad enough, but the real villains were the yuccas. Why had God created a plant with spiky leaves edged with razor-sharp points? Surely it wasn’t to rip holes in an unsuspecting woman’s skirt. Mrs. Dunn claimed that the yuccas would be blessed with beautiful white blossoms later this month. Be that as it may, Abigail considered their existence proof that this was not a place where civilized persons should live. Yuccas and wind that howled incessantly were not Abigail’s idea of paradise on Earth.
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br /> “I don’t reckon Wyoming Territory looks much like home to you.”
Had Mrs. Dunn read her thoughts? This place that had been Charlotte’s home for a year appeared decidedly unsuitable. Abigail frowned as she stared out the window. Try though she might, she could not picture her older sister enjoying life in such a wilderness. Elizabeth, the youngest of the three Harding children, might consider it an adventure, but Charlotte favored fancy gowns, meals served on fine china, and the company of sociable women. Even though she had assured Abigail that Fort Laramie was far more appealing than one might imagine an Army fort to be, it was still surrounded by desolate countryside.
Perhaps that was why Charlotte’s letters had seemed so strained. Perhaps that was why Abigail had been unable to dismiss her concerns. Perhaps that was why she’d felt compelled to board a train and leave her carefully planned life behind. When she had left Vermont, she had been certain it was God’s will that she come here. Now she wasn’t certain of anything.
Fixing a smile on her face, Abigail turned back to her traveling companion. The Fitzgeralds, probably as bored as she, appeared to be dozing. “You’re right. Wyoming is quite different from Vermont,” she said, trying not to sigh as she thought of her home. “Most of the state is very green. In fact, that’s how it got its name. The word Vermont is derived from the French words for ‘green’ and ‘mountains.’ Its nickname is the green mountain state.” Abigail bit her lip as she realized that she’d fallen into schoolmarm mode. Mrs. Dunn didn’t want a lesson in etymology any more than Abigail wanted to be here. If it hadn’t been for her worries about Charlotte, Abigail would have been home, enjoying fresh air while she played tennis with Woodrow and made plans for their life together. Instead, she was stuck in a hot, dusty stagecoach with Mrs. Dunn, the Fitzgeralds, and the soldier who was pretending to be asleep.
Mrs. Dunn eyed their companions before giving Abigail an appraising look. “So, your sister married a soldier.” Abigail had admitted as much when she’d purchased passage only as far as Fort Laramie. Mrs. Dunn was going a few miles farther, and the Fitzgeralds were headed for the end of the line, the gold mine town of Deadwood.
“That’s good.” Mrs. Dunn’s nod dislodged some of the face powder she’d applied with a liberal hand. Mama would not have approved of the way Mrs. Dunn had painted her face. She had maintained that only actresses and fallen women felt the need to enhance their God-given beauty, but Mama had not experienced the Wyoming sun and wind. Perhaps paint and powder were the only ways to maintain a woman’s complexion.
“Soldiering’s a mighty fine profession,” Mrs. Dunn announced. “A woman could do a lot worse.”
And a lot better. Charlotte could have married a man whose profession was something—anything—other than killing. Abigail bit back the retort. There was nothing to be gained by starting an argument. Instead, she kept a smile fixed on her face and let the older woman continue her monologue. Perhaps she’d tire eventually. Though Abigail estimated that the widow was only in her midforties, she moved like a much older woman, the result, she said, of stepping into a gopher hole. “I done broke my ankle, and it ain’t never healed right. I reckon I’m gonna limp for the rest of my days.” Her story had done nothing to convince Abigail that Wyoming was a desirable place to live. Wind, dust, gopher holes. Each mile revealed a new unpleasant aspect to Charlotte’s home.
Mrs. Dunn leaned over and patted Abigail’s hand. “It wouldn’t surprise me none if you found yourself a husband while you was at the fort. Soldiers are mighty lonely, always lookin’ for a wife. You just gotta be careful, cuz they ain’t all honorable.”
“I’m not looking for a husband.” Even if she weren’t almost promised to Woodrow, the last place Abigail would seek a spouse was at an Army fort. The life of a soldier’s wife was not for her. No indeed. God might have sent her here, but he didn’t intend for her to stay. Abigail was as certain of that as she was that something was seriously wrong in her sister’s life.
Knotting her reticule strings again, Mrs. Dunn shook her head. “Nonsense. Every woman is lookin’ for a man of her own. Look at this here lieutenant.”
Abigail had done exactly that when they’d entered the coach. The man, who’d introduced himself as Lieutenant Bowles, was at least half a foot taller than her own five and a half feet, with blond hair and eyes almost as deep a blue as the Wyoming sky. His uniform was the same design as the one Jeffrey had worn for his wedding to Charlotte: a dark blue double-breasted wool frock coat with seven brass buttons marching down each side, lighter blue wool trousers with a white stripe indicating membership in the infantry. The difference was that while Jeffrey had seemed a bit ill at ease, this man wore his uniform as comfortably as he did his skin.
It was true that Abigail had noted how Lieutenant Bowles’s uniform highlighted broad shoulders and long legs, but what caught her attention time and again were his lips. Though no fuller than normal, they were surprisingly expressive, curving and twitching in response to Mrs. Dunn’s more outrageous comments, even though the rest of his face remained as impassive as if he were truly sleeping.
“He’d be a good husband for you,” Mrs. Dunn declared.
Abigail darted a glance at the man in question. Though he appeared to be fighting a smile, she was not amused by Mrs. Dunn’s tendency to make pronouncements with no foundation. Look at the way she tried to enforce her decidedly old-fashioned views of propriety. There would have been nothing wrong with Abigail’s sitting on the opposite seat.
“Most likely he ain’t married. ’Course, you cain’t be sure. He might have a sweetheart somewhere. I’m fixin’ to ask him when he wakes up.”
Abigail sighed. The lieutenant had the right idea. She should have pretended to be asleep.
Ethan Bowles struggled to keep his lips from frowning. If the old biddy knew he was awake, he’d have no peace. She’d continue the relentless questioning—little less than an inquisition—that had convinced him to feign sleep in the first place. And this time she’d focus on his marital status. Once she learned that he was unattached, it would be far worse. Ethan gritted his teeth. Why was it that people felt the need to match make? First his grandfather, then virtually every married woman he’d met. You’d think they would realize that some men were meant to be bachelors, with him first on that list. But, no, they seemed to believe that every single man was a candidate for the state of wedded bliss. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
He shifted his weight slightly, wishing he could open his eyes. The trip went more quickly when a man could enjoy the scenery. And this trip had more than the territory’s natural beauty to enjoy. The young woman, Miss Harding she’d said her name was, was downright easy on the eyes, even if she was wearing clothing that had to be uncomfortable. The high neckline and long sleeves were practical, as was the dark blue color—not too different from his uniform. But the skirt made no sense. Those pleats barely cleared the ground, which meant that they served as dust magnets, and then there was that silly bump in the back. Oliver, his friend who claimed to know everything there was to know about women, had informed him that ladies called them bustles. Ethan called them ridiculous. Why would a woman saddle herself with something that had to get in the way when she sat? The only good thing he could say about the widow was that she didn’t have any such impediments. Her dress might not be fashionable, but it was more practical than what Miss Harding and Mrs. Fitzgerald were wearing.
Despite the preposterous clothing, Miss Harding was worth a second look. Underneath that fancy hat, her hair was pulled back in one of those knots that women seemed to like, but even that couldn’t hide the fact that it was a pretty shade of brown. What intrigued Ethan most were her eyes. It was a shame he was pretending to be asleep, because he was still trying to figure out what color they were. Not quite brown, not quite green, but downright pretty, especially when she smiled. That was when he was sure he’d seen hints of gold in them.
The widow was right. Soldiers out here didn’t get to see too many women, an
d women as beautiful as Miss Harding were as rare as gold nuggets in the North Platte River. Even though he had no interest—no matrimonial interest, that is—in Miss Harding, Ethan couldn’t deny that he would have enjoyed looking at her, but he sure as shooting didn’t want to get trapped into another conversation involving the widow, and so he kept his eyes closed. Years of ignoring his grandfather’s barbs had taught him the value of feigning indifference.
“Did you live on a farm in Vermont?” The widow was talking again, and since Ethan wasn’t available, she was questioning Miss Harding. The poor woman. By the time the lady with those intriguing eyes reached Fort Laramie, her every secret would be revealed.
“No.” It was only one word, but Ethan heard the reluctance in Miss Harding’s voice. It appeared she wasn’t enjoying the interrogation any more than he had the volley of questions the widow had fired at him when they’d first entered the stagecoach. “I teach at a girls’ academy.” His lips twitched as he realized that was the reason she sounded so prim and why she’d given the little lesson on the origin of Vermont’s name. Schoolmarms, at least schoolmarms in Ethan’s experience, were prim and proper. They had to be.
He heard the intake of breath before Mrs. Dunn spoke. “In my day,” she said, her voice leaving no doubt of her disapproval, “girls stayed home and cared for their parents until they married. They didn’t take jobs away from able-bodied men.”
Of course, in the aftermath of the war there were fewer able-bodied men than there had been before Antietam and Gettysburg and the other battles that had destroyed hopes along with lives. Ethan wondered whether Miss Harding would mention that. Instead she said simply, “It was my parents’ wish that I become a teacher. Fortunately, I find it rewarding.”
