by Amanda Cabot
The lieutenant slowed his pace a mite and looked down at Abigail, his blue eyes sparkling with barely controlled mirth. “Believe it or not, Abigail, some of us consider Wyoming beautiful.” He gestured into the distance. “You can see almost forever. Out here, you’re not closed in by trees.”
“That may be true, but who wants to see miles of grasslands? They’re . . .”
“Boring.” As they had on the stagecoach, his lips twitched as if he were trying to restrain a smile. “You’re wrong about that. The prairies aren’t boring. When you look closer, there’s more variety than you might think.”
“I’ll take your word for that.” No matter what Ethan Bowles said, Abigail had no intention of being here long enough to explore the surroundings. Once she satisfied herself that Charlotte was all right, she was heading back East. Vermont—and more important, Woodrow—were waiting for her.
“We’re almost there.” They had walked the distance of what Ethan had called Officers’ Row and were approaching the next corner of the parade ground. Just around the bend was a large building under construction, the noise of hammers and workmen’s shouts carrying clearly on the wind. “The new administration building,” Ethan said when Abigail glanced in that direction. “When it’s done, it’ll house the school and library as well as the commanding officer’s and adjutant’s offices.”
Abigail’s ears perked up at the mention of a school. It was silly to care about that when she wouldn’t be here long—two weeks at the maximum. Still, she stared at the cement walls taking shape and wondered what the classroom would be like.
“This is it.” The lieutenant stopped at the gate to a large house with a wraparound verandah. Although a single set of steps led to the porch, a wall divided the porch, and a door on each side indicated that the structure served as two residences. “Your sister’s is the one on the left,” Ethan said. Touching his hand to his cap in a brief salute, he added, “I’ll leave you now.”
Abigail swallowed. There was no reason to feel apprehensive, and yet she did. Perhaps it was the aftermath of the aborted robbery, but what had seemed like a good idea now seemed . . . impulsive. She held out her hand to the lieutenant. “Thank you again for what you did on the stagecoach.”
He touched his hand to hers briefly, then shook his head. “I’d prefer if you didn’t mention the incident to your sister. News travels quickly here. I’d like my commanding officer to hear it from me.”
Abigail smiled. If gossip was common, it appeared that Fort Laramie resembled a small town in yet another way. “Certainly.” She could delay no longer. She placed her hand on the gate. “Good-bye, Lieutenant . . . er . . . Ethan.”
As his brisk footsteps receded, Abigail climbed the three steps and knocked firmly on the door. In a moment she would know whether coming to Wyoming had been a mistake. Her heart pounded at the thought of being reunited with Charlotte. How she’d missed her sister! In the space of two months, both Charlotte and Elizabeth had moved away, leaving Abigail the only Harding sister in Vermont. But now she was here, and she and Charlotte would be together, even if only for a short time.
But Charlotte wasn’t home. Abigail was about to rap on the door again when it cracked open. For a moment, Abigail simply stared. Then she pushed the door open and stepped inside, closing it behind her. “Charlotte.” The woman standing before her looked like her sister, and yet she did not. Though it was late afternoon, Abigail’s normally fashionable sister was dressed in a loose wrapper and house slippers, her dark brown hair undone as if she’d only just arisen from bed. More concerning, though, were Charlotte’s pallor and the fact that her face was thinner than Abigail had ever seen it.
If she was shocked, so was Charlotte. Her sister pressed her hand to her heart and her face lost even more color. “Abigail.” The word was little more than a whisper. “What on earth are you doing here?” She looked around. “Is Woodrow with you?”
It wasn’t the welcome Abigail had hoped for, but ever since she’d arrived in Wyoming, nothing had been what she’d expected.
Why would Charlotte think that Woodrow would have accompanied her? “I came because I missed you, Charlotte.” And I was worried. Though she did not voice the words, Abigail knew her worries had been well-grounded. Something was desperately wrong. She took a step forward and wrapped her arms around her sister, trying not to wince at the realization that Charlotte’s body was little more than skin over bones.
Charlotte drew back slightly and looked at Abigail, her eyes studying her face, almost as if she wanted to reassure herself that the woman who hugged her was not an illusion.
“Oh, Abigail, I missed you too, but I never imagined you’d go anywhere without Woodrow. When I saw you standing here, I thought perhaps you’d eloped and were spending the summer traveling.”
Abigail shook her head at the notion. Ethan Bowles might find her impulsive, but that was one adjective no one would apply to Woodrow Morgan. Woodrow was sturdy and stable, a man who planned his life as carefully as he did his lessons. “Woodrow believes we need to wait another year before we marry, but I couldn’t wait that long to see you.”
“I’m so glad you’ve come.” Color returned to Charlotte’s face. “What am I doing, leaving you standing in the hallway?” She gestured toward the first of two doorways leading off this section of the narrow corridor. “Let’s go into the parlor.”Though the hallway with its highly polished dark wood floor extended the length of the house, if closed, a second door would keep visitors from viewing the less formal rooms. That door was now open, allowing Abigail to see that there were two more doors on the left side of the hall, and that a staircase led from the back entrance to the second floor.
The parlor was a surprise, this time a pleasant one. With two windows on the front and bright white paint, it was light and airy, filled with furniture that would not have been out of place in one of the finest homes in Vermont. It even boasted a piano.
“Tell me all about your journey,” Charlotte encouraged once she and Abigail were seated. Though she had gestured Abigail toward the settee, Charlotte took the chair opposite her, keeping her eyes fixed on her sister, as if she feared she would disappear. “How long can you stay?” Without waiting for an answer, Charlotte shook her head again, setting her uncombed hair to bouncing. “Let me get you some tea.” Her expression was apologetic as she said, “Truly, I have not forgotten all those lessons Mama gave us on being a good hostess. I’m simply surprised to see you here. It’s such a long way from Vermont to Fort Laramie.”
Abigail smiled at the realization that, though she might be pale and thin, this was the sister she remembered. Charlotte’s brain moved so quickly that it was sometimes difficult to keep up with her. Conversations could be tiring, simply because of the number of changes of subject.
“Tea would be wonderful. The air is so dry that my throat feels parched most of the time.”
“You must be careful. The sun is stronger here. At these high altitudes, you need to protect your skin.” That was vintage Charlotte, taking advantage of being the oldest sister to advise her younger siblings. But perhaps there was more to the warning than simple sisterly concern. Perhaps it explained why Charlotte was so pale. Perhaps she’d been afraid to expose her skin to sunlight. Still, while that was a possible reason, it wouldn’t explain why her eyes had lost their sparkle and why she was so thin. A more likely reason, although one Abigail wished she could dismiss, was that Charlotte’s childhood illness had recurred.
“Let me help you.” Abigail followed her sister into the kitchen. Like the parlor, it was well furnished.
Charlotte shook her head. “Nonsense. Mrs. Channing—she’s the woman who cooks and cleans for us—will be back shortly. She’s only gone to the commissary to buy some beef. In the meantime, I think I can boil water for a pot of tea.” Though her words were brave, Abigail noticed that Charlotte’s hands trembled as she lifted the heavy iron teakettle to place it on the stove, and she sank onto the long bench, as if the effort h
ad exhausted her.
“Are you all right?” The words slipped out before Abigail realized what she was saying.
“Of course I am.” Charlotte looked down at her casual dress and frowned. “I was a bit fatigued this afternoon, and so I took a nap.” She raised her eyebrows in the imperious expression Abigail remembered from their childhood. “You remember that Mama used to take naps, don’t you?” When Abigail nodded, Charlotte added, “I’m perfectly fine.”
Though Abigail did not believe her sister, Charlotte would only become more intractable if she said anything more. That childhood bout of pneumonia had left Charlotte with more than a lingering weakness. It had made her overly sensitive to questions about her health.
As they waited for the water to boil, Charlotte leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees. “Now tell me what Elizabeth said when you announced you were coming. I thought you were planning to visit her this summer.”
“I was, but I changed my mind. Elizabeth’s so busy with her studies that Christmas will be a better time for a visit.” It was rationalization, Abigail knew, but she had believed that Charlotte needed her more than their younger sister, whose medical school classes kept her almost too busy to sleep. Though Abigail missed both sisters dreadfully, it was Charlotte who worried her.
A smile crossed Charlotte’s face as she rose to measure out tea. “Oh, Abigail, you’re so impulsive.”
There was that word again. “That’s what Ethan said.”
“Ethan? Ethan who?”
Though there was no reason, Abigail felt her face flush. “Lieutenant Bowles,” she said as calmly as she could. “He was one of the passengers on the stagecoach from Cheyenne.”
“Ah, that Ethan.” Charlotte nodded with approval. “Jeffrey says he’s a good man. He’s another West Pointer, you know.”
Once again, Charlotte was seizing on any subject other than her health. Knowing there was nothing to be gained by pursuing that now, Abigail picked up the tea tray and carried it back to the parlor. “Your house is lovely,” she said when they were once more seated. “I’m surprised you have a pianoforte.” And not simply a piano, but a Steinway. That was a far cry from the battered instrument their parents had taken from one parsonage to the next, its case seeming to acquire at least one more nick with each move.
Charlotte stirred sugar into her cup of tea before she replied. “Jeffrey insists on buying the best of everything. He’s very good to me.”
Surely it was Abigail’s imagination that her sister seemed as if she was reciting lines she had delivered many times. “Then you’re happy here.” She made it a statement rather than a question.
“Of course. Who wouldn’t be?”
Once again, Charlotte’s words rang hollow.
“Bowles.”
Ethan turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Though Jeffrey Crowley used his first name in private, he was formal in public, declaring that West Pointers had an obligation to maintain standards of dignity. Jeffrey’s boots were always perfectly shined, the creases in his uniform impeccable. Though that was nothing more than they’d been taught, Ethan suspected that Jeffrey’s insistence on dignity came from years of being taunted for his carrot-colored hair and freckled face rather than any protocol he’d learned at the Point.
“What are you doing here?” Jeffrey continued, his green eyes narrowing as he strode next to Ethan, appearing content to accompany him wherever he was going, which in this case was to their superior officer. “I thought you weren’t due back until tomorrow.”
Because he had not yet briefed Captain Westland, Ethan did not mention the attempted robbery. “There was nothing to be gained by staying in Cheyenne.” And, as it turned out, much to be gained by being on that particular coach.
Keeping his voice even, Ethan said, “I hit one dead end after another in Cheyenne, so I decided to come back. As luck would have it, I wound up accompanying your sister-in-law.”
Jeffrey’s blink was the only sign he was surprised. A couple inches shorter than Ethan, Jeffrey was a good twenty pounds heavier, with what Ethan’s grandfather used to call a boxer’s physique. “Why on earth did Elizabeth come? I thought she was still in school.”
“Not Elizabeth, Abigail. I gather she missed Charlotte’s company.”
To Ethan’s surprise, Jeffrey muttered a curse that had nothing to do with the four dogs that scampered beside him, barking, yipping, and trying to jump on him. “Abigail’s trouble. According to Charlotte, she’s always acted without thinking, and here’s the proof. She’s in my home. What did I do to deserve her?”
The answer was simple. “You married her sister. Didn’t I tell you that marriage is more trouble than it’s worth?”
“Wait until you meet the right woman. You’ll change your tune then.” Jeffrey stared into the distance, as if searching for a solution to what he obviously considered an unpleasant situation. “Come home with me and stay for supper.”
Ethan shook his head. Though a home-cooked meal was enticing, he had things to do. “I need to see the captain. Besides, I know better than to intrude on a family gathering.”
But Jeffrey would not be dissuaded. “Charlotte’s my family,” he insisted. “Abigail’s an unfortunate appendage. C’mon, Ethan, do me a favor. I don’t want to beard the lion alone.”
A lion? Abigail Harding was more like a swan with that long, graceful neck. “Oh, all right.” It was less than a gracious acceptance, but the invitation had been less than gracious. “That’ll give me a chance to tell you what happened on the trip back.”
Frances Colfax let out a string of curses that would have blistered the paint, had there been any paint to blister. Paint was the last thing she needed on the shanty walls. This place was fine the way it was—a tumbledown building so weathered by the wind and sun that no one would spare it a second glance, even if they happened to spot it. And few did, for it was a dugout, set deep into the hillside, miles away from the closest ranch. This was the perfect spot to stash her clothing and an even better one for stashing the takings. When there were takings.
Carefully folding the last of the seven petticoats that had made her look like a refugee from the War Between the States, Frances cursed again. Her words were nothing compared to what the baron would say when he heard about today’s fiasco. It couldn’t have been much worse. That lieutenant wasn’t supposed to be on the coach. Frances had been assured that no one from the fort was scheduled to travel then, much less an officer. The passengers were supposed to be a bunch of rich folks who deserved nothing more than to contribute their jewelry and cash to Frances’s fund. It was bad enough that there was only one couple instead of the four or five she had expected. It was even worse that the attack took place earlier than it was supposed to and that she had somehow fallen asleep. That was a fact she had no intention of mentioning to the baron. She would focus on that cursed Lieutenant Bowles’s interference.
Frances brushed the gray powder from her hair. By the time she was done, no one would find any connection between Frances Colfax, who had once dazzled audiences with her portrayals of Juliet, Desdemona, and her personal favorite, Lady Macbeth, and Mrs. Dunn, a helpless widow.
Helpless, hah! If it hadn’t been for that schoolmarm, Frances would have stopped the lieutenant’s sharpshooting, knocking that Colt out of his hand before he had a chance to aim. But the schoolmarm was stronger than she’d appeared, and she’d kept Frances from retrieving her reticule. The chit didn’t know that what Frances wanted from it wasn’t smelling salts but her derringer. Frances wasn’t only one of the finest actresses ever to tread the boards, she was also a crack shot, and—unlike the baron—she wouldn’t hesitate to kill a woman. No one stood between Frances Colfax and success.
Fastening the last button on her riding clothes and preparing to head for the ranch, she frowned as she pictured the baron’s reaction. Instead of money and jewels, they had a wounded man to deal with. Not good. Not good at all. If his hand was as badly injured as she thought, Schiller
would be useless for at least a month. The baron would not be happy.
“Your stagecoach was robbed? Oh, Abigail, how dreadful!” Blood drained from Charlotte Crowley’s face, and she looked as if she were about to swoon. For the life of him, Ethan didn’t understand why women trussed themselves up so tight that they could hardly breathe. Look at the way Mrs. Fitzgerald had fainted at the first sign of danger. Even the widow had sought her smelling salts. And now Jeffrey’s wife appeared faint.
Only Abigail seemed immune to the swooning disease. She might be impulsive, but at least she didn’t swoon, even when she was terrified. Ethan had seen the signs—the wide eyes, the rapid breathing, the pale face—but he’d also seen her control her fear. Thanks to her actions, his job had been easier. Abigail was a sensible woman.
“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” Charlotte demanded, her eyes filling with tears as she looked at her sister.
Though there was a distinct resemblance between the two women, Abigail’s eyes seemed to change their hue with her moods, while no one would question the color of Charlotte’s eyes. They were brown, almost as dark brown as her hair. Her features were as patrician as Abigail’s, and some might claim she was the more beautiful of the two. Ethan would not have been one of them. While he would not deny her beauty, Charlotte Crowley had always struck him as a cold woman. Cold, however, was not an adjective he would use to describe her sister.
“We weren’t robbed. It was an attempted robbery,” Abigail said before Ethan could explain that she had remained silent at his request. Though he had planned to tell Jeffrey privately, as soon as they were seated in the dining room, Jeffrey had asked what had happened, and Ethan found himself giving an abbreviated explanation of what had occurred on the stagecoach.
