by Amanda Cabot
Abigail laid a hand on her sister’s arm as if to comfort her. Charlotte might be the elder, but today it appeared that Abigail had assumed that role. “Lieutenant Bowles—Ethan, that is—kept the bandits from doing anything more than threaten us.”
“But, still, you could have been hurt.” Charlotte shook her head in dismay.
“I wasn’t. The worst thing that happened was that Mrs. Dunn kept my smelling salts. She was one of the other passengers on the coach,” Abigail added. “The poor woman was so upset she was afraid she might faint.” Ethan’s admiration for Abigail grew. Though he knew she’d been frightened, she was making light of it to keep her sister from worrying.
Jeffrey sawed at his roast, though the meat was tender enough to be cut with a fork. “So, what happened?” He addressed his question to Ethan.
“Abigail’s story is accurate. Two road agents, at least one a deserter, threatened the driver. It was clear they were going to shoot him if he didn’t stop the coach, so I shot first.”
While Charlotte gasped, her husband pursed his lips. “I hope you killed the miscreant.”
Ethan raised his eyebrow at the vehemence in Jeffrey’s voice. It wasn’t like him to care so passionately about anything other than his wife. Everyone in the garrison knew the man was besotted with Charlotte, but why did he care how Ethan had resolved the robbery attempt?
“There was no need for killing. With his shooting arm wounded, Schiller won’t be robbing coaches anytime soon.”
“Schiller?” Jeffrey sputtered the name. “You recognized the men?”
“Only one. Even with a bandanna covering half his face, there was no mistaking Schiller’s accent. At one point, he got close enough that I could see his green eyes, so I know for certain that’s who it was.” Ethan speared a piece of meat. “If I’d been mounted, I would have gone after him. As it was, I made certain he and his partner didn’t threaten this coach any longer.”
Abigail, who’d been silent, laid down her fork. “What did the bandits hope to get? Mrs. Dunn and I had no valuables, and I wouldn’t have thought that even Mrs. Fitzgerald’s jewelry was worth facing a hangman’s noose.”
It was a valid question. Ethan accepted the bread Charlotte offered him and began to butter it. “The dime novels make it appear that stagecoach robberies are an almost daily occurrence out here. That used to be true, especially when gold was being transferred from Deadwood to Cheyenne. But then the stage companies developed an armor-plated coach that some call the Monitor.”
The sparkle in her eyes told Ethan Abigail recognized the reference. “Like the ship from the Civil War.”
“Exactly. That and the presence of armed guards effectively halted theft of the gold shipments. Now road agents hope to find wealthy passengers.”
Abigail nodded slowly. “The Fitzgeralds seemed to have money, but I still wonder if it would have been enough.”
“They probably assumed the coach would be full. It usually is. Most days the inside seats are all taken, and there are at least a couple men on top, but even if the bandits had known how few people were on board, deserters can be mighty desperate and mighty foolish. In my book, you’d have to be both to leave the Army like that.” Only cowards ran away.
“Do many men desert?” The expression on Abigail’s face said this was more than idle curiosity. Perhaps her schoolteacher roots were showing, and she was gathering information for a class.
“All too many. The rate has been up to 30 percent. Isn’t that right, Jeffrey?”
His fellow officer nodded.
Abigail let out a small gasp. “Almost a third of the men? That’s terrible. Why do they leave?”
Trying not to frown as he thought of the men who’d simply disappeared, Ethan admitted that he wasn’t certain. “Some claim they’re bored with Army life, others that they’re discouraged by the low pay, but those don’t seem like good reasons to abandon your sense of honor. And if you’re going to ask why they targeted this particular coach rather than any other, I don’t know that either.”
Jeffrey pointed his fork at Ethan. “Did you ever consider that they were looking for you?” The man had to be joking.
“Me? What would anyone hope to get from a first lieutenant? Everyone knows about Army pay.”
“Don’t forget that Schiller was a private. Compared to him, you’re wealthy. But there’s another possibility. Perhaps they were planning to hold you for ransom. After all, your grandfather is as rich as Croesus.”
If there was one subject Ethan did not want to discuss, it was Curtis Wilson, the nemesis of his childhood. Unfortunately, once Jeffrey got started, he was like a terrier with a bone. If Ethan said nothing, Jeffrey would continue asking questions until he received a response. “My grandfather may be wealthy,” Ethan said, choosing his words carefully, “but I assure you that he would not spend one silver dollar to ransom me.”
And that was fine with Ethan. When he had left Curtis Wilson’s house, he had sworn he would never again be beholden to him.
“Jeffrey won’t be back until late,” Charlotte said an hour later after the men had left and Charlotte and Abigail had retired to the parlor, leaving Mrs. Channing to wash the dishes. It had been a delicious meal, and yet Abigail could not ignore the undercurrents. Though Jeffrey had said nothing more, she sensed his disapproval of Ethan’s actions and his conviction that the bandit should have been killed. He was wrong. Human life was precious. That was why God had commanded his people not to kill.
Though Papa had tried to comfort her the day she’d found Luke, explaining that it had been an accident and that Luke was at peace now, Abigail had been unable to forget the horror of sudden death. Killing was wrong. How could Jeffrey claim otherwise? Ethan had done what had to be done. He had stopped the outlaws from killing the driver, and he’d done it without taking another’s life. That was heroic. No matter what Jeffrey thought, Ethan had done the right thing.
Abigail looked at her sister, who sat on the chair opposite her, her feet propped on an exquisite needlepoint stool. If she was bothered by Ethan’s actions, it wasn’t obvious.
“Jeffrey and the other officers spend most evenings at their club.” Charlotte continued her explanation. The sparkle that had lit her eyes when Jeffrey was present faded.
“That must be lonely for you.” Perhaps that was the reason her sister’s letters had sounded so unhappy. Even if other men deserted their wives each evening, Charlotte and Jeffrey had been married little more than a year. Surely they still craved each other’s company. When Charlotte did not respond, Abigail hesitated. She was hardly an expert on marriage, and yet she could not ignore her sister’s distress.
“Something’s wrong,” Abigail said slowly. “You can deny it all you want, but I can see that you’re ill. Is it your lungs again?” Even when he’d declared Charlotte cured of pneumonia, the physician had cautioned that her lungs would remain weak and that she must take precautions to avoid overtaxing them.
“I’m not ill.” Charlotte shifted so that she was no longer facing Abigail and stared out the window for a long moment. At last, seemingly reluctantly, she turned back and met Abigail’s gaze. “I’m not ill. I’m enceinte.”
Her sister was going to have a child!
“Oh, Charlotte.” Abigail rose to draw her into her arms. “That’s wonderful news. You’re going to be a mother, and Elizabeth and I will be aunts. But you’d best be forewarned. I have every intention of spoiling that baby of yours.”
Though Abigail smiled, her sister’s expression remained somber, and she stood stiffly, as if merely tolerating Abigail’s hug. “It would be wonderful news if I felt better. Look at me.” Charlotte gestured toward her midsection. “The baby’s due in late October, but I can still wear my normal clothes. I’ve been so sick that I haven’t gained the weight I should have.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Abigail, I’m afraid I’m going to lose this baby, and I don’t know what I’ll do then.” Before Abigail could murmur comforting
words, Charlotte continued, “Jeffrey wants a son so badly. Sometimes I think that’s the only reason he married me.”
3
The rain had stopped. Abigail gave a silent prayer of thanks as she raised the shade to look outside. Though fatigue had overcome her by the time she climbed the stairs to Charlotte’s spare room, the expected deep sleep had eluded her. Instead, she had lain awake, trying to reconcile her sister’s fears that Jeffrey did not love her with the memory of their wedding. While the day had been gloomy and a light drizzle had begun to fall as Charlotte and Jeffrey emerged from the chapel at West Point, Jeffrey had been the picture of a happy groom, so smitten with his bride that he did not notice the less than perfect weather, and Charlotte’s smile had been radiant.
“I’ve found the perfect man,” she’d whispered to Abigail later that day, causing Jeffrey, who had somehow overheard, to laugh.
“You’re wrong, Charlotte,” he’d said. “I’m far from perfect, but you’re the answer to all my dreams. You’ve made me the happiest man alive.”
Surely love like that did not fade. Surely Jeffrey did not love Charlotte only because she would bear his children. But Charlotte didn’t seem convinced. The instant she’d pronounced the disturbing words, she had clapped her hand over her mouth. “I didn’t mean that,” she had said, tears welling in her eyes. Though her lips formed the words, her eyes told a different story. Charlotte still harbored fears, and that worried Abigail as much as her sister’s letters had.
There had to be something she could do to help her, and yet though she tossed so much that she tangled the sheets, Abigail had been unable to find a solution. When she’d finally slept, her dreams had been troubled, and she had wakened twice, startled by the rumbling of thunder and the sound of rain beating on the roof. Although Vermont had its share of thunderstorms, none had been as fierce as last night’s storm. It seemed that everything in this territory was bigger and wilder than at home. Was that part of the reason for Charlotte’s worries? Marriage and impending motherhood required adjustments. So, too, would living in environs like these. Perhaps the combination was more than Charlotte could bear.
There had to be a way to help. Show me, Lord, Abigail prayed. Show me the way.
“So, tell me about her. Is she as pretty as they say?”
Ethan frowned as he stared into the mirror. Living with the other bachelor officers had convinced him that one of the few advantages of being married was the greater privacy it afforded. No one would burst into Jeffrey’s house to ask about Abigail, but here a man couldn’t even shave in peace. The sight of Oliver Seton’s face reflected next to his own was proof of that. He could, he supposed, feign ignorance, pretending he didn’t know who the “she” was who had captured his best friend’s fancy, but that would accomplish little. Where women were concerned, Oliver was as difficult to discourage as a hungry badger at a prairie dog burrow.
Taller than Ethan by a couple inches, Oliver befuddled the cooks. Though he ate twice as much as the others, he remained the thinnest man on the post, and it was not uncommon to see the tall man with the light brown hair trying to wheedle another loaf of bread from the bakers. To Ethan’s amusement, the second lieutenant who’d been transferred to Fort Laramie along with Ethan frequently applied the same enterprising skills to the pursuit of women.
“Miss Harding is quite attractive,” Ethan admitted as he brushed shaving lather onto his cheeks. The truth was, Abigail was beautiful, though he wouldn’t tell Oliver that. The man needed no encouragement. Even if she were as homely as a mule, Oliver would soon be chasing after her. “She looks a bit like her sister, but . . .” Ethan searched for a word to describe the differences. “Softer,” he said at last.
Oliver leaned his lanky frame against the door frame and grinned. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all year. I know a man shouldn’t be fussy, but some of those laundresses are downright dog-faced.”
“So long as they get the sheets clean, why do you care?” It was a rhetorical question. Oliver, like many of the single men on the post, sought the company of any unattached female, ignoring even a total lack of pulchritude. And, when he wasn’t pursuing an eligible woman at the fort, Oliver spent his evenings with the soiled doves at Peg’s.
“I don’t understand you, Ethan. Haven’t you read your Bible? Man is not meant to live alone. That’s why God made Eve.”
“And why Noah took the animals two-by-two.” Ethan paused as he ran the razor down one cheek. He had no intention of shedding blood just because Oliver Seton chose to dispute Ethan’s lack of interest in the fort’s single women. “You’ve already given me that sermon.”
“Maybe so, but I still don’t understand why you’re not concerned about finding a wife. Life would be a lot less lonely with one.” And, as odd as it might seem to some, loneliness was a definite factor, even on a post with hundreds of men.
“Not every man is cut out for marriage,” Ethan said as mildly as he could. He’d spent more than half his life listening to his grandfather expound on the reasons for marriage, insisting that when Ethan wed it would be to solidify an important business relationship, something that could help expand the railroad or bring it new customers. When Ethan had turned twelve, Grandfather had announced that he had selected four girls, any one of whom would make Ethan a fine wife once he was old enough to marry. He’d further admonished Ethan to be particularly courteous to those girls’ fathers when they visited, for they were valued suppliers. Ethan had heard enough to know that that was not for him. He wouldn’t marry for business reasons any more than he’d consider sharing the rest of his life with a woman who was more interested in his uniform than in the man inside. He’d met enough of those to last him a lifetime when he’d been at West Point. There was, however, no reason to tell Oliver that. Ethan ought to simply order him to leave, but despite Oliver’s annoying tendency to harangue him on the subject of marriage, the man was normally good company.
“I suppose I ought to be grateful.” Oliver tapped the end of his unusually long nose. “If you’re not sparking her, perhaps Miss Harding will take pity on me, even with this nose.”
“Perhaps.” There was no reason why the thought should rankle, and yet it did.
“Morning, Bowles.”
Ethan turned, hoping the day would improve, if only briefly. Even before he’d finished shaving, he’d received a summons to the captain’s office. Though he wanted to ask permission to search for the deserters, the fact that he’d been summoned was not good news. He’d finished his ablutions in record time and was on his way to learn what his superior officer had in store for him when Jeffrey joined him. Perhaps Jeffrey knew something he did not, something that would explain the huge grin on his face.
“You seem happy,” Ethan told his colleague, “and I don’t imagine it’s over the prospect of drilling soldiers in the mud.” The previous night’s rain had turned the parade ground into a soggy mess.
“Nope,” Jeffrey agreed, “I hate that as much as the next man.” He glanced down at his freshly polished boots, his grimace saying he knew what they’d look like in a couple hours. When he faced Ethan again, his smile restored, he said, “Before you ask, my good mood has nothing to do with that pickle-faced sister-in-law of mine. I still don’t like the fact that she’s invaded my home. Life was fine with just Charlotte and me.”
Though he kept walking, recognizing the folly of keeping the captain waiting, Ethan couldn’t help reacting to Jeffrey’s terminology. Pickle-faced? What could Abigail have said or done to deserve that description? Though he considered her trip impulsive, it seemed a pity that Abigail had come all this way for such a grudging welcome.
“On second thought,” Jeffrey continued, “maybe Abigail is part of the cause. With her here, Charlotte and I figured it would be difficult to keep our news a secret, so we’re telling folks—and you’re the first to hear.”
“I’m honored. Now, tell me, what’s the big announcement?” Although Ethan had strong suspicions, he knew Jef
frey would not appreciate speculation. He wanted fanfare or at least exuberant congratulations.
Jeffrey’s somewhat homely face glowed as he pronounced the words Ethan had expected. “I’m going to be a father. Isn’t that grand?”
“It is indeed.” Ethan clapped his friend on the back. “Congratulations, old man.”
“This is what every man wants, isn’t it—a son?”
Ethan nodded, knowing it was the expected reaction. He wouldn’t point out that the child might be a daughter, any more than he’d say that a man didn’t always get what he wanted.
“Now all I need is my captaincy. The extra pay sure would be handy.” Jeffrey frowned. “I tell you, Bowles, one thing I don’t like about the Regular Army is how slow promotions are. It wasn’t like that when my grandfather served. I feel like a ghoul, waiting for some captain to die so I can have his rank. Awful, isn’t it?” He frowned again. “You’re lucky. I wish I had a grandfather like yours to pull wires for me. Who knows? Maybe he’ll get you transferred somewhere good.”
“You don’t know my grandfather if you think he’d do that. He hates the fact that I’m in the Army.” As he mounted the steps to the captain’s office, Ethan didn’t bother to hide the anger that often accompanied thoughts of Grandfather. “I joined the Army despite him.” More precisely, because following in his father’s footsteps was the best way Ethan knew to spite his grandfather.
“Attention!” The company lined up in front of him thrust their shoulders back, their heads up. Ethan’s gaze moved down the row, noting that, despite the constant grousing over ill-fitting uniforms of dubious quality, most of the men would pass even a West Point inspection. Unfortunately, that was not the reason he’d summoned the men. An inspection would have been far easier than today’s duty. Though Ethan had hoped to be leading a search party for Johann Schiller and his accomplice, the captain had informed him that Lieutenant Montgomery would be doing that, while Ethan dealt with another problem. The captain’s idea of priorities didn’t mesh with Ethan’s, but an order was an order.
