by Amanda Cabot
“We’ve got ourselves a problem, men.” As if on cue, a pack of snarling dogs bounded toward them, teeth bared, tails announcing that each member of the pack wanted to be the top dog. “Captain Westland is displeased with the number of unleashed canines at the fort. Each and every one of them must be captured.” Although how that would occur, Ethan could only guess. There were at least a hundred dogs, and when they sensed that they were being hunted, they could be as wily as coyotes.
“If they’re registered,” he continued, “you will return them to their owners and inform said owners that it’s time to register again. Furthermore, you will advise said owners that once their canines are registered, the dogs must be kept under control, either restrained by a leash or kept in a fenced area. Beginning tomorrow, any canines found running loose will be killed.”
A corporal requested permission to speak. “What happens to the unregistered dogs, sir?”
“Either you find someone who wants to register them and pay the tax, or . . .” Ethan gestured toward the river. “They meet their fate. Understood?”
“Ve haf to bathe the dogs?” a private asked.
“No!” Ethan glared at the men whose faces broke into grins at the absurd question. “No baths. You will drown them.”
“Down?”
Swallowing his annoyance, Ethan tried not to be dismayed by the realization that the soldier wasn’t attempting to be amusing. He simply didn’t understand.
“Hold them down in the river until they drown.”
The way the soldier shook his head told Ethan it wasn’t because he disagreed with the dogs’ fate but because he still didn’t comprehend the command.
“Begging your pardon, sir.” Corporal Keller stepped out of formation. “Request permission to translate.” Though his accent was heavy, he always understood Ethan.
“Permission granted.” What a sorry state the Army had come to, when enlisted men needed an interpreter. They were amateurs, rank amateurs, like Schiller and the other deserter. The would-be bandits hadn’t realized that their chances of success would have been far greater if they’d approached the stagecoach from opposite sides. Amateurs!
The corporal spoke rapidly, and as he did, Ethan saw comprehension dawning in several of the men’s eyes.
“Good work, Corporal Keller.” Maybe now Ethan’s day would improve.
It was good that Fort Laramie had boardwalks. Thanks to the rain, the road that circled the parade ground was muddy and dotted with puddles, and the parade ground itself appeared soggy. Abigail would have taken Charlotte’s advice to wait until the sun had had a chance to dry the mud if the only item she had sought was a replacement for her smelling salts. But witnessing her sister’s continuing morning sickness had made her determined to waste no time trying to relieve it.
Elizabeth had advised both peppermint and ginger teas when Abigail had suffered an upset stomach, and they’d been as therapeutic as her sister had claimed. Surely the post trader—the sutler, to use the term Charlotte had told her was more common—would have mint, even if he didn’t carry ginger. That was the reason Abigail was headed for the one-story stone building at the northwest end of the parade ground.
The sun was bright, the sky that faultless blue that seemed characteristic of Wyoming in the summer. Even the wind had subsided, leaving a day that promised to be beautiful, assuming, of course, that one found anything about Wyoming beautiful. Abigail doubted that the soldiers marching in the center of the parade ground had any reason to rejoice as mud spattered their pant legs and clung to their boots. And then there were the other men who raced after a pack of dogs, twirling ropes as if they planned to lasso the unfortunate animals.
“Kommen sie hier!” a man shouted. Abigail laughed as the dogs refused to come. “Kommen sie hier,” the soldier repeated. Didn’t he realize that the dogs had no intention of obeying, even if they could understand German? The only sign that they heard the command was that two turned their heads, perhaps judging their pursuers’ distance, before they yipped and shouldered their way into the center of the pack.
Where had they come from? It was true that she’d seen a number of dogs yesterday and had heard some howling last night, but Abigail hadn’t realized there were so many. The pack she’d been watching raced by, yelping and snarling at the soldiers who were attempting to catch them. Though close to twenty dogs had run past her, that was only one group. On the other side of the houses, she heard another pack, and the barks at the far end of the parade ground told her that still more were circling the bakery. Abigail stared into the distance, trying to gauge the total number.
Wham! She collided with a large object. There was no mistaking the uniform or the firmness of the body beneath it. Thanks to her inattention, she had run into a soldier. Abigail raised her eyes and felt blood rush to her face at the realization that the man she had hit was Lieutenant Bowles. Ethan. How embarrassing.
“I’m sorry.” It must have been the impact that was making her breathless. Surely it wasn’t the amusement she saw in those deep blue eyes. Surely it wasn’t the fact that she was close to a man, close enough to smell soap and something else, something she couldn’t identify. If she was going to be breathless about a man, surely it should have been Woodrow who caused her heart to pound and her breath to catch. But Abigail had never felt like this around Woodrow.
“I’m sorry.” She repeated the apology in a desperate attempt to regain her sense of normalcy. “I’m afraid I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
Ethan’s lips curved. “Neither, it would appear, was I. I’m the one who must beg your pardon.”
As she took a step backward, hoping the distance would slow the racing of her heart, Abigail gestured toward the men chasing dogs. “What’s happening? I’ve never seen so many dogs.”
“Neither had Captain Westland. Three of them jumped on him this morning.”
“With muddy paws.” Abigail tried not to smile at the picture her words conjured.
“Exactly. He was exceedingly displeased.”
“And so he ordered them corralled?” That would explain the soldiers’ lassos.
Ethan nodded. “That’s part of it. The dogs have become such a nuisance that the last commanding officer increased the tax on them. Some owners believed the amount exorbitant and chose not to register their dogs, so they let them run wild.”
“And now you have even more.” Though most of the animals she’d seen were adults, five black and tan puppies had trailed behind the last pack and had apparently just discovered the delight of chasing their own tails. Abigail watched, amused that the runt of the litter, whose tail was longer than his siblings’, was the only one to catch it. One sharp nip convinced him of the folly of that particular game, and he wandered off to nurse his aching tail.
“Precisely. This morning’s decree was that any dogs that are not registered must be gotten rid of.”
“You mean . . . ?” Abigail bit her lip, not wanting to think of the fate awaiting the unfortunate animals.
Ethan nodded again. “They’ll be drowned in the river.”
“Even the puppies?” Tiring of chasing their own tails, two of the larger ones had begun to chase their smaller littermates. As they ran, their ears flapped and their oversized paws spattered mud.
“Puppies are not puppies forever.” Ethan’s voice held a hint of mirth. “They may be cute now, but soon they turn into a nuisance.”
“With muddy paws.” As his littermates scampered away, the smallest one, realizing he’d been abandoned, tried to catch up with them. But his legs were too short, and all he managed to do was stumble into a puddle, turning his once tan chest and legs brown. Abigail smiled as the puppy, apparently enjoying the sensation of muddy water on his legs, flopped onto his back and began to roll in the mud.
“Muddy paws?” Ethan chuckled. “This one looks like he has muddy everything.”
The pup rose and shook his fur, sending droplets of mud toward Abigail before he plopped down in front of
her and looked up with the biggest brown eyes she’d ever seen on a dog. Right now those eyes were beseeching Abigail, tugging at her heart. “Oh, Ethan, he’s so cute. You can’t drown him.”
“What do you propose?”
As she started to shrug, a memory surfaced. It had been the Christmas Charlotte was eight and Abigail six. Though Abigail had made many wishes, Charlotte had longed for only one gift: a puppy. At night when they were supposed to be fast asleep, Charlotte had confided that she was certain their parents would grant her wish. But when Christmas morning arrived, though their stockings had been stuffed with fruits and nuts, there had been no dog. “A puppy is too much trouble,” Papa had explained. Only Abigail knew the number of tears Charlotte had shed and how deeply hurt she had been five Christmases later when Elizabeth had begged for and received a dog.
There was no undoing that, but maybe—just maybe—this woebegone puppy could fill an empty spot in Charlotte’s life. Abigail bent down and gathered the muddy creature into her arms. “I know the perfect home for him.” He was wet and squirmy and smelled worse than almost anything Abigail could recall, and yet she smiled as the puppy attempted to lick her face.
“Don’t laugh, Ethan, but he’s going to be a very belated Christmas gift. My sister needs this little ball of fur.”
4
Are you certain? A puppy is not . . .”
“A puppy forever.” Abigail couldn’t help smiling. Not only was the puppy wriggling in her arms as if he thought he’d been suddenly transported to paradise, but Ethan’s quizzical expression inspired laughter. His lips twitched, and he raised his eyebrows so high they nearly touched his cap. Abigail looked at the subject of Ethan’s amusement and smiled again. “I know that, and in this case, it’s good that he’ll outgrow puppyhood . . . if there is such a word. His antics will entertain Charlotte now, but he should be settled down a bit by the time . . .” Abigail paused, realizing she had ventured into a forbidden topic. Charlotte hadn’t indicated whether anyone other than Jeffrey and the midwife knew she was enceinte, and, in any case, it was unseemly for a woman to mention such a personal event to a man who was not part of the family.
Ethan’s lips curved in another smile. “You mean by the time the child arrives?”
“Yes.” A wave of relief washed over Abigail at the realization that she would not have to explain her sentence fragment. As a teacher, she insisted that her pupils speak in complete sentences, and normally she followed her own advice, but Charlotte’s delicate condition was not a normal occurrence. “I wasn’t certain whether anyone knew about Charlotte,” she said, once again choosing not to be more explicit. “At home, no one would have discussed the upcoming event, but everything is so different here.” She gestured toward the parade ground where the soldiers were still trying to capture the dogs and where the wind blew the flag straight out from the pole.
“So you’ve told me, more than once. As far as the child goes, Jeffrey practically shouted the news from the rooftops this morning. I’ve never seen him so excited.” Ethan gave Abigail a crooked smile. “Almost as excited as you looked when you picked up that muddy ball of fur.”
Abigail pretended to bristle. “I’ll have you know that this muddy ball of fur, as you so rudely refer to him, is an adorable puppy.”
Ethan held up his hands in mock surrender. “Is that adorable puppy . . .” He grinned as he pronounced the words. “I can’t say it with a straight face, so let’s start again. Is this little fellow your cure for boredom? You seem to think that everyone who lives in Wyoming must be bored.”
Abigail hadn’t thought of the puppy in those terms. If anything, she would have called him an answer to prayer, for she did not doubt that he’d been put in her path for a reason. “Perhaps he will be. What I do know is that everyone, regardless of their age, needs to play.” Mama and Papa had set the example at each of the churches where Papa had been called to serve, organizing skating parties in the winter, croquet games in the summer, and long hikes during spring and fall. Even mud season, that unpleasant time when the snow was melting but flowers had yet to bloom, had been brightened by charades. Abigail would remind Charlotte of that when she gave her the dog.
She patted the top of the puppy’s head, wondering whether the short fur would be soft once the mud was removed. “Charlotte—and maybe even Jeffrey—can play with him.”
Ethan’s eyebrows, which had settled down, rose again. “Somehow, I can’t picture Jeffrey playing with a puppy.”
Abigail couldn’t either, but that mattered little. What was important was that Charlotte would have a companion when Abigail returned to Vermont. What was important right now was getting him to his new home and getting him cleaned up before Jeffrey arrived for dinner.
As Abigail turned and headed back, Ethan fell into step beside her. “You’ll need to register him and, of course, make sure you keep him under control.”
“Fortunately, the yard is fenced.”
“But dogs have been known to dig under fences.”
“True.” Abigail looked down at the puppy, who had fallen asleep in her arms. Though he looked angelic now, she wouldn’t vouch for his behavior once he wakened. “I’ll buy a rope. I assume the sutler carries roping.”
“Along with almost everything else you could want.” Ethan nodded when they reached Charlotte’s house. “Good day, Abigail, and good luck.”
“Now, why would I need luck? I’d say both he and I are already lucky.” Abigail nodded at the dog in her arms.
“Let’s wait a week and see whether you still feel that way. Puppies can get into a lot of mischief.”
“Not this one.” Still laughing at Ethan’s comical look, Abigail walked around the house to the back door. If she was fortunate, Mrs. Channing would not have arrived yet. Charlotte had said that the cook was a bit of a martinet and did not like having her routine disturbed. A puppy would be a disturbance to anyone’s routine.
“Charlotte,” Abigail called as she entered the rear hall, “come here. I have something to show you.” Fortunately, there was no sign of the cook. At the sound of footsteps, the puppy wakened and began to wriggle in Abigail’s arms, then gave out a sharp yip, as if greeting Charlotte.
Abigail felt her pulse accelerate as she waited for her sister’s reaction. Would Charlotte think she was crazy, bringing a bedraggled puppy to her? After all, it had been many years since she had begged for one.
Charlotte’s response was everything Abigail had hoped for. “A dog.” She clasped her hands with childlike wonder, and a smile lit her face. “What on earth are you doing with a dog?” The hesitation in her voice told Abigail she was afraid to raise her expectations only to have them dashed.
“I couldn’t bear to think of him being drowned,” Abigail said when she’d explained what the soldiers were doing. “Besides, I hoped you’d enjoy his company. I told Ethan he was a belated Christmas gift.” When tears filled Charlotte’s eyes, Abigail wrinkled her nose and added, “A smelly gift.” Carefully, she transferred the puppy to her sister, smiling at the way Charlotte held him at arm’s length, then relented and let the little creature lick her face.
“Oh, Abigail, he’s darling. Of course I’ll keep him.” Charlotte stroked the puppy’s head, grimacing when she noticed that her fingers were covered with dried mud. “But why does he smell so awful?”
“I found him rolling in a mud puddle.”
“Oh, my. Well, a bit of soap and water will take care of that.” Charlotte carried the puppy into the kitchen and nodded when Abigail reached for a kettle of water. “Even though it’s summer, we should probably heat it a bit.” Smiling at the wriggling ball of fur, she crooned, “First a bath, then we’ll get you something to eat.”
Abigail set the kettle on the flame and looked around for a pan to use as a bathtub. While it was larger than she would have liked, the washtub would have to do. No matter how cute he was, the dog was not going into a cooking pot.
She glanced at her sister as she dragged the tub
into the center of the room. Charlotte beamed with happiness, validating Abigail’s decision to save the puppy.
Charlotte looked down at her new pet. He’d started to squirm, and the contented yips turned to whimpers. “This little one needs a name. What do you think, Abigail? What shall I call him?”
Another whimper was followed by the sound of liquid hitting the floor. “Oh no!” Charlotte’s pleasure turned to a cry of dismay and she held the dog away from her, trying to keep her previously immaculate cashmere skirt from being spattered.
“Puppies.” Abigail grabbed a rag. “I’ll clean up the puddle.”
When the floor was once more dry, Charlotte studied the dog. “Mud puddles. Other kinds of puddles.” She tipped her head to one side, considering. “That’s it,” she said, a smile of satisfaction lighting her face. “His name is Puddles.”
“Perfect.” If Abigail knew anything about dogs, this wouldn’t be the last puddle the pup would leave in the house. She poured the now warm water into the tub and beckoned to Charlotte to give Puddles to her. “You might want to stand back,” she cautioned. Unlike yesterday when Charlotte had been wearing a washable morning dress, today she had donned an elaborately trimmed gown. Though similar to the fashions Abigail had seen in Godey’s Lady’s Book, the lace trim and handmade buttons told her this was one of her sister’s designs. Charlotte was a talented dressmaker. No question of that. The problem was, this particular gown was not suitable for bathing a dog.
As Abigail had expected, the puppy protested. Muddy water was fine. After all, that was his idea, but a bath was something else. As Abigail soaped his fur, Puddles barked and yipped, then began to howl, all the while struggling to escape from her grip.
