by Amanda Cabot
The blood drained from Jeffrey’s face, leaving his freckles in stark relief against his pale skin. “But she was fine last night.”
Her brother-in-law’s obvious distress caused Abigail to soften her voice. “That was last night. This morning, she’s so weak that she asked me to fetch Mrs. Grayson. She’s ordered a week’s bed rest for Charlotte.”
“Bed rest. That hasn’t happened before.” The slight trembling in Jeffrey’s voice told Abigail he appreciated the gravity of the situation. “Charlotte’s got to get better. She has to.” Furrows appeared between his eyes as another thought assailed him. “What about the baby?”
Abigail almost sighed with relief that Jeffrey’s first thought had been for his wife. Charlotte’s fears that Jeffrey loved her only because she would carry his children were unfounded.
“The baby’s all right at this point,” Abigail said, “but Mrs. Grayson doesn’t want to take any chances. That’s why she’s insisting Charlotte have no disturbances.” As she had walked around the parade ground and seen the men in formation, Abigail’s thoughts had turned to the tall blond soldier who made mealtime so pleasant. “Would you explain to Ethan that our meals will be very simple and that it would be better if he not come to the house at this time?”
“Of course.” Jeffrey was silent for a moment. “Charlotte should be Mrs. Channing’s only concern. Ethan and I will eat with the other officers.” He stared into the distance for a moment, his jaw clenched. When he spoke, Jeffrey’s voice was fierce. “Nothing must hurt my wife or my child.”
“I’ll be all right.” Though Charlotte’s face was still pale and she continued to have bouts of morning sickness, she looked better than she had two days earlier. She stretched out her hand to clasp Abigail’s and held it tightly. “Honestly, Abigail. I’ll be fine. After all, it’s not as if you’re deserting me. You’ll only be gone for an hour or so, and I know you must be bored. It can’t be any fun being cooped up here with me sleeping most of the time and Jeffrey gone.”
To Abigail’s surprise, Jeffrey had taken to heart Mrs. Grayson’s advice that Charlotte should not be disturbed and was hardly ever at home. He ate with the bachelor officers, and when he returned late at night, he slept on a pallet in the parlor rather than climbing the stairs and risking the possibility of disturbing his wife. Jeffrey stopped in once or twice a day, spending no more than five minutes with Charlotte before leaving again. To Abigail’s way of thinking, it was her sister who must be bored . . . and lonely. That was one of the reasons she hesitated when Charlotte suggested that she take her mare on a ride.
“You really need to be outside more,” Charlotte continued. “It seems to me the only activity you get is chasing Puddles and brushing twigs out of his coat.”
“For a little dog, he has a lot of energy,” Abigail admitted. “There are times when I’m out of breath just trying to keep up with him.” The puppy loved to run, and Abigail wouldn’t deny him that pleasure, even though it meant running around the yard in what her mother would have called a most unseemly manner. It was almost as tiring trying to get Puddles to hold still long enough to be brushed. “I suspect I’ll never figure out what he gets into.” The twigs, as Charlotte called them, were not ordinary twigs. These stuck to Puddles’s hair as if they had a hundred tiny hooks.
“Tumbleweeds.” Charlotte’s answer was succinct. “They have sharp edges everywhere—worse than a rose’s thorns.”
“Worse than a yucca?”
Charlotte tipped her head to one side, as if pondering the question. “Maybe not, but yuccas don’t chase you. Tumbleweeds do.”
“And Puddles catches every one.” In doing so, he’d deepened Mrs. Channing’s disapproval. Each day she delivered a litany of complaints about what she called “the despicable creature’s despicable behavior,” insisting that the only reason she remained was Charlotte’s illness. “It wouldn’t be fair to desert Mrs. Crowley now,” she announced, “but when she’s back on her feet . . .” The threat, though not voiced, was clear.
Charlotte looked down at the puppy with the outsized paws who was sleeping peacefully on the floor. “He may be rambunctious, but he’s such a delight. I don’t know what I’d do without him—and you, of course.” Charlotte’s mischievous smile told Abigail she had deliberately pretended that she was an afterthought. “Puddles and I will be fine while you’re gone. So, go, enjoy yourself and don’t rush back. I feel like taking a long nap.”
It felt good to be on a horse again, Abigail admitted to herself as she emerged from the stables on Sally’s back. The mare was as gentle as Charlotte had claimed, and since all three Harding sisters wore the same size clothing, Charlotte’s green riding habit fit Abigail as if it had been made for her. The familiar-looking enlisted man who’d been cleaning out the stalls had started to call her Mrs. Crowley, then blushed when he realized his mistake.
“It’s all right, Corporal,” Abigail said. “I’m flattered that you think I look like my sister.” Though Mama had claimed that all her daughters were lovely, Abigail knew that Charlotte was the beauty of the family. Even Woodrow had commented on Charlotte’s good looks, while he’d never told Abigail she was beautiful. Woodrow was not a flatterer.
As the corporal saddled the mare, Abigail narrowed her eyes slightly, trying to remember where she had seen the man. “Oh,” she said, smiling at the memory. “You’re the soldier who was chasing the dogs and calling to them in German.”
“Ja,” he admitted. “I did that, but it did no good. They paid me no mind, no matter vat language I spoke.” Though the man’s accent was heavy, his grammar was impeccable. Mrs. Barnett, who claimed that a slight accent was charming but that poor grammar was a mark of ignorance, would be impressed.
As thoughts of the headmaster’s wife flitted through Abigail’s head, she wondered what Woodrow was doing today. Was he too preparing for a ride? More likely, he had found someone for a tennis match, for tennis was his favorite summer pastime. Miss Thayer was a good tennis player. Perhaps she would challenge him. Or perhaps one of the students would ask for lessons. Henrietta Walsh’s parents had paid Woodrow to teach her last summer, and the girl had spent the entire school year regaling anyone who would listen with stories of Woodrow’s prowess. But Woodrow and tennis matches were almost two thousand miles away.
Abigail watched as the corporal tested the saddle cinches. “Do you vant me to go vith you, ma’am?” he asked. “I vill ask my sergeant for permission.”
Abigail shook her head. “No, thank you, Corporal . . .” She let her voice trail off, hoping he would offer his name.
“Keller, ma’am. Dietrich Keller.”
“Thank you, Corporal Keller, but my sister assures me I’ll be safe riding alone so long as I stay close to the fort.”
“Ja, you vill. Good day, ma’am.”
Abigail rode slowly through the fort, giving herself a chance to get used to Sally. Despite Charlotte’s admonition to take a long ride, she had decided she would do no more than circle the outside of the garrison. Fort Laramie was located on a deep bend of the Laramie River, with the river forming its southern and eastern boundaries. Though she knew that horses could easily ford the river, Abigail would not risk getting Charlotte’s habit wet. That’s why bridges had been invented. She’d cross the bridge at the east end of the garrison, then follow the river, retracing her steps when the fort was no longer in sight.
Abigail settled into the saddle, smiling at the puffy cumulus clouds scudding across the sky. Though Wyoming would never compare to Vermont’s green beauty, there was no denying that the sky here was magnificent. The sounds were different too. At home, she heard dairy cows mooing. Now that she was outside the fort, Abigail realized that the noise of soldiers marching, the shouts and bugle calls that were part of daily life, and the seemingly incessant construction noise blocked the natural sounds. Out here, the wind was dominant, rustling through the long grasses, carrying bird calls and odd whistles on its breezes.
Abigail looked aro
und as the whistling grew louder, accompanied by occasional squeaks. The source, she discovered, was a prairie dog sitting on top of his mound, apparently announcing her arrival to the rest of his colony. She reined in Sally and watched for a moment, recalling the stories Mrs. Dunn had recounted on the stagecoach. Prairie dogs, the widow had claimed, were social creatures whose favorite pastime appeared to be standing on their hind legs, exchanging gossip with their neighbors. That certainly seemed to be true. Seeing the number of animals standing on the mounds of dirt they’d excavated from their underground homes, all apparently chatting to each other, Abigail knew why the colonies were referred to as prairie dog towns.
The critters were as cute as squirrels, but Abigail knew that their burrows presented dangers to the unwary. Recalling Mrs. Dunn’s story of breaking her ankle when she stumbled into a gopher hole, Abigail guided Sally away from the prairie dog town. She wouldn’t risk injuring her sister’s mare.
“How much farther shall we go?” she asked the horse. Predictably, Sally said nothing. Abigail spotted a large cottonwood a hundred or so yards farther. “That’s where we’ll turn around,” she announced.
And she would have, had she not seen a figure sitting on the riverbank, shaded by the tree. The full sleeves and long skirts told Abigail this was a woman; the slumped shoulders and bent head telegraphed despair. Even from a distance, Abigail could see that the woman was sobbing.
“C’mon, Sally,” she urged the mare. “Let’s see if we can help.”
Seconds later, Abigail was on the ground. Though it might be difficult to mount Sally again, she wouldn’t approach the young woman on horseback. Something in the woman’s posture told her that she was as wary as a wild animal. A stranger on horseback would be more intimidating than one on foot. But even walking was enough to alarm the woman. As soon as Abigail dismounted, she jumped to her feet. Though she straightened her shoulders and tossed her blonde hair over her shoulders in what could be viewed as a defiant gesture, her expression was one of desperation.
“Can I help you?” Abigail’s heart turned over at the anguish she saw in the woman’s eyes. A lighter blue than Ethan’s, they bore more pain than Abigail had ever seen in such a young face. For, even through the heavy coating of powder that reminded Abigail of Mrs. Dunn and the paint that would have appalled Mama, Abigail could see that the woman was no older than she.
“How can I help you?” Abigail rephrased the question, for there was no doubt that this woman needed her help.
The woman shook her head, setting the blonde hair that was her greatest beauty to swinging and releasing a whiff of perfume. “I don’t need no help. Nothing’s wrong, Miss . . .”
“Harding.” Abigail completed the sentence. “I’m Abigail Harding, but I won’t believe that nothing’s wrong.”
The woman rubbed her eyes, brushing the tears aside. Her face might have been pretty were it not blotched with tears. “It’s nothin’ you can change. Anyhow, you shouldn’t oughta be talkin’ to me, Miss Harding.”
“Why not?” This woman wasn’t part of the Army with its rules about fraternization. Her painted face and the strong perfume made Abigail suspect she was one of the women Charlotte had scorned last week, but even if she were, that was no reason for Abigail not to try to help her. If anything, it was a reason she ought to.
Abigail gave the woman her brightest smile, the one that had won over many a bashful student. “Please tell me your name. I don’t want to address you as just ‘miss.’”
The woman wrapped her arms around her waist, as if to comfort herself, and Abigail noticed that her dress, though made of a simple cotton, was the same shade of blue as her eyes. Though Charlotte might cringe at the thought that she had anything in common with this woman, it appeared they both cared about fashion.
“My name’s Leah,” the woman said softly. “No one calls me ‘miss’ anything. I’m just Leah.”
“If you tell me your surname, Leah, I’ll use it.”
She shook her head. “That wun’t be proper. You shouldn’t be talkin’ to me at all.”
“Why not?”
The woman’s blue eyes reflected pain and something else, something Abigail thought might be shame. If she was what Mama would have called a fallen woman, Leah might be embarrassed to admit it.
The pretty blonde took a deep breath and blurted out, “I work at the hog ranch.”
Abigail felt herself relax. She had jumped to a conclusion, and it was wrong. “There’s nothing wrong with raising pigs, Leah.”
Leah’s laugh held no mirth. “You ain’t from around here, are you? There ain’t no pigs on a hog ranch. Peg’s is a place where men go to drink whiskey and play poker and . . .” Leah stopped, clearly trying to choose her words. “To visit women,” she said at last.
“I see.” And Abigail did. It wasn’t just the land that was different in Wyoming. People here spoke a different language. Bandits were called road agents, houses of ill repute hog ranches. But one thing remained the same: whether she was in Vermont or Wyoming, Abigail could not ignore a person in need.
“I reckon you oughta get on that horse and leave, Miss Harding. You shouldn’t oughta be associatin’ with folks like me. You shouldn’t oughta have stopped.”
Abigail glanced at Sally and saw that the mare was grazing contentedly. There was no reason for her to depart and every reason to stay. She shook her head, dismissing Leah’s suggestion. “I saw a woman who looked lonely and sad, and I thought I might be able to help.”
“I told you, ain’t no one can help.” Leah brushed aside the tears that welled in her eyes. “I hate what I do, but I ain’t got no choice.”
Abigail wouldn’t believe that. “There must be something else. I heard that the officers’ wives are always looking for servants.”
A look of astonishment crossed Leah’s face. “You think they’d hire me? That’s a purty picture—me cookin’ and cleanin’ house for some lady when I used to entertain her man. It ain’t gonna happen, Miss Harding. Oh, I can keep a house clean, and I cook better than most, but ain’t no fancy lady gonna let me inside her house. They’re afraid of me.”
Was that why Charlotte had reacted so strongly? Abigail dismissed the thought as quickly as it flitted through her brain. Charlotte and Jeffrey were practically newlyweds; he loved her; there was no reason to believe he had strayed.
“Perhaps you could cook at Peg’s instead of entertaining men.”
Leah shook her head. “Peg wun’t agree. The men don’t care much about the food, but they sure don’t mind plunking down their coins for some entertainment.”
“You could leave.” Even as Abigail pronounced the words, she knew how unlikely the prospect was. Where would Leah go, and how would she get there? In all likelihood, she had no money.
“I cain’t.” Leah’s shoulders slumped. “Peg said she’d hunt me down if’n I left. You see, the fellas like me better than the other girls, cuz I’m young and my hair is yellow. The other girls gotta wear wigs to have yellow hair.”
“And they resent that.”
“Yes, miss, they do. I ain’t got no friends.”
Abigail’s heart ached for the young woman whose life had been so different from hers. As much as she wished it was otherwise, she doubted she could do anything to alter Leah’s circumstances. There was, however, one thing she could do. “I’d like to be your friend,” Abigail said softly as she extended her hand.
Leah shook her head, ignoring the outstretched hand. “That ain’t proper.”
“You did what?” Charlotte pushed herself into a sitting position and glared at her sister. Though she was awake when Abigail returned, she’d been lying down; now shock and anger propelled her upward.
Refusing to match her sister’s raised voice, Abigail spoke softly yet firmly. “You heard me the first time, Charlotte. I told Leah I wanted to be her friend, and I do.”
“Are you daft? She works at the hog ranch. You know decent women don’t associate with soiled doves.” Spots
of color appeared on Charlotte’s cheeks as she warmed to her lecture. “Whatever were you thinking, or weren’t you thinking?”
“I thought that a woman needed my help. You’d have done the same thing if you’d seen her.” Abigail wasn’t certain of that. The Charlotte she’d known in Vermont would have sought to help a woman in distress, but the Wyoming Charlotte, Charlotte the wife, was different.
Charlotte shook her head. “You’re wrong. I would never have gotten that close. You must have noticed that she wasn’t dressed like us.”
Abigail looked at her sister. Even her nightdress was more elegant than most women’s, with delicate pin tucking and the finest of lace decorating the neckline. “No one dresses as well as you do. They don’t have your skill with a needle or your eye for fashion, but Leah’s dress was perfectly respectable.”
Charlotte was not to be placated. “I don’t care what the harlot was wearing. What I do care is that you spoke to her. Oh, Abigail, when will you outgrow your impulsiveness? One of these days, you need to realize that you can’t help everyone.” Charlotte shuddered. “A soiled dove! How could you?”
“How could I not?” Though Mrs. Grayson had admonished Abigail to keep her sister calm, she had to explain. “I remembered Mama and Papa talking about the Golden Rule. I thought Leah needed love, and maybe I could offer it.”
As her words found their mark, Abigail watched Charlotte’s face soften. “You’re right,” she said. “It’s just that I hate the thought of that kind of temptation so close to the fort. And . . .” She hesitated for a second, as if choosing her words. “I worry about you, Abigail. I know you mean well and that you want to solve every problem you see, but you can’t. I’m worried that you’ll get hurt trying.”
