by Amanda Cabot
As a large bird soared overhead, Abigail smiled. Even she had to admit that the sky was magnificent, especially with the hawk or eagle or whatever it was casting its shadow on the ground.
“Let me guess. Is food the main attraction?”
Though he shrugged, Ethan’s grin confirmed her supposition. “Anything’s better than dry bread and coffee—no milk or sugar, just coffee. That’s what the men are served for supper most days.”
Abigail wrinkled her nose. “That does not sound in the least appetizing.” Even the bland meals Mrs. Channing had prepared for Charlotte were more appealing than that. “Have you considered the possibility that food might be the reason men desert?”
She had been half joking, but Ethan nodded. “Low pay, poor food, and harsh conditions. It’s a tough life, but I still can’t sympathize with men who don’t live up to their commitments. They gave their word when they enlisted.” He stared into the distance, the clenching of his jaw telling Abigail that his thoughts had strayed into unpleasant territory. “My grandfather and I don’t agree on very many things, but I do agree with one thing he taught me, and that’s that a man’s honor is his most valuable possession.”
Papa had said the same thing, telling his daughters that they must follow through on any promises they made. “I think my father would have liked your grandfather.”
Ethan muttered something that sounded like a scoff. “I doubt that. Grandfather is not a likeable man.”
His tone hinted at a conflict that was deeper than a few disagreements and confirmed her impression that Ethan’s childhood had been a difficult one. How sad! Abigail could not imagine growing up in a household that wasn’t filled with love. While her parents had never had many material possessions, they’d lavished love on their daughters, but it seemed that Ethan’s life had been the opposite. He’d never known poverty, but he also had never known love. Though Abigail longed to learn more about Ethan and his grandfather, the glint in his eyes told her that was a forbidden subject, and so she simply nodded before she asked Ethan whether there would be a baseball game as part of the Independence Day celebration.
Though he shook his head, he was smiling, perhaps because he liked the idea, perhaps because he was relieved that Abigail had not pursued the subject of his grandfather. A moment later, he reined in his horse. “Aren’t the flowers beautiful?” he asked when they had both stopped.
“Those are flowers? I thought they were stones.”
Ethan laughed as he dismounted. “I assure you, they’re flowers. C’mon.”
He was simply being a gentleman, helping her off her horse; there was nothing untoward in his actions. Yet Abigail had never been so aware of the warmth of a man’s hands. It was almost as if the outline of his fingers were imprinted on her waist. She took a step backward, trying to regain her equilibrium.
“You have to get close to appreciate them.”
Grateful for the excuse to move, Abigail knelt next to one of the white patches and discovered that what she had believed to be stones were masses of the smallest flowers she had ever seen. Though each was no more than a fraction of an inch across, the blossoms clustered together to form a beautiful mound of white. As she bent her head to study them, Abigail discovered that each flower had five distinct rounded petals and a yellow center so small that it was practically invisible.
“Oh, they’re lovely,” she said softly. Perhaps Ethan was right. Perhaps she needed to look more closely, and perhaps it wasn’t only flowers that benefited from a closer look. Perhaps she needed to view people differently too. Unbidden, Leah’s image filled her mind, making her wonder what she would discover if she spent more time with her.
Unaware of Abigail’s internal turmoil, Ethan chuckled. “Be careful, Abigail. Before you know it, you’ll find yourself liking Wyoming.”
It wasn’t a matter of liking or disliking, Abigail realized. It was simply that life here was very different from Vermont. At home she would have been too busy to spend a morning searching for wildflowers. “We don’t have flowers like these in Vermont,” she admitted. “Do you know what they’re called?”
Ethan quirked an eyebrow. “I’ll have you know they didn’t teach horticulture at West Point, but . . .” He paused for dramatic effect. “Someone told me these are Rocky Mountain phlox.”
Rising, Abigail looked around and spotted another white-flowering plant. This one was considerably larger than the stone-like clusters. “What is this?” she asked, moving closer to inspect it. “The flowers look like poppies, but I’ve never seen white ones.”
“Be careful,” Ethan cautioned as she bent to touch the paper-thin petals. “They’re called prickly poppies. If you touch the leaves, you’ll learn why.”
From a distance, the bluish-gray leaves appeared innocuous, but as she looked more carefully, Abigail saw that they did indeed have sharp edges. “I venture to say they’re not as dangerous as yuccas.”
“Few things are as sharp as a yucca,” Ethan agreed, “but the flowers are pretty enough.”
“That’s what Mrs. Dunn told me.”
“Mrs. Dunn?”
It was Abigail’s turn to laugh. “How could you forget our companion from the stagecoach?”
He groaned. “Ah yes, the widow with the wagging tongue.”
Abigail hoped he didn’t remember that one of the widow’s wags of the tongue had concerned Ethan as a potential suitor. That was a dangerous subject to contemplate, particularly when the wind carried Ethan’s scent, teasing Abigail with the memory of how she’d inhaled it when he’d helped her dismount. “Mrs. Dunn meant well, and she gave me some good advice. Thanks to her, I was careful to keep Sally away from prairie dog holes.”
“How cruel of you to remind me that Samson was not so fortunate.” The crook of his lips that accompanied Ethan’s words told Abigail he was only joking. “Just for that, I may not help you back on your horse.”
But he did, cupping his hands so she could step into them as she mounted Sally. It felt strange, using a man’s hands that way, and yet there was something comforting about it. Perhaps it was the reminder that, while she might be in a seemingly wild place, she was not alone. They’d ridden farther than Abigail had dared on her solitary ride, leaving the fort far behind, yet she’d felt not a twinge of concern. Instead, she had enjoyed the countryside, Ethan’s company, and their conversation. Strangely enough, she even enjoyed the silence, the times when their casual conversation faded and they rode side by side without speaking.
Woodrow could not tolerate silence. When he and Abigail were together, he was either telling her something or asking her a question. There were no long pauses and certainly never minutes without a spoken word. This was different. The silence was comfortable.
Abigail wasn’t certain how long they’d ridden when she realized that they’d made a large circle and were now approaching familiar landmarks. The solitary cottonwood by the river was surely the one where she’d met Leah, and the outline of grayish white buildings told her they were close to the fort.
As they approached the tree, Abigail saw that Leah was there again. Though she wore the same dress, her shoulders were not slumped. Instead, her posture seemed almost jaunty. Abigail said a silent prayer of thanks as she tightened the reins and headed toward the young woman. She would not return to the fort without greeting Leah. Though she had no solution to Leah’s dilemma, she could at least offer friendship. “Good morning, Leah,” Abigail called out. “I’m glad to see you again.”
Ethan said nothing, unless a snort could be considered a form of communication, but he remained at Abigail’s side.
As she drew closer, Abigail saw that Leah’s hair was damp as if she had washed it in the river. A pang of regret twisted Abigail’s heart. When would she learn? Though she’d meant to encourage her, Abigail’s impulsive action had put Leah in an embarrassing position. No lady would allow a strange man to see her hair unless it was properly coiffed. Leah gathered the long, thick tresses in her hands and held them
behind her head, and as she did, the wind carried her scent toward Abigail.
For a second Abigail felt as if she would faint. Though she wanted to deny it, she could not. Leah’s was the perfume Abigail had smelled in the parlor. That was why it had seemed familiar. Leah had been wearing it when Abigail had met her. Oh, Jeffrey, how could you? Abigail clenched her fists, trying to control her anger.
Perhaps her distress communicated itself to Leah, for she did not meet Abigail’s gaze as she said, “Good morning, Miss Harding. Sir. I must be going now.”
“And we’d best be getting back to the fort.” Though he phrased it as a comment, there was steel in Ethan’s voice, making his words tantamount to a command. His rigid posture told Abigail he disapproved of Leah as much as Charlotte did.
Ethan waited until they were out of earshot before he spoke again, and when he did, his words were harsh. “How do you know that woman?” he demanded.
Still reeling from the thought that Jeffrey spent his evenings with Leah, Abigail met Ethan’s gaze, refusing to be cowed by his apparent anger. She was angry too, but her anger was directed at Jeffrey and all the other men who took advantage of Leah’s helplessness. “If you’re referring to Leah, I met her the first time I came out riding.”
Ethan’s lips tightened. “You know what she is, don’t you?” It was as she had feared. Ethan judged Leah by the way she earned her living and refused to see that there was an ordinary woman beneath the painted face.
“I know who she is,” Abigail countered. “Leah is a woman caught in unfortunate circumstances.”
Ethan shook his head. “What do you know of her circumstances? Have you ever seen a hog ranch?” He stared into the distance for a long moment before he said, “Maybe you should.”
He turned away from the river, apparently ignoring the sight of Leah walking in the same direction. They rode for less than a mile, but for the first time Abigail found the silence uncomfortable. Ethan was seething, the severe line of his lips leaving no doubt that he was displeased. The only question was whether that displeasure was aimed at Abigail or Leah.
As they approached a dilapidated collection of buildings, Ethan gestured toward them. “This is it. This is Peg’s Place.”
Though Abigail had heard complaints about the condition of the frame buildings at the fort, they were well-built edifices compared to these. Peg’s Place consisted of a cluster of flimsy wooden structures whose paint had long since faded and peeled. The center building was flanked by three smaller structures on either side, and what appeared to be a stable stood at the far end. If this was where Leah lived, it was no wonder she looked so . . . defeated. That was the only word Abigail could find to describe her.
A couple chickens scratched in the dirt, while two women leaned against one of the smaller buildings. Though the women were considerably older than Leah, their garish clothing left no doubt of their occupation. They looked up with interest at the sound of hoofbeats, but when they saw Abigail, they resumed their conversation. One swatted at a fly, and as she did, the scent of her perfume reached Abigail. It was the same as Leah’s, the same one that had lingered in the parlor. While that might mean that Leah was not the woman Jeffrey visited, it did not exonerate him. The evidence seemed clear: Jeffrey had visited the hog ranch at least once.
“Good morning, Miss Harding.” The postmaster greeted her with his customary grin as he approached Charlotte’s house at the same time as Abigail. “The letter you’ve been waiting for arrived today.”
As he handed her an envelope bearing Woodrow’s distinctive script, Abigail murmured her gratitude. Woodrow’s letter was just what she needed, an antidote to the realization that Jeffrey had frequented Peg’s Place and Ethan’s admonition that she stay away from Leah.
“I reckon that’s from your beau,” the postmaster said. “You better hurry and read it.”
Abigail did, not even removing her bonnet before she slid the closely written pages from the envelope.
The academy is lonely without you, Woodrow had written. I think about last summer, recalling the times we rowed across the lake and the picnics we shared under the willow trees. The letter continued for several pages, detailing Woodrow’s plans for a new history class, and Abigail found herself skimming his words, looking for something more personal. She found it on the last page. I miss you. You must come home, Abigail. You’ve been with your sister long enough. I insist you take the next train. It’s time to begin making plans.
Though he said nothing more, Abigail knew those plans were for their future. She stared out the window, looking at the now deserted parade ground. A week ago she would have been thrilled that Woodrow missed her and wanted to discuss their life together. She ought to be happy, but all she heard was the peremptory tone to his words. I insist you take the next train. The words grated. It wasn’t simply that Woodrow was ordering her around the way Ethan ordered his men. Though she couldn’t explain the reason, Abigail was not ready to return to Vermont.
“So, what did the old man want?” Jeffrey asked.
Ethan frowned. The two men were seated at the end of the long table, enjoying what passed for dinner. The only good news of the day was that the midwife had declared Charlotte well enough to resume her normal activities. Jeffrey had been grinning as he’d announced that Ethan was invited to share meals with them beginning tomorrow. There was no doubt that Mrs. Channing’s cooking was excellent. Ethan knew he’d enjoy that. What wasn’t clear was how Abigail would feel about having him there. He could blame no one but himself for that.
He hadn’t been wrong when he’d explained that decent women did not frequent the hog ranch or speak to its residents. The problem was, he’d sounded just like his grandfather, all stern and disapproving. Ethan had hated it when Grandfather had used that superior tone, trying to quell Ethan’s enthusiasm with his scorn, so it was understandable that Abigail had been annoyed with him.
The truth was, Ethan should not have interfered, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. He didn’t want Abigail hurt, and nothing good could come from her association with Leah. No matter how innocent it might be, the officers’ wives wouldn’t approve, and their disapproval could make Abigail’s life here decidedly unpleasant, and so he’d spoken more harshly than he intended, with the result that he’d hurt her. Now he owed her an apology. Another one.
“The captain.” Jeffrey stabbed a piece of meat with so much force that his fork chattered against the plate, bringing Ethan’s thoughts back to the present. “What did he say?”
“He was not happy. It seems some firearms were stolen last night, and he ordered me to get to the bottom of it.” Ethan frowned, remembering how he’d spent the remainder of the morning. “As you would expect, none of the men admitted knowing anything. I’m not sure whether they’re telling the truth or protecting someone. All I know is that Captain Westland expects me to find the rifles and the thief, and he wants results now.”
Jeffrey’s smile was sympathetic. “Good luck with that. The rifles are probably already sold.”
“To whom?” If Ethan could find out who bought them, he might be able to learn the thief’s identity.
“Ranchers, Indians, travelers—although not so many of the last two anymore.” Jeffrey took a swallow of coffee before adding, “If you’re wondering how I know, the last time this happened, the old man put me in charge. I guess it’s the duty they fob off on the newest lieutenant.”
“Did you find the thief?”
Jeffrey’s pursed lips made his answer redundant. “No. One rancher admitted he bought his rifles from a soldier. He claimed he couldn’t recognize the man—said we all look alike.”
Ethan had heard that before, and he supposed that if a man wasn’t particularly observant, all men in uniforms did resemble each other. “Does this happen very often?”
“Not anymore. It used to be more common,” Jeffrey admitted. “My theory is that the thief is an enlisted man who needs extra money. You might want to see who’s been gambli
ng and losing a lot lately.”
Ethan nodded. “That makes sense.” With the paymaster coming only every two months and sometimes being delayed, soldiers were almost always short of money. “Of course, I doubt anyone will tell me what I need to know.” He couldn’t simply walk into the enlisted men’s club and ask who was down on his luck. Officers weren’t welcome in the club under the best of circumstances, and searching for a thief did not qualify as the best of anything.
“Cheer up!” Jeffrey refilled Ethan’s coffee cup along with his own. “By next week, the captain will have forgotten about the rifles, or if he hasn’t, he’ll have something else that’s more important. That’s what happened to me.”
“That would be good news.” Finding the deserters was more important, at least to Ethan.
Jeffrey reached into his pocket. “I almost forgot. I saw the postmaster this morning, and when he mentioned there was a letter for you, I offered to deliver it.”
Ethan looked at the envelope, surprised by the sight of unfamiliar handwriting. “I wasn’t expecting mail.”
“Maybe it’s good news.”
But it wasn’t. When he returned to his quarters and opened the envelope, Ethan discovered that the letter was from Mrs. Eberle, his grandfather’s housekeeper. It was the first time she’d written, and, judging from the poor grammar, the scratched-out words, and the barely legible penmanship, Mrs. Eberle had had difficulty composing the letter. Ethan had difficulty with the contents.
The housekeeper claimed that Grandfather was failing. That was hardly a surprise. Curtis Wilson was seventy-two years old, and the doctors had started warning him that he had a bad heart back when Ethan had lived with him. What was a surprise was Mrs. Eberle’s final paragraph. “Reckon you oughta come to New York right away. Your grandpa needs you.” Hah! Grandfather didn’t need anyone. Ethan crumpled the letter and discarded it.
