Summer of Promise

by Amanda Cabot

  “Does that mean you expect me to clean the fish too?” he demanded, matching her mocking tone.

  She shook her head. “If we catch any, and I must admit I consider that an unlikely event, but if we do catch a fish, I imagine Mrs. Channing knows how to clean it.”

  “That sounds as if you don’t.”

  “I don’t.”

  Ethan handed her the pole, then baited his own hook. “So, Miss Harding,” he teased, “what do you do if you don’t fish or cook?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I never said I couldn’t cook. And I simply have not had the opportunity”—she gave the word an ironic twist—“to learn how to clean a fish. That wasn’t part of the classical education my father thought his daughters needed.”

  She was starting to sound serious, and that was something Ethan could not allow. Not this morning. This morning was for laughing.

  “You didn’t answer my question. How do you spend your time?”

  “I teach.”

  She was missing the point. “It’s summer. You don’t teach during the summer.”

  “Most summers I don’t actually teach, but I work on lesson plans. And some years when we have pupils spending the whole year at the academy, I teach them how to paddle a canoe or play tennis.”

  It sounded like his childhood in Grandfather’s house, with every minute accounted for. “So you never play.”

  Abigail shrugged. “I didn’t say that. I certainly played as a child. Papa used to say that summers were a time of promise. They were our chance to try something different and exciting. Then as we grew older, he told us we should use summers to explore possibilities for our lives.”

  Perhaps that was part of the reason she had come to Wyoming. Perhaps she had realized that her regimented life at the school wasn’t as appealing as she thought. Perhaps Woodrow was not the paragon she claimed.

  “Are summers at the school exciting?”

  Ethan sensed that Abigail wanted to agree with his question but couldn’t.

  “Summers may not be exciting, but they’re also not . . .”

  “Boring?”

  As he’d hoped, she laughed. “You’re never going to let me forget that I said that, are you?”

  Ethan shook his head. “I won’t give up until you admit that Wyoming Territory is not boring. Did I neglect to tell you that I’ve made it my mission to convince you that this is the most beautiful place on Earth?” When Abigail rolled her eyes, Ethan simply grinned. “Look at that.” He pointed to the animal nibbling grass on the opposite bank.

  Abigail appeared unimpressed. “It’s a rabbit. We have rabbits in Vermont.”

  “This is not an ordinary rabbit; it’s a jackrabbit. Much larger, much faster, and its tail is black. Watch.” The rabbit nibbled for a few seconds, its enormous ears swiveling as it ate, as if listening for an enemy’s approach. Raising its head, it looked directly at Ethan and Abigail before bounding away.

  “You’re right.” A hint of amusement colored Abigail’s voice. “I’ve never seen one of those. It leapt almost like a deer.”

  “If you think that’s leaping, you should see the pronghorns.” Ethan made a mental note to show her a herd of the animals he’d been told were among the fastest in America. He looked at Abigail, noting how she seemed interested in everything around her. She wasn’t bored; she was only pretending.

  “Nature lesson’s over,” he announced. “It’s time to learn that fishing is relaxing rather than boring.” Ethan demonstrated casting, then stood on the riverbank next to Abigail as they waited for fish to take their bait.

  Abigail stared at her fishing line, as if deep concentration would make the fish bite. After a few minutes, she began to relax and turned to face Ethan. “Will I scare them away if I talk?” When Ethan shook his head, she said, “I can’t explain it, but I keep thinking about Mrs. Dunn. Remember her, the woman on the stagecoach?”

  Ethan nodded. “The widow with the wagging tongue.” That was how he thought of her, but unlike Abigail, thoughts of Mrs. Dunn rarely crossed his mind. “What makes you think about her?”

  “I keep remembering that poor woman who was kidnapped, and I think about how Mrs. Dunn lives all alone, and I wonder if maybe the kidnappers knew about her and might be hiding out there. She could be in as much danger as Mrs. Black.”

  It sounded far-fetched to Ethan, but he wouldn’t destroy the pleasant morning by saying that. “No one from the fort has been to her ranch.” Ethan had spoken with each of the search parties and had a list of all the ranches they’d visited. Mrs. Dunn was not on the list.

  “I want to find her and make sure she’s all right.”

  Ethan figured it would be a quixotic mission. If there was anyone capable of taking care of herself, it was Mrs. Dunn, but Ethan had free time, and it would be far more pleasant to spend it with Abigail than polishing his buttons and buckles.

  He felt a tug on his line. “Watch this,” he said and pulled the fish out of the water. “That’s the end of our first lesson.” Ethan slid the fish into the creel and baited his hook again. “Now that you’ve seen how it’s done, it’s time to catch your own. If you do, I’ll escort you to Mrs. Dunn’s ranch.”

  “You will?” Abigail’s smile turned radiant. If this was all it took to make her happy, he’d have to agree to more of her schemes.

  “Once you catch a fish.”

  It was perhaps only ten minutes later, but he’d caught a second fish, and Abigail still had no nibbles. “I must be doing something wrong,” she said with a hint of annoyance.

  He’d taught her to recognize the light tug that signified a bite and had let her hold his pole when the second fish was firmly hooked. “It’s all a matter of patience,” he told her.

  “That, unfortunately, is a virtue I have in short supply.”

  Ethan wasn’t surprised by the admission. The Abigail he knew was always eager to complete a task. “That’s one of the reasons I fish,” he told her, “to learn patience.”

  She appeared intrigued and gazed at her pole as if it held a secret. “Does it work?”

  “A bit.”

  “Where did you learn to fish? I don’t imagine you fished in the Hudson River.”

  “Actually, I did. I learned while I was at West Point, but you’re right. I never fished when I lived with my grandfather, even though we were only a few blocks from the river. The fish we ate came from the fish market. I imagine Grandfather would have had apoplexy if I’d done something so common as trying to catch our food.” Ethan chuckled at the thought of his stern grandfather standing on the riverbank, a fishing pole in his hand. Perhaps if he had, he would have learned that life involved more than buying up smaller businesses and amassing vast sums of money.

  “You know, I think my father would have enjoyed this, if he’d ever tried it,” Abigail said a few minutes later. “Fishing is relaxing. It gives a person time to think.” She stared at her pole for a moment, then pulled it out of the water. “I was right. I thought the worm was gone, and it was. Now, how did that happen?”

  “A sneaky fish. It nibbled the worm instead of biting the whole thing.”

  “Unfair!”

  “It’s all right, Abigail. We can go to Mrs. Dunn’s even if you don’t catch a fish.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly.”

  “Oh, Ethan, thank you!” Abigail dropped her pole and flung her arms around him. “You’re wonderful!”

  He wasn’t. Far from it, but Ethan had no intention of telling her that, not when her impulsive hug was the best thing he’d ever felt. What a perfect day!

  12

  If I were a praying man, I’d say you were an answer to prayer.”

  Abigail stared at Captain Westland in astonishment. Behind his spectacles, his light blue eyes appeared sincere, and there was nothing in his expression to make her think he was being sarcastic, but this was far from the reaction she had expected after Jeffrey’s grudging acquiescence.

  “Then you agree?” She had to
be certain she hadn’t misunderstood. When she’d entered his office, the most she had hoped for was approval. Instead, she had discovered that the post headquarters was not what she had expected, and neither was Captain Westland’s response to her suggestion.

  Abigail had thought that the Orphanage, as Ethan had told her the building was called, would be spartan. It was not. Curtains softened the windows, and a woven rug covered the floor. Shelves laden with books hung on two walls, while a desk of highly polished wood stood along another. The biggest surprise was the tapestry cloth draped over the table where Abigail and Captain Westland now sat, for it made the room look almost homey rather than utilitarian.

  Captain Westland’s smile held a hint of amusement. “I not only agree that you should teach my men English, but I hope you’ll consider taking on all the classes for adults. Sergeant Ransom—he’s the man who’s been teaching—is in the guardhouse for a month.” The captain reached for the glass paperweight that adorned the table, though paperwork appeared to be confined to the desk, and tossed it from one hand to the other as he considered his next words. “One of my officers caught Ransom brawling last night. Can’t have that, especially in a man who’s supposed to be setting an example. So, what do you think? Will you take his place at least for a month?” He frowned as he added, “I’m sorry to say the pay isn’t much.”

  Abigail felt almost giddy with relief. He hadn’t dismissed her idea. To the contrary, he’d expanded it. Surely that was proof that God meant her to solve this problem. It couldn’t be coincidence that Captain Westland needed a teacher the very same day that she’d decided to present her proposal. “The pay doesn’t matter. I would be honored.”

  “Excellent. Lieutenant Bowles will get you anything you need.” Captain Westland set the paperweight back on the desk and called, “Bowles!”

  As Ethan entered the office, Abigail’s smile broadened. When the family had discussed her idea at supper yesterday, he had been staunch in his support, countering Jeffrey’s objections and Charlotte’s concerns that teaching adults would be more difficult than young girls. Ethan had even offered to speak to the captain on her behalf, but Abigail had refused. It was important that the decision be made based on merit, not influence. But now that the captain agreed, she wanted Ethan to be the first to know.

  “Bowles, this young lady has volunteered to take over classes while Ransom is in the guardhouse.” He winked at Abigail as he said, “Maybe longer, if we can convince her to make Fort Laramie her home. You’re in charge of that, Bowles. In the meantime, get her whatever she needs and make sure there’s a sergeant in the classroom at all times. I don’t anticipate any problems, but Mrs. Westland would have my hide if I let anything happen to Miss Harding.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ethan saluted, then escorted Abigail outdoors. “You seem pleased,” he said when they reached the road.

  “I am, but I’m a little overwhelmed.” She glanced around. The parade ground looked the way it did every morning, with men marching, others policing the perimeter for tumbleweeds and trash that the wind had carried across the prairie. At the opposite end of the street, workmen hammered and nailed, while others struggled to position windows in what would become the new post headquarters. Two birds splashed in a birdbath, and a cottontail rabbit scurried under a porch. It was a normal morning at Fort Laramie for everyone except Abigail. She’d gotten more than she’d wished for.

  “I don’t even know which classes I’m expected to teach. Do you suppose Sergeant Ransom would share his lesson plans with me?”

  Ethan’s laugh rang out over the parade ground. “Lesson plans? I doubt the man knows the meaning of the words.”

  Corporal Keller and another soldier approached, the lassos in their hands telling Abigail they were on canine patrol. She glanced in both directions, hoping Puddles had not escaped again.

  “Corporal Keller,” Ethan called. “Miss Harding would like a word with you.” Once again Abigail was certain it was not a coincidence that the man who had alerted her to the need for better instruction happened to be walking by when she had a question about the classes.

  The corporal’s eyes lit with pleasure when Abigail explained that she would be teaching.

  “Sehr gut,” he said, then corrected himself. “Very good.”

  It would be good only if she knew what to teach. “Do you know whether Sergeant Ransom used lesson plans?”

  Abigail’s question was met with a blank stare. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but vat vould lesson plans be?”

  Though it would appear that Ethan was correct, it was possible the sergeant had them and that Corporal Keller did not recognize the term. “Normally it’s a book with a list of everything he planned to teach that night along with questions for the students.”

  “Nein.” The corporal shook his head to emphasize his answer. “I never saw anything like that.”

  “Then can you tell me what Sergeant Ransom taught the last time?”

  Corporal Keller wrinkled his nose as he considered the question. “It vas something about countries in Europe, ma’am. He had a map.”

  European geography. Abigail could think of few subjects less appropriate for soldiers in Wyoming Territory. “It looks as if I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  When the corporal left, Ethan turned back to Abigail. “Are you sure you still want to do this?”

  “Of course. Now, do you know when classes are held?”

  Ethan nodded. “Recently, it’s been the same nights we practice baseball, Tuesday and Thursday. I suspect Sergeant Ransom chose those evenings so he’d have the smallest classes possible. You heard the corporal. Who would look at a map of Europe when he could be playing baseball?”

  The more Abigail heard, the further Sergeant Ransom fell in her esteem. “We can’t have that. I’ll hold classes Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. That way the other days will be free for your games.”

  “And your pupils will have an extra class each week.”

  Abigail nodded. “It sounds as if they need it.”

  “They do,” Ethan agreed. “And since you need time to prepare your lessons, we can postpone our ride.”

  It made sense. Not only did Abigail need to create lesson plans, but Charlotte’s words echoed through her head. You can’t solve every problem. Make sure this is what God wants you to do. Abigail was confident that God meant her to teach the soldiers. This morning had been proof of that. She ought to concentrate on lessons, and yet she couldn’t stop thinking about Mrs. Dunn and the kidnapped woman.

  She shook her head. “It’s only one day. I want to go.” And, if she was being honest, she wanted to spend the time with Ethan.

  The day was heavily overcast, the air so filled with moisture that Abigail was certain the clouds would leak, but they did not.

  “It’s a good day for a ride,” Ethan said. “The horses won’t tire as easily with the sun not blazing. But if you want to wait . . .”

  She did not, and so soon after daybreak, Ethan and Abigail headed north. Though she admitted to Ethan that she hadn’t always listened carefully to the widow, Abigail believed Mrs. Dunn had said her ranch was an hour or two north of the fort.

  “And that means my men should have found it.” Ethan’s eyes seemed to move constantly, scanning the horizon, looking down at the ground they were passing. It was, Abigail supposed, what any good soldier would do, remaining alert to possible danger.

  “Do you think the bandits are out here?”

  Ethan appeared surprised. “Not here. Why do you ask?”

  “Because you’re obviously looking for something.”

  He shrugged. “I’m more concerned about wild predators. This is rattlesnake country, and these long grasses can hide them. I’ve also heard stories of wolf packs. Even though I’ve never seen one, I don’t want to take any chances.”

  Abigail looked around. To her, the gently rolling hills with the occasional rock outcroppings did not appear threatening. “I thoug
ht you were trying to convince me that Wyoming is beautiful.” And it was, in its own way. This wasn’t Vermont with its pastoral countryside, its green hills dotted with dairy cattle, but the treeless prairies and the vast expanses had a beauty of their own. What Abigail had once called boring she now considered restful.

  His expression remaining solemn, Ethan said, “Beauty doesn’t mean there’s no danger, but you don’t need to worry.” He touched the revolver on his hip and glanced at his rifle. “I’m a crack shot.”

  Abigail tried not to cringe. Guns were a fact of life here, and as much as she feared the devastation they could produce, she could not make them disappear. She took a deep breath, then stared at the horizon, relieved when she saw what appeared to be a cluster of buildings. “I think I see a ranch. Maybe it’s Mrs. Dunn’s.”

  Though small, the ranch house was well cared for, its windows sparkling clean, the front door freshly painted. A few flowers in cheerful yellows and reds brightened the corner of the porch, drawing the visitor’s attention away from the sparse grass. As Abigail and Ethan approached, a woman stepped onto the porch.

  “Welcome, strangers. What can I do for you?” Abigail guessed that the brown-haired woman whose loosely fitting dress could not hide the fact that she was great with child was around thirty years old, although her face was so weathered by the sun and wind that it was difficult to tell.

  “We’re looking for Mrs. Dunn,” Abigail explained as she and Ethan dismounted. Even if they paused only briefly, it would feel good to stretch her legs. “She said she had a ranch in this part of the territory.”

  The woman shook her head. “I don’t know any Dunns, but maybe Michael does.” Cupping her hands around her mouth, she shouted, “Michael, we’ve got visitors.”

  A dark-haired man emerged from the barn, a boy of perhaps five or six at his side. The man walked more slowly than Abigail would have expected, matching his pace to his son’s but showing no signs of impatience. As they drew closer, Abigail saw the reason for the boy’s lurching gait. Though apparently healthy otherwise, he was afflicted with a clubfoot.