Summer of Promise

by Amanda Cabot

  “I’m Michael Kennedy,” the man said, extending his hand to Ethan. “You’ve already met my wife Hetty, and this is my son Paul. How can we help you?”

  When Ethan explained, Mr. Kennedy shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you after all. There are no Dunns within a hundred miles of here, and the only stranger I’ve seen was a man. He came by about a week ago, offering to sell me a new rifle or maybe a gewgaw for Hetty. He had some mighty fancy jewelry with him.”

  Ethan’s intake of breath told Abigail he suspected the visitor had been one of the bandits. “Was there a lady’s brooch with red stones?” When Mr. Kennedy nodded, Ethan continued. “Do you remember what he looked like?”

  “Mostly ordinary, but he had the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

  That sounded like Private Schiller. Ethan had mentioned that the deserter’s eyes were a deeper green than Jeffrey’s. “Did he speak with an accent?” Abigail asked.

  The rancher nodded again. “Think he might have been German. I could hardly understand him.” It was indeed Schiller.

  The boy looked up at his father. “He was a mean man. I didn’t like him.”

  Mr. Kennedy tousled his son’s hair. “I didn’t, either. That’s why I wouldn’t buy anything, even though he offered a good price.”

  “They were probably stolen goods,” Ethan said quietly, perhaps to keep from alarming the Kennedy family. Though his words were ordinary, his hands were clenched, as if in anger. It made no sense to Abigail. Why would Ethan be angry when Mr. Kennedy had refused to buy from Private Schiller?

  Ethan continued his explanation. “There’ve been some stagecoach robberies, and some weapons were stolen from the fort.”

  “I kinda figured that.” Mrs. Kennedy nodded as her husband spoke. “Even though the man claimed he was a rancher, something just didn’t seem right.”

  “He wasn’t wearing a uniform?” It was Ethan who posed the question.

  “No, sir.” The boy shook his head. “Except his boots. They were like yours.”

  The rancher laid a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Good work, Paul. I didn’t notice that.”

  As the boy beamed with pleasure, Ethan nodded, but once again Abigail noticed that he seemed uncomfortable. When Mrs. Kennedy invited them to stay for dinner, though Abigail would have welcomed the opportunity to get to know the family better, she declined the invitation.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Ethan said as they left the ranch. “It appears that the rifle thefts and the stagecoach robberies are connected and that Schiller is involved in both, but I can’t figure out how. Schiller never struck me as a leader, and he sure didn’t impress me as being smart enough to plan the robberies.”

  “I wonder where he got his civilian clothes.”

  Ethan shrugged. “He could have gone to Cheyenne. I imagine he got a good price for the Colts when he sold them. What puzzles me is how he got the guns. He must have snuck back onto the post, but that was taking a big risk. The guards are supposed to be on the lookout for deserters.”

  “They’re probably looking for people leaving the fort, not entering.”

  Ethan’s lips twisted into a rueful smile. “True. It seems we need to improve our security.”

  Though the sun had not emerged from behind the clouds, Abigail could feel beads of perspiration trickling down her neck. July in Wyoming was hot, even on an overcast day.

  “I know you’re worried about Private Schiller,” she said a few minutes later, “but I keep thinking about Mrs. Dunn. Maybe I shouldn’t—my sister keeps reminding me that I can’t solve every problem—but I can’t forget her. It’s clear she lied to me, but what I don’t know is which part was the lie, her name or the location of her ranch.”

  Ethan nodded. “And then there’s the other question: why did she lie in the first place?”

  Ethan fell silent, and for perhaps half an hour he said nothing. Though the silence was not uncomfortable, Abigail sensed that he was bothered by what they had learned this morning. There was probably nothing she could do, and yet she had to try. She waited until they stopped for their midday meal. Then, as she unpacked the lunch she’d brought, she said, “You’ve been deep in thought. Is it about Mrs. Dunn or Private Schiller?”

  Ethan accepted the sandwich she offered but said nothing until he’d eaten a bite. “You’re much too perceptive, Abigail. The truth is, I wasn’t thinking about either our lying widow or the larcenous private. I keep remembering the way Michael Kennedy treated his son. He didn’t seem to care that he was lame.”

  “I’m sure he cares. I imagine he wishes there were something he could do to help him and hates the fact that he’s powerless.” Abigail knew that if Paul had been her son, she would be praying for his healing every day, for a clubfoot was something only God could change.

  “But he treats him as if it didn’t matter.”

  Hearing the pain in Ethan’s voice, Abigail tried to understand the cause. “It doesn’t matter. Whether he’s lame or whole, Paul is his son. He loves him.” That had been obvious from the affectionate gestures. The gestures. As Abigail thought back, she realized that Ethan’s uneasiness had been greatest when Mr. Kennedy had touched his son. “I think that’s part of being a parent, loving a child whether or not he’s perfect.”

  Ethan swallowed hastily, then washed the bread down with a swig from his canteen. “That’s easy for you to say. You had parents who loved you. I had Grandfather.”

  There was no mistaking the bitterness in Ethan’s voice, and once again Abigail wished she knew more about his childhood. It was difficult to offer comfort when she didn’t know what had transpired.

  “He loved you. He must have.”

  Ethan stared into the distance, his jaw clenched. “Did he, or did he simply want an heir to run his railroad?”

  “You look happy.” Charlotte laid down her sewing and smiled at Abigail. This was the second time they’d returned home as soon as baseball practice ended rather than spending the rest of the evening with the other officers’ wives. Charlotte was putting the finishing touches on a new gown, while Abigail worked on her lesson plans and Puddles dozed at their feet. As happened most nights, Jeffrey had remained with the men.

  “I am happy,” Abigail agreed. It was true that she still worried about Ethan and wished there were something she could do for Leah, but she had taken Charlotte’s advice and had left those problems for God to solve . . . at least until she started teaching. “The post school has proven to be a blessing.” Abigail had investigated it the previous day and had been encouraged by the supplies she’d found there. Though she had been skeptical when she learned that the building had previously been a bakery, she had been pleased to discover that it no longer smelled of bread. The last thing she needed was to have her students distracted by thoughts of food. “Some of the children’s books will be perfect for teaching the men to read.”

  “McGuffey’s Readers?” Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “I used to hate them.” As Puddles stirred, Charlotte bent over to pat his head, then winced as she straightened. “Moving isn’t so easy anymore.” When she looked down at her stomach, Charlotte’s smile turned sweet. “The little one is active now.”

  Before Abigail could reply, there was a knock on the door. Puddles jumped to his feet and began to bark, a bark of excitement rather than alarm, telling Abigail that the visitor was someone they knew. “I’ll go,” she said, not wanting Charlotte to have to rise. Her sister’s ankles had begun to swell, and walking was no longer a pleasure for her.

  As Abigail opened the front door, she smiled. His hair was still damp, making it obvious that Lieutenant Seton had attempted to wash off the dirt and sweat of baseball practice. The one evening when he had not bathed, Puddles had spent the entire time sniffing his boots and trying to chew on his pant legs.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Crowley and Miss Harding.” Oliver accompanied his greetings with a warm smile. “I was hoping I could have the pleasure of your company this evening, but if I’m
interrupting . . .”

  Charlotte laid her sewing aside. “We’re happy for the distraction. Come in.” She gestured toward one of the comfortable chairs.

  Though Abigail would have preferred to finish her lesson plans, she knew Charlotte enjoyed Oliver’s visits, for he alone of the fort’s officers seemed to share Charlotte’s love of song. Remembering her manners, Abigail smiled at their guest. “May we offer you some refreshments?”

  Oliver shook his head and addressed his words to Charlotte. “I must admit that I was hoping we’d sing another duet.”

  “Not ‘Old Folks at Home’ again.” Charlotte feigned pleading. “I was singing ‘way down upon the Swanee River’ the whole next day, and Puddles hates it.” As she crooned the first line from Stephen Foster’s popular song, the dog began to whine. “See what I mean?”

  “What about ‘The Girl I Left Behind’?” Abigail suggested. “I found the music in the piano bench.” She had heard that when soldiers used to leave the post, heading for battle, the company band would play that song.

  Oliver shook his head. “I don’t want to leave my girl behind. I want her by my side.” He gave Abigail a look so filled with longing that a lump formed in her stomach. Oh no, Oliver. You don’t mean it. You know I’m not your girl, and I won’t ever be.

  Oblivious to the thoughts that set Abigail’s insides churning, Charlotte nodded vigorously. “That shouldn’t stop us from singing it,” she insisted. “It’s a pretty song.”

  And it was. Were it not for her concerns that Oliver wanted something she could not give, Abigail could have spent hours listening to him and her sister, for their voices blended beautifully.

  At the end of the evening, Abigail accompanied Oliver to the door. Though she hoped he would simply say good night as he had before, the way he cleared his throat and the uneasiness she saw on his face made Abigail fear that her hopes would not be realized. Perhaps if she kept everything casual, he would take the cue. “Thank you for coming,” she said as they walked onto the front porch. “Charlotte always enjoys your duets.”

  “And you?” They were only two words, but Oliver’s voice cracked with emotion as he pronounced them.

  Please, Oliver, go home. Don’t say something you’ll regret. Though the plea was on the tip of her tongue, Abigail chose a neutral response. “I enjoy listening to both of you.”

  Oliver stroked his nose in a gesture Abigail had learned was a sign of nervousness. “That’s not what I meant. I hope you enjoy my company as much as I do yours. I look forward to these visits all day.”

  His voice had deepened, the tone telling Abigail he was close to making a declaration. If only she could spare him the inevitable pain of rejection. “It’s good to have friends,” she said evenly.

  Oliver shook his head. “You know I want to be more than your friend. I want to marry you.”

  “I’m sorry.” And she was. Though Ethan claimed Oliver bounced back from rejection, she hated being the one to deliver it. “You know marriage is not possible. Woodrow . . .” Abigail hesitated as she tried and failed to conjure his image.

  “Woodrow isn’t here.” Oliver completed the sentence. “I am. I lo—”

  She would not allow him to continue. While it was true that Oliver’s visits helped lift Charlotte’s spirits and filled the empty space left by Jeffrey’s absence, Abigail could not let him harbor any false hopes. “Good night, Lieutenant Seton.” Perhaps the use of his title would tell him she regarded him as a friend, nothing more.

  What appeared to be sadness filled Oliver’s eyes as his smile faded. “Is there no hope for me?”

  Abigail shook her head slowly. “I’m afraid not.”

  He stood for a moment, his lips flattened, his breathing ragged. At last, he reached out and captured her hand in his. Raising it to his lips, Oliver pressed a kiss to the back. “Good night, Miss Harding,” he said as he released her hand and walked away.

  There was absolutely no reason to be walking in this direction. Ethan stared at the moonless sky. Normally, this was not a time he enjoyed being outdoors, and yet here he was. Just because Abigail lived here and normally took Puddles for a walk at this time. Just because they had talked when he had joined her for that walk the last couple nights. Just because it was more fun talking to Abigail than anyone on the post. None of those were reasons to be here, and yet here he was, only a few yards from the house Abigail shared with her sister and Jeffrey. Though he had imagined her indoors, she was outside. The light from the parlor shone onto the porch, revealing Abigail.

  Ethan’s eyes narrowed. She was not alone. A man was at her side, standing closer than he ought to be. Oliver. Of course. The man had less sense than a grasshopper. Somehow, he couldn’t see that Abigail was all wrong for him. Even if she weren’t almost promised to Woodrow, she was too serious for him. They were mismatched, unsuited . . . Ethan searched for another adjective, but the only one that reverberated through his head was wrong. Abigail and Oliver were wrong for each other. All wrong.

  As Ethan took another step forward, determined to inform Oliver of his folly, he saw him raise Abigail’s hand to his lips. What was he thinking? The man wasn’t thinking. That was clear. Ethan’s hands fisted, and he longed to wrap them around Oliver’s shoulders and shake some sense into him. Instead, he spun around and headed the other direction.

  There was no reason to be so annoyed, no reason to care. Of course there wasn’t.

  It was dark, darker than it had ever been. The moon that had guided them was gone, and even the stars were hidden beneath a blanket of clouds. Though he knew there was a town over the next rise, no lights were visible. Or perhaps it was only that he could not see. Perhaps that was a blessing. Unfortunately, he could still feel, he could hear, and he could smell. It would have been better if he could not.

  He lay on the ground in the shadow of the Dunker Church, one leg bent at an unnatural angle, the other crushed beneath the horse’s body. All around him, men moaned. The roar of cannons had ceased, leaving only the stench of gunfire mingled with two other unmistakable odors: fear and dying men.

  He was one of them. He knew it. No man could survive for long when he’d lost this much blood. That was why they’d left him. The orderlies were trained to pick up those with the greatest chance of survival. Later, they would return for the rest. But he would not be here. All that would be left was his body.

  He clenched his teeth against the pain. Time was short. He could feel himself slipping away. This was not the way he had imagined it. The generals had been wrong. There was no glory in dying. As the agony of broken bones and a crushed body subsided, he was left with nothing but the deepest of regrets. It was unbearable, knowing he would never see Veronica again, knowing he would never hold their child, knowing they would never hear his words of love. And yet, there was nothing he could do. The end was near.

  “My son!” he cried as his last breath escaped.

  Ethan bolted out of bed, his limbs trembling, his breath ragged. It was only a dream, he told himself as he stared out the window. Only a dream. But he had never had such a vivid dream. Tonight he felt as if he were there, seeing and feeling the aftermath of that horrible battle. He was no mere onlooker, seeing the bodies scattered on the fields outside Sharpsburg. No, indeed. He was there, inside his father’s mind.

  His father! Ethan clutched the windowsill, trying to still the shivers that raced up his spine. If his dream could be believed, his father had died in what was now called the Battle of Antietam. Though he hadn’t thought of it in years, Ethan had heard about the Dunker Church and all the fighting near it. Now that church held a special meaning for him.

  Was the dream the story of what had happened, or was he simply dreaming about fathers? Ever since the day he and Abigail had visited the Kennedy ranch, Ethan had been unable to forget the sight of Michael Kennedy ruffling his son’s hair and putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. A longing had lodged itself deep inside Ethan, the wish that he had known such love and—even st
ranger—the desire to have a son of his own, a child he could love the way Michael Kennedy did his.

  Ethan shook his head, trying to clear his brain. It was only a dream, and yet the details had been so real. No one had ever told him how his father had died, simply that he had been killed during the war. He hadn’t known that his father had fallen at Antietam and that his horse had died with him, but now he had no doubts. The man Ethan had seen in his dream was Stephen Bowles, his father, the man Grandfather had reviled all his life.

  Ethan had lost count of the number of times he’d heard the story of how his father had trapped Veronica. He’d pretended he loved her, using the oldest trick of all to ensure that she would have to marry him. He hadn’t loved Veronica, or so Grandfather had claimed, and he most certainly had not loved the child he’d never seen. Stephen Bowles had loved nothing other than the prospect of Grandfather’s money. According to Grandfather, Stephen Bowles was a despicable fortune hunter who had died before he realized that Grandfather had ensured he would never touch a penny of it.

  That was the father Ethan had known. He had envisioned him as a younger version of Grandfather—cold, aloof, and demanding—not a man who would tousle a boy’s hair. But the dream had felt so real. Had Grandfather lied?

  13

  It’s a McGuffey’s Reader.” Abigail handed the book to Leah, hoping the young woman would accept it. If she could learn to read and write well, perhaps Leah could break free from the hog ranch. Surely with such basic skills she would be able to find a respectable position in Cheyenne. She could certainly be hired as a cook or housekeeper, and with more skills she might be able to work in one of the shops or a hotel. But first she had to gain confidence.

  Leah’s eyes widened. “For me?”

  “It’s a loan.” Abigail nodded. “When you finish this one, I’ll bring you the next.” She pulled a slate and a piece of chalk from her bag. “I start teaching the soldiers tomorrow, and I hoped you’d let me practice on you.” Abigail hadn’t been certain Leah would come to the riverbank today, but she had brought an extra jar of water and two hard-boiled eggs in case the young woman was there and could stay for a lesson. It was the perfect time for Abigail, for Charlotte was occupied with morning calls and had agreed that it would be better for her sister to exercise Sally than to accompany her on what even Charlotte referred to as boring visits.