Summer of Promise

by Amanda Cabot

  “You’d be doing me a favor,” Abigail told Leah.

  The pretty blonde’s eyes widened again. “Really?”

  “Really. Shall we begin?”

  An hour later, Abigail smiled. “You’re the best student I’ve ever had.”

  A flush colored Leah’s cheeks. “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do.” Though the lesson had been a short one, it had shown Abigail that Leah’s poor grammar was caused by a lack of education, not intelligence. And though a blanket spread on the ground beneath the old cottonwood was an unusual classroom, it had not deterred Leah.

  “Where’s your puppy?” she asked as Abigail closed the book.

  “Probably getting into mischief at home. He would have been a distraction if I’d brought him.”

  Leah wrinkled her nose. “But a good one.” She looked at the sun, as if gauging the time. “Reckon I oughta be goin’. Peg’ll be madder than all get out if’n I’m late fer dinner. She don’t like us girls to miss none.”

  “Any.”

  A puzzled expression crossed Leah’s face. “Any what?”

  “She doesn’t like us to miss any.”

  As Abigail emphasized the correct words, Leah grinned. “I see.” She repeated the sentence. “Thank you . . .” She hesitated for a moment before saying, “Abigail.”

  It was the first time Leah had called her by her given name, and though it might seem trivial to others, the gesture filled Abigail’s heart with warmth.

  “Can you come tomorrow?” she asked. As a teacher, Abigail knew the importance of regular instruction. As a friend, she looked forward to spending more time with Leah.

  Leah’s nod was tentative. “I reckon so. But you better keep this. Peg don’t . . .” She shook her head, then corrected herself. “Peg doesn’t like us to have personal things.”

  As she handed the book to Abigail, Leah’s sleeve rode up her arm, revealing deep purple bruises above her wrist. Abigail tried not to gasp, but the fact that the bruises were shaped like fingers told her this was no accident. The sooner she could get Leah away from the hog ranch, the better.

  “So, what did you learn, Bowles?” Captain Westland asked when Ethan entered his office. The captain had been gone when Ethan returned from his ride with Abigail, and this was the first opportunity he’d had to report. It couldn’t have come at a better time. Surely focusing his attention on the robberies would keep him from dwelling on his dream and the memory of Oliver kissing Abigail’s hand.

  “I’m puzzled.” Ethan wasn’t ashamed to admit that. “I didn’t find the widow, but I did learn that Private Schiller seems to be involved with everything else. He and Forge were the ones who tried to hold up the coach I was on.”

  “I thought you said Schiller wasn’t one of the men who kidnapped the woman.”

  “No, sir, he wasn’t. But he had some of the jewelry that was taken then, plus some of our Springfields and Colts. It appears that the theft of firearms and the stagecoach robberies are connected.”

  A satisfied grin settled on the captain’s face. “Good work, Bowles. I hadn’t dared hope we were dealing with the same group, but this is good news. Good news indeed.”

  “It could be. Everything points to Schiller. The reason I’m puzzled is, I don’t believe he’s smart enough to have planned those robberies.”

  The captain raised a quizzical eyebrow. “How smart do you have to be to point a rifle at a stagecoach and demand money?”

  “There’s more to it than that, sir. You need to figure out the right place for an ambush. One of the things I find interesting is that it’s been a different location each time. Most people are creatures of habit. If something works once, they’ll try it again. That hasn’t been the case with these bandits.” And that was frustrating. “I would not have thought Schiller was smart enough to realize that changing the holdup spot would make it more difficult for us to catch them. And how did he get back on the post to steal those guns?”

  As he polished his spectacles, Captain Westland nodded. “You could be right about that. I met him a couple times, and he didn’t impress me with his intelligence.”

  “I also don’t understand why all the robberies take place so close to the garrison. If I were a bandit, I wouldn’t want to be near soldiers. Everyone in this part of Wyoming knows we send patrols out occasionally. That increases the risk of being caught. If I were planning to rob a coach, I’d pick a location farther from civilization. There are miles of deserted country between Cheyenne and here.”

  “Good points, Bowles. What you’ve said makes sense, so, tell me, why do you think they strike so close to us?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I wish I did, but in the meantime I’ve got an idea for stopping them.”

  “Are you anxious about tonight?” Ethan asked as he took a slice of freshly baked bread. Today Mrs. Channing had served them a thick beef stew, accompanied by bread and butter.

  Abigail nodded. Even though her lessons with Leah had gone well, she felt the same combination of anticipation and apprehension that always gripped her before the first day of school. “I am a bit concerned,” she admitted. “I’m not sure . . .” Before Abigail could complete her sentence, a loud crash and the sound of breaking glass filled the air.

  “That’s it! Out, you fiend, out!” The thwack and yip that accompanied Mrs. Channing’s shouts were followed by a slamming door. A moment later, the cook stormed into the dining room, her hands fisted on her hips, her face suffused with anger. “I’ve had enough. I told you to keep that mutt out of my kitchen. I don’t know how he got in, but that monster tipped over a crock of pickled beets. That floor will never get clean,” Mrs. Channing continued, “but that’s no longer my concern. I’ve had enough. I quit.”

  Though the cook had threatened to leave before, this was the first time she had started to untie her apron. It was possible she meant only to replace it with one that was not stained with beet juice, but Abigail did not believe that. Nor did Charlotte. She laid a hand on the cook’s arm, and her voice was clearly meant to placate the irate woman. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Channing. It was my fault. I couldn’t bear to hear him whining when he was tied up outside, so I brought Puddles in while I was sewing. He fell asleep, and I forgot he was in the house.”

  Mrs. Channing shook her head. “You can apologize all you want, but the damage is done. I can’t take any more of this. I’m leaving.” Brushing off Charlotte’s hand, she stalked back into the kitchen.

  Charlotte stood for a moment, her indecision apparent.

  “I’m sorry, Charlotte,” Jeffrey said, “but I see only one solution.”

  “What is that?” As if she feared the answer, Charlotte sank into her chair and stared at her husband.

  He laid his hand on hers. “You know what has to be done. Tell Mrs. Channing you’ll get rid of the dog.”

  Abigail kept her eyes fixed on her plate, wishing she were anywhere but here. Puddles had been her idea. If she hadn’t felt so sorry for the puppy, Charlotte wouldn’t be in this predicament. And yet, Abigail couldn’t regret the decision to save the dog, for Puddles had brought her sister many hours of pleasure. There had to be a way to save him again.

  “Oh, Jeffrey, I can’t.” Charlotte’s cry was so plaintive that Abigail looked up. As she had feared, tears filled her sister’s eyes. “I like Puddles.”

  “And I like well-cooked meals,” her husband responded. Though he still held Charlotte’s hand, his tone left no doubt that he had made a decision.

  “I can cook.” Charlotte’s eyes brightened. “I’m a good cook, and I can keep the house clean.”

  Jeffrey shook his head slowly. “It’s not fitting for an officer’s wife to cook and clean. Besides, you won’t have time after the baby arrives. No, Charlotte, there’s only one answer. The dog must go. I’ll drown him myself.”

  “You can’t!” As tears rolled down her cheeks, Charlotte fled from the dining room. Though Abigail had thought she would go to Puddles, instead her sister climbed the
stairs, apparently seeking the solace of her room.

  His face set in a firm frown, Jeffrey stalked to the kitchen. “It will be all right, Mrs. Channing,” he said, raising his voice so it would carry throughout the house. “The dog will be gone by tomorrow.”

  Her appetite gone, Abigail laid down her spoon and looked at Ethan. “There has to be a way to save him.”

  “Maybe we can find another family to take Puddles. That way Charlotte could still see him occasionally.”

  Abigail’s spirits rose, first at the fact that Ethan had said “we” rather than “you,” and then again at the solution he’d proposed. It was Ethan’s use of the plural pronoun that made her realize that while giving Puddles to another family was a good idea, there was a better one.

  “You’re right,” she said, giving Ethan her warmest smile. “A new home is a wonderful idea. It wouldn’t be forever—only until we could convince Mrs. Channing that he’s not so bad.” Abigail leaned forward, trying to lessen the distance between her and Ethan. Mama had always said that proximity aided in persuasion, and today she needed every ounce of persuasion she could muster. “Will you do it, Ethan? Will you take Puddles?”

  “Me?” Ethan’s look of incredulity left no doubt that he had had no intention of volunteering to be Puddles’s savior. “I live in one room. I’m hardly ever there, and I know nothing about caring for dogs. Taking him would be a bad idea.”

  “No, it wouldn’t.” The more Abigail thought about it, the better the idea seemed. “Puddles knows you, and he likes you. If he stayed with you, he wouldn’t be frightened. Oh, Ethan, this would be good for him.”

  “What about me?”

  It wasn’t an outright refusal, and that was good. Surely it meant that he was considering the possibility. “This would be good for you too. Please, Ethan. He’s such a sweet dog, and I promise it will only be for a month or so. If we don’t find another solution, I’ll take him back to Vermont with me.” Abigail started to rise. As she had intended, Ethan hurried to her side of the table to pull out her chair. She turned and gave him her most persuasive smile. “Please.”

  “It’s against my better judgment, but . . .” Though he tried to frown, Abigail saw amusement in Ethan’s eyes.

  “You’ll do it?” she asked, hoping she’d understood his change of heart. While not perfect, this would be a good solution for Charlotte, and Abigail couldn’t help but believe that Ethan would enjoy having a pet.

  “Yes. I’ll probably regret it, but . . .”

  “You won’t. I know you won’t. Oh, Ethan, thank you!” Impulsively, Abigail leaned forward and pressed a kiss on his cheek. An instant later, she drew back in shock. What had she done? First she had hugged him. Now a kiss. What was happening to her?

  Mama would have been horrified, for Abigail’s behavior was outside the range of decorum. Abigail was horrified too, but for different reasons. She had never kissed Woodrow, for she knew the rules and had always followed them. Why, then, had she kissed Ethan? And why, oh why, had it felt so right?

  “That’s a cute little mutt.” Oliver bent down to scratch Puddles’s head before he settled himself onto a chair.

  Ethan frowned as much at the interruption as the description of Puddles as cute. He’d had the dog in his room for less than an hour, and the puppy had already chewed a sock and dragged two towels onto the floor, worrying them into a pile, then flopped on top of his makeshift bed and looked up at Ethan with those mournful eyes, as if seeking approval. He hadn’t received it, for all the while he’d been tearing around Ethan’s room, he’d barked and yipped enough to attract the attention of everyone else in the building. Ethan didn’t want that kind of attention. What he wanted was some peace and quiet.

  The other men had merely laughed and continued on their way, but Oliver had entered Ethan’s room and appeared to be prepared for a long visit. Puddles didn’t need the distraction, nor did Ethan. He had other things to think about—things like his new pet and Abigail’s kiss.

  The dog was temporary, or so she had promised, but the kiss . . . Ethan sighed. It had meant nothing. It was simply the result of Abigail—impulsive Abigail—expressing her gratitude. It meant no more than the hug she’d given him the day they had fished. Ethan knew that, and yet he couldn’t forget how soft her lips had felt against his cheek and how sweet she had smelled. He wanted time to think. Time alone to replace the memory with the reminder that she was promised—almost promised—to Woodrow. But it appeared he would not have that time soon, for there was no easy way to discourage Oliver.

  “The problem is, Puddles won’t be little for long,” Ethan said as calmly as he could. “It seems he’s already twice as big as he was a month ago.” He shook his head. “I should never have agreed to take him, but I didn’t want to disappoint Charlotte.” Or Abigail. It had been Abigail’s plea that had convinced him to assume responsibility for Puddles.

  Oliver continued to stroke Puddles’s head, then when the puppy rolled onto his back, he scratched his stomach, setting the dog to wiggling with delight as he said, “He’s a good companion.”

  Abigail had said that too. “I don’t need a companion.”

  “Everyone does. That’s why most of us look for wives.” Oliver was back to his favorite topic. Pretty soon, he’d talk about Adam and Eve, then Noah and the ark. Ethan only hoped he wouldn’t propose a canine companion for Puddles. But Oliver did not recount any Bible tales. Instead, he pursed his lips as if he’d eaten something sour. “I wish I could find the right woman.” Puddles, who seemed keenly attuned to human moods, began to whine.

  “I thought you had.”

  Oliver stroked his nose. “Abigail? That’s over.”

  Ethan looked at his friend. Had he been mistaken? Had the kiss Oliver had pressed on Abigail’s hand been not a gesture of undying love but rather one of farewell?

  “She refused me.” Oliver’s lips twisted into a caricature of a smile. “I don’t mind saying, it’s not a pleasant experience. It makes me think I ought to stick to the girls at the hog ranch.”

  “You know the dangers.”

  “You’re not my father, Ethan, so don’t preach at me. At least the girls there pretend they love me. Abigail never did.”

  “That’s because she wasn’t the right woman for you.”

  Unfortunately, the woman with the heart as big as Wyoming wasn’t the right one for Ethan, either.

  Abigail stared down at the blank piece of paper, the same piece of paper she’d pulled from the desk drawer fifteen minutes ago. She was supposed to be writing a letter to Woodrow. When she’d sat down, she had planned to tell him about the incident with Puddles, turning the spilled beets into an amusing story, but each time she picked up her pen, the only thought that whirled through her brain was the memory of how she’d kissed Ethan. It had been nothing more than a peck on the cheek, not enough to have given Mama the vapors, though she would have delivered a stern lecture over the possible consequences of Abigail’s being so forward.

  One second. Less than a second. That’s all the longer the kiss had lasted. A reasonable person would have been able to dismiss the memory, relegating it to the scrap heap the way she did other insignificant events. Abigail had always considered herself a reasonable person, but try though she might, she could not forget what she’d done. Instead, she kept remembering how firm Ethan’s cheek had been, how the faint hint of whiskers had seemed somehow intriguing, how his skin had smelled of soap and fresh air and an underlying scent that was unique to him. Instead of being sensible, she was acting like a lovesick schoolgirl.

  14

  Frances pulled out a deck of cards and began shuffling them. Though the man probably expected her to offer him whiskey, there would be none today. Whiskey was a reward for a job well done. The man she had summoned for a reprimand hadn’t done his job at all, much less well. That was why Frances held the cards. She knew the sound reminded her visitor of the times he’d sat in this room, watching his stack of chips dwindle and with it his
hopes for instant riches. It would grate on his nerves. Good. Excellent. Success depended on keeping the others off balance, and if there was one thing Frances knew, it was that she would not let success slip through her fingers. The man who now had beads of perspiration popping out on his forehead could be replaced. No one was indispensable, no one except Frances herself.

  “I heard a nasty rumor,” she said, watching his expression while her fingers continued to play with the cards. “I heard that Lieutenant Bowles recommended that the captain put at least one soldier on every stagecoach between here and Cheyenne.”

  The man’s eyes widened, confirming what she feared. He’d known nothing of the new plan. What a fool! He should have known, and even if he didn’t, he should have pretended that he did. It was little wonder he was such a poor poker player. A man who couldn’t master the art of concealing his emotions didn’t deserve to win at poker or anything else.

  “Seems to me you should have known, seeing as how he’s your friend.” Frances gave the cards another quick shuffle, just to watch her visitor squirm. “I’ve got two questions for you: why didn’t I hear about it from you, and what are you going to do to stop it?”

  As she’d expected, the man had no answers.

  Ethan was not happy. He’d spent the day thinking about Private Schiller and the robberies and had begun to feel as if he were acting like Puddles. Ethan had given the puppy a bone, expecting him to devour it. Instead Puddles had moved his treat around, looking at it from every angle, taking a quick gnaw on one corner, then another, all the while regarding it with a combination of curiosity and concern. Did he fear that Ethan would snatch it away, or was he simply wondering how to consume such a huge object? Ethan didn’t know. All he knew was that the problem of the firearm and stagecoach robberies loomed as large to him as the bone did to Puddles, and there was much less anticipation involved.