Summer of Promise

by Amanda Cabot

  Then why had the coach that Oliver was supposed to be guarding been attacked? Surely the person from the fort, if there was such a person, would have informed the outlaws that Oliver was scheduled to be on the coach. It was pure chance that he’d been taken ill. Or was it? Abigail did not like the direction her thoughts were headed. “Did Oliver tell anyone here that he was too ill to travel?”

  Ethan nodded. “He sent a telegram that day.”

  The timing seemed somehow wrong. “Was it before the stage left Cheyenne?” The woman who had taken part in the robbery had boarded the coach in Cheyenne. It was doubtful she would have ridden it, had a soldier been one of the other passengers.

  Though the sky was cloudless, Ethan’s expression turned darker than a thunderhead. “The telegram came later. Oliver claimed he didn’t wake up until afternoon, and when I asked him what had happened, he said he didn’t remember much. According to him, the night before he helped some woman when she started to fall off the boardwalk in front of the hotel, and she was so grateful she insisted on paying for his dinner. She even ordered it for him, to make sure he had a good meal. The next thing he knew, he was so ill he couldn’t stand.”

  Another woman, or was it the same one? There were too many coincidences for Abigail’s comfort. “It sounds as if Oliver ate some spoiled food, but I thought it took longer for the symptoms to start.” When Elizabeth had consumed a bad piece of meat, it had been hours before she’d been ill.

  A gust of wind threatened to turn Abigail’s hat into a tumbleweed. As she tightened the ribbons, Ethan smiled. “One thing you can be sure of in Wyoming is, if it’s not windy today, it will be tomorrow.” His smile faded. “Oliver’s story could be true. He told me that if he eats mushrooms, he’s violently ill almost immediately. There could have been mushrooms in something the hotel served.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “I want to believe it, because Oliver is a friend, and yet . . .” Once again Ethan stared into the distance, as if the horizon held the answer. “It’s possible that the woman he helped was the same one who held up the coach and that she deliberately ordered a dish containing mushrooms, but that assumes a lot of things, the most important of which is that she had to know Oliver can’t tolerate mushrooms.”

  And that led back to someone at the fort’s being involved. A stranger in Cheyenne would not have known that.

  “I’d like to believe Oliver,” Ethan continued, “because the alternative is that he pretended to be sick so that the bandits could attack the coach. I don’t like that idea at all.”

  A man could only go so long without sleep. Eventually the need for rest caught up with him. Ethan yawned widely as he pulled off his boots. He knew he’d reached that stage. Though he was still disturbed by Oliver’s possible complicity in the robberies, he would sleep tonight, even if thunder crashed and hail pounded the roof. Ethan yawned again as he folded his uniform before sliding under the sheets. Seconds later, he was asleep.

  At first his slumber was dreamless, but then the sounds intruded, and he dreamt of an animal caught in a trap. A rabbit, a fox, perhaps a pronghorn. The trap was so far away that Ethan could not identify the creature. All he knew was that the creature was in pain. He turned, trying to block out the cries, but they continued, weaker now, yet just as insistent, piercing through the fog of Ethan’s fatigue. It wasn’t a dream! Sleep fled as Ethan bolted out of bed and opened the door. There was Puddles, lying on the threshold. The normally exuberant dog appeared to have collapsed.

  “What’s wrong, boy?” Alarm shot through Ethan. The puppy had never looked like this, his eyes dull with pain, his body virtually motionless, and he’d never sounded as if he were in agony. Ethan had heard the dog whimper when he wanted to come inside. He’d heard him yip with excitement and bark with alarm. Never before had he heard such piteous sounds.

  “Puddles, what’s wrong?”

  As if in response, the dog staggered to his feet, then toppled over, his legs moving uncontrollably, his head tipped backward at an alarming angle. “Puddles!” Ethan knelt beside the puppy, his fear growing when he heard the dog’s labored breathing. Though Ethan knew little about dogs, he knew this one’s condition was serious. Each breath was more tortured than the one before, and with each one, Puddles seemed to weaken further.

  “No!” Ethan scooped the convulsing puppy into his arms. He could not—he would not—let Abigail’s dog die. Not caring about his own state of undress, he raced outside, and for the first time, he was thankful that the BOQ was next door to the post surgeon’s quarters. By some miracle, the lights were still on in the doctor’s office. “You’ve got to help me,” he said when the fort’s physician responded to his pounding on the door.

  The heavyset man gave Ethan only a passing glance before focusing his attention on the dog in his arms. “I’m not a veterinarian,” he said sternly. Though well regarded for his medical expertise, the doctor was not noted for his friendly manner. “If that’s why you’re here, you’re in the wrong place. I don’t know anything about dogs, and the only reason I’m still awake is that I have two men in the hospital who may not make it through the night. I was on my way to them.”

  “Please.” Ethan hated to beg, but there was no alternative. Dr. Pratt was Puddles’s only hope. “There has to be something you can do.”

  Though the doctor glared, Ethan thought he saw a hint of curiosity in his gray eyes. “All right. Bring him in.” He ushered Ethan and Puddles into his office.

  The doctor gestured toward the bare rectangular table in one corner of the room. While Ethan held Puddles, trying to keep the dog from sliding off the slippery surface during his seizures, Dr. Pratt examined him, peering into his eyes and mouth, running his hands and stethoscope over the puppy’s body.

  “It looks like some kind of poison to me,” he said after what seemed like an eternity. “I would have expected him to expel it, but dogs aren’t like humans. They don’t spit out things that taste bad.” He laid a hand on Puddles’s right front leg, trying to still the thrashing. “Whatever it is, it’s interfering with his heart. It’s beating too fast. That might be what’s causing the seizures. I’m not sure.” The doctor took a step away from the table but kept his eyes on the puppy.

  “Will anything stop the seizures?” Ethan could hear the difference in Puddles’s breathing. Another few minutes, and he would have no strength left.

  Dr. Pratt harrumphed. “I told you I don’t know anything about dogs.”

  Puddles wasn’t just a dog. He was Abigail and Charlotte’s treasured pet. Knowing how much the two women doted on him and how devastated they would be if he died, Ethan resolved not to give up without a fight. “If it were a man, what would you do?”

  An exasperated sigh greeted his question, but the doctor walked toward one of the tall cabinets and opened the door. Withdrawing a brown bottle, he said, “I’d give him this to slow down his heart rate.”

  “Can we try that?” Ethan didn’t care what the medicine was, only that it might help Puddles.

  Another harrumph was followed by a reluctant nod. “I suppose it can’t hurt. The dog will die without it, so you might as well try.” Dr. Pratt measured out a teaspoonful, mixing it with a cup of water. “Let’s see if we can get him to drink this.” As Ethan held Puddles’s mouth open, the doctor poured the liquid down his throat. “Good,” he said when the puppy swallowed. “If it’s going to work, we’ll know within a quarter hour.”

  But it took less than ten minutes to see the difference in the dog’s condition. His legs stilled, and his breathing sounded more normal. Dr. Pratt pressed his stethoscope to Puddles’s belly, then nodded. “It’s working . . . so far.”

  “What do you mean, so far?”

  “Just what I said. This was only the first treatment. He’ll need three more before we know if he’s going to recover. You need to give him a dose every two hours. If you wait too long, he’ll die. If you give him too much, he’ll also die. It’s up to you, Lieutena
nt. I’ve done all I can.” The surgeon reached for his coat and medical bag. “I’ve got two men who need me, so don’t bother me again, no matter what happens.”

  Ethan nodded. “Thank you, doctor.” At least now Puddles had a chance.

  As he left the surgeon’s office, Ethan debated telling Abigail and Charlotte what had occurred, then shook his head. There was no point in disturbing their sleep when he would do everything possible to save the puppy. Morning would be soon enough, for by then Puddles’s recovery would be assured. Ethan refused to consider the alternative.

  Even though it was only next door, by the time Ethan reached his quarters, the dog appeared to be asleep. The medicine had obviously taken effect, for Puddles’s breathing was regular, and the whimpers had ceased. His own exhaustion returning in full force, Ethan placed a folded blanket on the floor, laid the puppy on it, then climbed into bed, knowing he’d waken in less than two hours. His West Point training had given him the ability to sleep deeply but waken when needed, almost as if he set an internal alarm clock. Seconds later, Ethan was asleep.

  When he woke, he was disoriented for a moment, knowing only that it was the middle of the night and something was wrong. Then the sound of the dog’s snuffling brought back the events of the night. It was time. Carefully, Ethan measured out the potent medicine, diluting it with water from his pitcher. Though Puddles still slept, he woke the dog and poured the liquid down his throat.

  “Halfway there,” he told Puddles. “By morning you’ll be feeling much better.” And so would he.

  Though he couldn’t explain what led him to do it, as he climbed back into bed, Ethan flicked open his watch. No! It couldn’t be. Ethan gasped at the realization that his internal alarm clock had failed him. It had been only an hour since Puddles’s last medication.

  “If you give him too much, he’ll die.” Dr. Pratt’s words echoed through Ethan’s mind. He’d done it. He’d given Abigail’s dog more medicine than he could tolerate, and now the puppy would pay the price. Puddles would die, and it would be Ethan’s fault, his and his alone.

  He knelt on the floor next to the dog, listening to his breathing. There was no question about it. Each breath grew more strained as the puppy’s small body tried to overcome the effects of the medicine. Though Dr. Pratt had told him not to disturb him again, Ethan didn’t care. He would take Puddles to the hospital and beg the surgeon to help. But as he reached to gather the dog into his arms, Ethan heard Puddles’s breathing weaken again. It was too late. He wouldn’t live long enough to get him up the hill to the hospital.

  “Oh, Puddles!” Ethan’s face contorted with agony as he realized there was no hope. There was nothing more he could do. His shoulders slumped, and he bowed his head, waiting for the inevitable. And as he did, a spark of hope ignited deep inside him. There was nothing he could do, but if Abigail was right, there was One who could save Puddles. She claimed he was a God of love. Surely that love extended to a desperately ill puppy.

  “Dear Lord, show me what to do.” Ethan spoke the words aloud, imploring Abigail’s God to help him. “Puddles is innocent. He doesn’t deserve to die. Show me how to heal him.”

  There was no answer, no message carved on tablets, no voice coming from the mountain. But as Ethan stared at the dog and listened to his uneven breathing, a memory surfaced. He’d been seven or eight, and though he could not recall what he had eaten, the pain in his stomach had been worse than anything he’d ever experienced, twisting his insides, making him cry out as the waves of agony increased. He remembered gripping the bedsheet so tightly he’d torn it and gritting his teeth when the pain became unbearable, but nothing helped. And then Grandfather had come into the room.

  “You idiots!” he’d yelled at the servants who stood at Ethan’s bedside. “Get me the ipecacuanha.” Grandfather had forced Ethan to drink the foul-tasting liquid, then held his head as he vomited the contents of his stomach into the chamber pot. “I know you feel awful,” he said, “but you can’t let the poison remain.”

  Ethan blinked. That was it. He would force Puddles to vomit. It might not be enough, but purging was the only way he could slow the medicine’s progress. How? That was the question. He had no ipecacuanha. Undoubtedly there was some in Dr. Pratt’s office, but he would waste precious minutes carrying Puddles there and trying to find it. He couldn’t wait that long. There was only one thing to do.

  “Sorry, boy,” he said as he forced the dog’s mouth open and inserted his fingers. As he had hoped, the puppy gagged and regurgitated liquid. “Please, Lord, let it be soon enough.” Puddles looked up at Ethan, his eyes dull and filled with pain.

  “I know it hurt,” Ethan said, “but it had to be done. Don’t worry. I won’t do that again.” Unfolding the blanket, he wrapped the puppy in it and held him in his arms. There would be no more sleep tonight.

  Ethan settled on the floor, his back against the bed. Though he dared not close his eyes for fear of sleeping, his mind wandered, returning to that horrible night of his childhood. After Ethan had emptied his stomach, Grandfather had put him back in the bed, smoothing the sheets over him, and he’d remained at his side until daybreak, holding Ethan’s hand.

  A warmth that owed nothing to the August heat began to spread through Ethan. He had forgotten that night, perhaps because Grandfather was gone when he wakened, and when he’d felt well enough to descend the stairs, he found that his grandfather had reverted to his normal demeanor, demanding perfection, dispensing criticism but never praise. And yet the night had happened. Ethan knew that, just as he knew that he had been wrong. His grandfather might not have been demonstrative. He might never have said the words. But he had loved him. His actions proved that.

  By the time the sun rose, Puddles was sleeping peacefully. Though he appeared weak, and Ethan doubted he’d spend any time running today, there had been no more seizures, and his breathing was slow and even.

  “Thank you, Lord.” Ethan bowed his head as he knelt next to the bed. “Thank you for saving Abigail’s dog. Thank you for showing me that Grandfather loved me. Most of all, thank you for loving me.”

  Abigail woke suddenly, aware that something was wrong. She lay for a moment, trying to determine what had alarmed her. There were no cries or groans from Charlotte’s room. Nothing seemed amiss, but Abigail could not dismiss her fears. She dressed quickly, then descended the stairs. And as she did, she knew what bothered her. The house was too quiet. Normally by this time, Puddles was demanding to be let outdoors. But there was no sound of the dog, and his bed was empty.

  “Puddles,” Abigail called as she opened the back door. Somehow the puppy must have gotten out of the house again and was probably chasing ground squirrels through the yard. But the yard was empty. “Puddles!” Where could the little scamp be hiding?

  Slowly, Abigail walked around the house, looking for the dog, dreading Jeffrey’s reaction if Puddles had run away again. When she reached the front, she saw a soldier headed her way. She started to smile, for there was no mistaking Ethan’s gait, but her heart plummeted at the realization that Puddles was not at his side. Wherever the dog had gone, it was not to the BOQ. Abigail’s eyes narrowed. How odd. Ethan was carrying something in his arms, and it appeared that something was wrapped in a blanket. As he drew closer, she saw a dark head emerge. Puddles!

  Abigail raced toward Ethan. “What’s wrong?” For something was definitely wrong if he had the puppy wrapped like a baby.

  Her gaze moved from the dog to Ethan. Though she’d expected to see concern etched on his face, Ethan was smiling. Not an ordinary smile but one so filled with joy that his face appeared almost radiant. Never before had Abigail seen Ethan look like this. The pain that had clouded his eyes was gone, replaced by the clear sparkle of happiness. And yet he was carrying the dog.

  “What’s wrong?” She repeated the question. The Puddles she knew would not tolerate being carried.

  “Nothing’s wrong, at least not anymore.” Ethan looked down at the dog, and his smile fa
ltered ever so slightly. “Puddles must have eaten something poisonous. I don’t know how he got out or why he came to me, but he’s all right now. He’s a bit worn out from the ordeal, but he’ll live.”

  Poison. Abigail’s heart recoiled from the idea. Even spoiled meat could kill an animal, and a puppy was especially vulnerable. “What did you do? How did you save him?” Abigail stroked Puddles’s head and was rewarded with a soft whimper.

  Ethan waited until she was looking at him again before he spoke. “It wasn’t what I did. It was what God did. He saved your dog. Puddles would have died if it had been left to me.” As he recounted what had happened, Abigail watched the play of emotions on Ethan’s face—dismay, fear, relief, then joy.

  “I don’t know why Puddles came to me,” Ethan said, “but I’m glad he did. Despite everything you told me and everything I read in the Bible, I was a doubting Thomas. I needed a sign before I’d believe it. Puddles was that sign. What happened last night showed me that love is more than a word. It’s real.”

  Abigail watched as the man she loved nodded slowly. His voice was low and intense, filled with awe. “I knew that if God loved a puppy enough to save his life, what you said was true. God loves me too. He answered my prayers.” Wonder shone from Ethan’s eyes and colored his voice.

  Abigail smiled as she laid her hand on top of his. “Mine too.”

  21

  Telegram, sir.”

  Though Ethan kept his expression impassive, his pulse raced as he accepted the folded piece of paper. “Thank you, private.” This was what he’d been waiting for, the answer to his inquiries. Feeling like a traitor, he had telegraphed the hotel manager to ask whether anyone remembered Oliver Seton’s illness. It seemed wrong to need corroboration of a fellow officer’s story, and yet Ethan knew he had no choice. He had to discover the truth.