Summer of Promise

by Amanda Cabot

  “The letter told me of his marriage.” It was the first time Abigail had spoken the words. Charlotte had been so preoccupied with plans for tonight’s wedding that she hadn’t asked what Woodrow had written, and Abigail had been relieved, for deep in her heart, she knew that Ethan should be the first to learn that she would not marry Woodrow.

  As she watched, Ethan blinked and shook his head, as if he could not believe his ears. “His marriage?”

  “To one of the pupils at the academy.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Was he, or was he simply murmuring the expected words? Abigail hoped it was the latter. “I’m not. As I said before, I’m relieved.” She took a deep breath, exhaling slowly in an attempt to control her emotions. So much depended on Ethan’s reaction when he heard the rest of her story. “Even before I received the letter, I realized Woodrow was not the man God intended for me. I was worried about how to tell him without hurting him.” Though she could barely keep her hands from trembling, Abigail managed a weak smile. “I should have trusted God. He had a better plan. Woodrow wasn’t hurt—at least not much—and now he has the wife he deserves.”

  Though his face remained impassive, Abigail saw something—could it be relief?—in Ethan’s eyes. “What about you?”

  “I’m still waiting to learn God’s plan for me.” Abigail knew what she wanted. She wanted to marry Ethan. What she didn’t know was whether that was part of God’s plan for her.

  Ethan’s mouth started to quirk, as if he was going to smile or say something, but before he could do either, Charlotte appeared at his side. “Oliver’s looking for you, Ethan. It’s almost time to begin.”

  As he nodded, Ethan grinned and mouthed the word “later,” and a rush of happiness filled Abigail’s heart.

  Two hours later, Abigail was still smiling. The wedding had been beautiful, the perfect inauguration for the new building. Now, as the guests began to leave, she looked for Ethan.

  As if he’d heard her thoughts, he appeared at her side. “I imagine Puddles is ready for a walk. May I accompany you?”

  Though she welcomed the excuse to spend more time with him, Abigail had to shake her head. “Charlotte told me she and Jeffrey would do that tonight.”

  “Then, may I suggest we walk along the river?”

  Happiness bubbled up inside her. This was the “later” Ethan had promised. “I’d enjoy that,” she said as she reached for her cloak, smiling when Ethan took it from her and settled it over her shoulders. Perhaps it was only her imagination that his hands lingered a bit longer than necessary and that the warmth from his palms sent currents of excitement flowing through her blood. Perhaps, but not likely. All evening long, she had remembered his smile and the way he’d mouthed “later.” Later had come, bringing with it an almost unbearable sense of anticipation.

  They walked slowly, her hand on his arm, his placed on top of hers. It was a perfectly proper gesture, the act of a gentleman. It need not signify anything more than common courtesy, and yet Abigail could not ignore the waves of pleasure that swept through her, all because of Ethan’s hand on hers. She had never felt this way with Woodrow, but then, she had never loved Woodrow the way she did Ethan.

  Was it possible? Did she dare hope that he cared for her the same way? Could the reason Ethan sought time alone with her be because he wanted to speak of his feelings? A woman could not ask. She could not even hint at such matters, for that would be most unseemly. All she could do was wait.

  They were within sight of the bridge when Ethan slowed his steps, stopping beneath one of the cottonwoods that had shed many of its leaves, allowing moonlight to spill through its branches. When Ethan removed his hand from hers, for a second Abigail felt bereft, but then he turned so he could face her, and as he gazed into her eyes, she saw the depth of his emotions.

  “Abigail, I want—”

  “Find the captain!” A hoarse shout rent the tranquil air. “A man’s been killed!”

  What a night! Thoughts raced through Ethan’s brain faster than his feet raced toward the sentry. The evening had begun better than he’d dreamed possible. When he learned of Woodrow’s marriage, it had been all Ethan could do to keep from shouting in exultation. Abigail wasn’t promised or even almost promised to another man. He’d grinned like a foolish schoolboy at the realization that there was one less barrier between them. And then, just when he’d started to tell her how happy he was, Charlotte had interrupted. It was time for Oliver’s wedding. Throughout the ceremony and the reception that followed, Ethan’s heart had been filled with happiness, dreaming of the time when he would be alone with Abigail and could ask permission to court her.

  The walk along the river had only heightened his anticipation. It would be the perfect place, the perfect time, and somehow he would find the perfect words to woo her. Everything was ready. Ethan was on the verge of speaking when he’d heard the guard’s shouts.

  What a horrible way to end the day. Ethan had sent Abigail home alone, promising to come to her as soon as he could, and then he’d headed toward the bridge. The sentry stood there, his post unnaturally stiff, the stance of a man horrified by what he had seen.

  Ethan slid to a stop. “Thank you, private,” he said, giving the soldier who was guarding the body a brisk salute. “Do you know who it is?” The dead man was dressed in an Army uniform but lay facedown. The brown hair protruding from his cap could have belonged to a hundred men.

  “No, sir. I didn’t want to move him.”

  Ethan understood the private’s reluctance. Facing death was never easy, but now it was Ethan’s job. He bent down and turned the body over, his lips tightening as he recognized the man. There was no mistaking those vivid green eyes, now staring sightlessly into the night sky. Johann Schiller, former Army private, deserter, and bandit, would never again menace a stagecoach. A single shot to his forehead had ended his life.

  “No, sir,” Ethan said half an hour later when he stood in Captain Westland’s office. “I don’t know why the body was brought here.” When the men had lifted Private Schiller’s body into a cart, the absence of blood on the ground and the chill of the corpse had told Ethan that the murder had taken place elsewhere. Where? When? And why had Schiller been brought back to the fort? Ethan didn’t know.

  “Perhaps it was a warning,” he suggested. But that raised another question. A warning for whom?

  “Have you learned anything?” Abigail handed the leash to Ethan. With the way Puddles was jumping on him, it was clear that the dog wanted to be next to Ethan. So did she. It had been almost a day since Johann Schiller’s body had been found, a day when rumors had run rampant. Though Abigail had hoped the fort would return to normal by daylight, it had not. Everyone, it seemed, was disturbed by the news of the deserter’s murder, and everyone had a theory about the killer, each less plausible than the previous.

  Abigail had seen Private Schiller only once. That had been under decidedly unpleasant circumstances, but no matter how often she had wished that Private Schiller would be brought to justice and that the robberies would cease, she had never wanted his life to end. Charlotte, who’d had only a passing acquaintance with the private, since he’d deserted soon after she and Jeffrey reached the fort, had shuddered at the news. Even Jeffrey, who had once declared that Ethan should have killed Private Schiller rather than simply wounding him, had seemed upset. As for Ethan, Abigail had had no chance to discuss the murder with him, for he had remained closeted with Captain Westland until late last night. This morning he had assembled a search party that had left the garrison at daybreak. Now he was back, perhaps with news.

  “We’ve learned nothing.” Ethan shook his head as he bent down to ruffle Puddles’s ears. “I’m not surprised. These people are clever, but I had hoped for something. My men and I spoke to the neighboring ranchers and everyone at Peg’s, but the answers were all the same. No one had seen or heard anything.”

  Though his tone was neutral, Ethan was unable to hide the tension in his hands.
He might say nothing more, but Abigail knew that he was distressed. The stagecoach robberies had weighed heavily on him, and murder was much worse. No matter how she longed to recapture the magic of last night, that was impossible. Duty came first for Ethan, and right now his duty was to learn who had killed Private Schiller and why.

  Ethan straightened and began to walk, letting Puddles run the entire length of the leash. “Wyoming is a big territory with very few people. It’s not hard to hide something here.” This time he sounded discouraged, and that wrenched Abigail’s heart.

  “I’m shocked!” To underscore her words, she clasped her hands, hoping her feigned surprise would cheer him. “Unless my ears deceived me, you just found something less than perfect about Wyoming.”

  As his eyes brightened, Abigail almost giggled. Her pretense was working. “You caught me red-handed,” Ethan said with a short laugh, “but unless my ears deceived me, it sounded as if you did not share that opinion. Is it possible you’ve changed your mind?”

  About Wyoming, perhaps, but not about the need to boost Ethan’s spirits. Placing a cautionary finger over her lips in the universal sign for secrecy, Abigail nodded. “You must promise never to tell anyone.” She imbued her words with melodrama. “It’s true. You’ve discovered my secret. I no longer believe this is the most desolate place on earth.”

  Ethan tipped his head to one side, as if considering something. “What about boring? I believe that was the word you used on the stagecoach.”

  His mood was definitely lighter, and though her heart soared, she tried to appear nonchalant. “It took me awhile—probably a lot longer than you—but I’ve grown to appreciate the open spaces. There are things about Wyoming I’ll probably never consider beautiful—like yuccas . . .”

  “And rattlesnakes.”

  Abigail gave an exaggerated shudder. “Especially rattlesnakes. But I’ve learned that the prairie has a subtle beauty. A person needs to search for it, but somehow that makes it more valuable.”

  Ethan’s lips curved into a smile. “You could say that about many things in life, couldn’t you?”

  Abigail gazed into his eyes, and as she did, her heart began to pound. This was the Ethan she had seen last night, and yet that man had been a pale imitation of the one who now stood beside her. Never before had Abigail seen such warmth in a man’s eyes. Never before had a smile seemed to promise so much. Never before had Ethan’s voice sounded so enigmatic. What did he mean?

  Ethan frowned as he laid his mail on the table. He’d had the perfect opportunity to tell Abigail how much he cared about her, but instead of declaring his intentions, he’d spoken of the search for Johann Schiller’s killer. It was more than the fact that Captain Westland had put him in charge of the search. That was an order, and Ethan obeyed orders. But the compulsion was deeper than that. Perhaps it was an exaggeration to say he considered it his mission, but Ethan felt the need to see justice prevail. The fact that Private Schiller had committed many crimes did not exonerate his murderer.

  It was true that the sight of Schiller’s lifeless green eyes haunted Ethan, but that did not explain his reluctance to voice his feelings for Abigail. He could rationalize it and say that having a dog on a leash and being in full view of anyone leaving the Officers’ Club was not the ideal situation for a declaration of love. Though accurate, that was only part of the reason. What had stopped him was the sense that the time wasn’t right. There were too many things unfinished, and Schiller’s death was only one of them. Ending the stagecoach robberies was another.

  And then there was his grandfather. Ethan frowned again as he looked at his mail. A slim envelope and a medium-sized package. It was rare to receive one piece of mail. Two in one day was distinctly unusual. He glanced at the address on the envelope, shaking his head slightly when he realized that the letter was from Grandfather’s attorney. It could wait. The contents of the package from Mrs. Eberle puzzled him. Ethan had left nothing of value when he’d fled the brownstone mansion. What could be inside? There was only one way to learn.

  Carefully, he untied the string and unwrapped the box, then lifted the lid, revealing another envelope on top of two wrapped packages. “You should have these,” Mrs. Eberle had written in her unschooled script. “Mr. Wilson said you were to have the Bible.” That explained the larger of the packages. “I found the other when I cleaned his desk.”

  Ethan removed the brown paper wrapping from the Bible Grandfather had kept in his room. More than once he had told Ethan how the book bound in black leather with a simple cross embossed on its cover had been in the Wilson family for generations. “This is the story of my family,” Grandfather had declared when he forbade Ethan to open it. “The records of generations and generations of Wilsons are listed here. Those who were not worthy of the Wilson name have no place.” And that, Ethan knew without asking, included him and his parents.

  He traced the outline of the cross, remembering how as a child he had longed to open the Bible and read the names inscribed within. Today there was no one to stop him. Though he cringed at the thought of what he would find, there was no point in delaying. Grandfather was dead, and the Bible was Ethan’s. When he read the final entries in the family pages, he would know the truth.

  Ethan flipped through the first pages, not caring about the early generations of Wilsons whose births, marriages, and deaths had been recorded there. It was the last one that would reveal Grandfather’s true feelings about him and his parents. Was his mother’s name blotted out, as he feared?

  Ethan turned the page and stared. Instead of the solid black line he had expected, the record of his mother’s birth remained. And, to Ethan’s astonishment, Grandfather had recorded not simply Mother’s death, but also her marriage, the dates of Father’s birth and death, and Ethan’s own birth. The handwriting was shaky, telling Ethan his grandfather had waited many years before inscribing the family history, but the records were there.

  Tears welled in Ethan’s eyes as he looked at the evidence that his grandfather had indeed cared, that he had not chosen to obliterate all memories of his daughter and her family. And, even though Ethan had run away, distancing himself both physically and emotionally, Curtis Wilson had not disowned him. It had been Ethan who had created the estrangement.

  Would things have been different if he had visited Grandfather when he graduated from West Point? Would they have been able to establish a close relationship as adults? Would they have understood each other better? It was too late to know, too late to undo the years of silence. As Ethan closed his eyes, trying to keep the tears from falling, he knew that for the rest of his life he would regret his failure to try.

  He reached for his pen. Perhaps one day he would record his own marriage and the dates of his children’s births, but for now there was only one entry to be made. With great care, he inscribed the date of his grandfather’s death.

  Closing the Bible, Ethan looked at the other package. Unlike the Bible, which had been protected by brown paper, this one was wrapped in what appeared to be a woman’s linen handkerchief and was tied with a faded pink ribbon. Ethan’s heart stopped for a second, then raced as if trying to make up for the skipped beat when he saw the monogram on one corner of the handkerchief. VEW. Veronica Elaine Wilson. His mother. Ethan took a deep breath, trying to control his emotions. He had believed that Grandfather had destroyed his daughter’s possessions, but it appeared that he had not, any more than he had expunged her from the family Bible.

  His heart filled with anticipation, Ethan tugged on the end of the bow to unfasten the ribbon, then removed the handkerchief, revealing a small packet of letters yellowed with age. He stared at the first one. Though he recognized his mother’s name and address, the handwriting was unfamiliar. All he knew was that a man had penned these letters. Should he open the envelope? Ethan hesitated, wondering who the author was, and then he smiled. The letter was addressed to Veronica Bowles. Bowles, not Wilson. The letters were from his father.

  Ethan ran his fi
nger over the carefully formed letters. His father had written this. His fingers had touched this envelope, perhaps lingering over the address as Ethan now did. His mother had read the letter, cherishing the words her husband had written. Perhaps she kept the letters as mementos for herself. Perhaps she had somehow known they would be the only legacy Ethan would receive from his father. Perhaps it didn’t matter. What mattered was that the letters were Ethan’s sole link to his parents.

  He shook his head as he debated whether or not to read them. It was enough to know that they existed. Slowly, Ethan rewrapped the letters in the handkerchief.

  He looked different. Abigail darted another glance at Ethan, seated across the dinner table from her. His eyes were darker, filled with something she could not quite identify. It looked like regret, and yet she saw peace there too.

  “I heard you had a big mail call today.” Jeffrey inclined his head toward Ethan as he spoke.

  “My grandfather’s housekeeper sent me the family Bible and some letters my father had written.”

  Abigail nodded slowly. The letters must be the cause of the regret she had seen in Ethan’s eyes. “You hadn’t read them before?”

  “I hadn’t known they existed.” Ethan laid down his fork and looked directly at Abigail. “It’s difficult to explain, but I felt as if I’d been given a treasure.”

  “You have, haven’t you?” Jeffrey’s voice held a note of annoyance. “With your grandfather gone, you’re heir to his fortune.”