by Amanda Cabot
Ethan’s heart began to pound as he realized what he’d placed in that particular drawer, and the suspicions he’d entertained turned to certainty. It was no coincidence that he’d had a visitor within hours of Captain Westland’s beginning his questioning, just as it was no coincidence that the visitor had searched Ethan’s chest of drawers.
Ethan tugged the drawer fully open, his heart thudding as his fears were realized. The packet of letters was gone, replaced by a single sheet of paper. “If you want your treasure, come to the back room at Peg’s.” Though the writer had tried to disguise his penmanship, he had given himself away with his wording. Only one man knew that Ethan considered those letters his treasure. Jeffrey. The man he thought shared his sense of duty and honor was involved in the robberies. It had to have been Jeffrey who had notified the outlaws when a coach would be unguarded and Jeffrey who had planted the stolen earrings by Dietrich Keller’s footlocker.
Ethan saddled Samson and headed for Peg’s, wishing he were wrong but knowing he was not. The letters were the lure. Ethan had no doubt Jeffrey intended to demand a ransom for them, but why had he chosen Peg’s for the rendezvous? Perhaps he wanted more than money. Perhaps he was simply unwilling to work alone. That must be it. For some reason, Jeffrey wanted an accomplice with him, probably Peg.
They were waiting for him. Ethan knew they would be, which was why he drew his weapon before he pushed the door open. The room was as he remembered it, with a large round table in the center and a small bar on the right wall. Today, though, the chairs were empty. Today there were no half-filled glasses, no cards and chips on the table. Instead, Jeffrey stood behind the table where he’d once played poker, while Peg leaned against the bar. And though Peg appeared to be unarmed, Jeffrey had his pistol pointed at Ethan.
“Drop your weapon.”
Ethan stared at the man he’d once considered his friend. The man who had insisted Ethan share his dinner table stared back at him, his eyes filled with hatred.
“Drop it,” Jeffrey repeated.
“I don’t think so.”
Behind him Ethan heard the door close. There had been a stiff breeze. Perhaps it had blown the door shut. He didn’t dare take his eyes off Jeffrey to see what had happened.
“Don’t be a fool.” The voice came from behind Ethan and was accompanied by the unmistakable pressure of a pistol against the back of his head. It had not been wind closing the door, but another man entering the room. “No letter is worth dying over.” The man’s voice was cultured and bore a faint accent that reminded Ethan of his grandfather’s business associates.
Ethan remained motionless, considering his alternatives. They were decidedly limited. While he might be able to shoot the gun from Jeffrey’s hand, the stranger would kill him. The steel in his voice told Ethan that. Reluctantly, he let the pistol slip from his hand.
“He’s all yours, Jeffrey.” The man shoved Ethan forward, then moved into the shadowed corner of the room. Though Ethan could see his outline and the gun he kept pointed at him, he could make out no features.
Jeffrey’s smile held no mirth, only gloating. “Sit down, Ethan,” he said, gesturing toward the table. “You might as well be comfortable.”
Ethan remained standing. There would be no comfort here, and sitting would put him at an even greater disadvantage than he already was. “Where are the letters?”
It was Peg who answered. “They’re right here,” she said, patting the side of her reticule. “You can have them when we’re done.”
“How much do you want?” As he’d ridden to the hog ranch, Ethan had tried to guess the amount Jeffrey would demand. A thousand dollars? Two? Either would be a fortune to a man accustomed to living on military pay.
Jeffrey’s smile widened, but there was no friendliness in it, merely the stretching of his lips. “Not much. Just your signature on one piece of paper.” He shoved a sheet of cheap paper across the table.
“What . . . ?” Ethan picked it up and began to read. “This is a will.”
“Exactly.” The gloating Ethan had seen on Jeffrey’s face was echoed in his words. “You’re going to leave everything to me. I deserve it more than that contingent beneficiary.”
The way he spat the words told Ethan that Jeffrey had gone beyond reasoning. He was clearly obsessed with money. But why, and why did he think he deserved Ethan’s inheritance?
“Why should I give you so much as a penny?”
“Because you messed up everything else.” It was Peg who spoke. When Ethan darted a glance at her and saw her twisting her reticule strings, a memory resurfaced. There was something familiar about that. Abigail had said that Peg reminded her of someone, but who?
“We had a good scheme.” Peg glared at Ethan. “Made plenty of money from those stagecoach robberies, but you couldn’t let us continue. No, you had to get the captain to assign guards to every stagecoach. What were we supposed to do? We can’t poison ’em all the way we did your friend Seton. You were putting us out of business, Ethan Bowles. Left us no choice but to find another way.” Peg exchanged a glance with the man in the shadows. “Now your grandfather’s timely demise—and your own, of course—will make up for all that you took away.”
The man in the shadows chuckled. “Best of all, it’ll look legal.”
Ethan’s gaze moved from the man to Peg and then to Jeffrey. What a fool he’d been. He had been so confident of himself that he had underestimated his opponent. He should have brought others with him. Then he wouldn’t be in this predicament, but his pride—his foolish, foolish pride—had blinded him to the possibility that Jeffrey and his accomplices might intend to kill him. Now he was alone.
As a warmth flowed through him, Ethan’s tension ebbed. He was not alone. He was never alone. Keeping his eyes fixed on Jeffrey and his gun, he breathed a silent prayer. Dear Lord, is this your plan for me? He wasn’t afraid of death. The Bible promised that death was the beginning of something far better than life on Earth. Ethan knew that the promise was real, just as he knew that death would unite him with his parents. He wanted that someday, but not yet. Not when a life of love and happiness stretched in front of him. Not when the images of his children chasing a puppy that bore a striking resemblance to Puddles danced in front of him. Not before he told Abigail that he loved her.
It was too late. He had been too late to build a loving relationship with his grandfather, and now he was too late again.
Ethan took a deep breath. If this is your will, Lord, give me strength, and somehow, some way let Abigail know how much I love her. He didn’t expect an answer, but deep inside him, Ethan heard a voice say, Delay. Though it seemed like an odd command, Ethan knew better than to ignore it.
He looked directly at Jeffrey. “Since you plan to kill me no matter what I do, you might as well answer a few questions, starting with how you got involved in all this.”
Though Jeffrey’s shoulders straightened, as if the story would increase his stature, he looked at Peg. When she nodded her approval, he said, “I needed money, and gambling wasn’t enough. As good as I was, there were still nights when I lost.” Though Peg snorted, as if disputing Jeffrey’s claims of gambling prowess, he continued. “Peg offered me the chance to make money by stealing. I never lost that way.” Jeffrey glanced at the pistol in his hand. “I took rifles at first. It was so easy. No one questions an officer. All you have to do is look like you know what you’re doing, and they walk away.”
No wonder no one had discovered who was responsible for the rifle thefts. Jeffrey had been conducting the investigations until Ethan arrived. How he must have laughed at the irony of being chosen for that particular duty.
“You’re right,” he said, as if he had read Ethan’s thoughts. “Captain Westland had no idea he was setting the fox to guard the chickens.”
Peg laughed. “Tell him the rest, Jeffrey. Let the man go to his grave knowing he solved the mystery, even if it won’t do him any good.”
Jeffrey nodded. “Rifles were good, but
Peg had a better idea: stagecoaches.”
“All you had to do was tell her which coaches had no one from the fort on them.” Ethan finished the sentence.
“That’s right. It worked perfectly until you decided to come back from Cheyenne a day early and foil a robbery. That was your first mistake, Ethan.”
Perhaps that was how Jeffrey saw it, but Ethan couldn’t regret that day. Not only had he kept innocent civilians safe, but that day brought Abigail into his life. “Was the hog ranch just a front?” Ethan addressed the question to Peg.
She laughed as she put another knot in her reticule strings. “Oh no. It was a good source of money on its own, plus it gave me a chance to meet men who—with a little persuasion—could help.”
The last piece of the puzzle fell into place. “So you encouraged Johann Schiller and Robert Forge to desert.”
Peg nodded. “Among others. It’s a shame Schiller became greedy. When he demanded more than his share, I had no choice but to end the problem.”
“Just like we’re going to end this problem.” Jeffrey’s laugh left no doubt of his meaning.
“Enough talking.” The man spoke from the shadows. “Sign the paper, Bowles.”
Delay. The word reverberated through Ethan’s mind. “Why should I, when you’re going to kill me anyway? I’m not anxious to die, but I’m even less anxious to give you my inheritance.”
“You’ll give it to me.” Jeffrey’s voice rang with confidence. “That’s the only way you can prevent Abigail from having an unfortunate accident.” The light in Jeffrey’s eyes told Ethan he was not bluffing. “I’d be better off without her meddling.”
He was mad. It was the only explanation, and yet knowing that did nothing to reassure Ethan. If Jeffrey was willing to kill him, he’d have no compunction about killing again.
“How do I know Abigail will be safe if I do sign it? It’s not as if I’ll be here to watch you.”
Jeffrey chuckled. “You’ll have to trust me.”
Not likely. “You’ll have to do better than that. I want a guarantee that nothing will happen to Abigail. Without that, I won’t sign anything.”
“Bring me the paper, Peg.” The man in the shadows’ voice betrayed his annoyance. “I’ll add a codicil to it. If this Abigail should happen to die from anything other than natural causes within two years of Lieutenant Bowles’s death, Jeffrey will forfeit the money.”
“But . . .”
“Shut up, Crowley.” Though the words were crude, the man’s voice was not. It wasn’t only his accent that reminded Ethan of his grandfather’s associates, now it was his vocabulary. The man in the shadows sounded like one of Curtis Wilson’s attorneys.
Before Ethan had a chance to reflect further on the identity of Jeffrey’s partners, Peg handed him the will. A quick perusal told Ethan the man had done what he’d promised. If Jeffrey wanted the money—and Ethan had no doubt that he did—Abigail would be safe.
“It’s time,” the man said. “Sign the paper, Bowles.”
24
Abigail cringed. Even though Mrs. Grayson insisted it was simply a matter of time, and Charlotte herself had advised Abigail to take Puddles for a walk, Abigail hated feeling helpless. Charlotte’s groans and the occasional anguished cry had been going on for hours, leaving Puddles so distressed by the sound of his mistress’s pain that Abigail had banished him to the yard, where he’d set up a mournful howling. There were times when she felt like howling herself. Even prayer, which had always been an unfailing comfort, did not bring her the peace she sought. Her sister was in pain, and there was nothing she could do.
Abigail blamed herself for not having recognized the signs earlier. Though Charlotte had been uncharacteristically quiet at dinner, Abigail had thought nothing of it, attributing her sister’s silence to the fact that she and Ethan had dominated the conversation with stories of the attempt to implicate Dietrich in the stagecoach robberies. It was only after the men had left that Abigail had noticed the furrows between Charlotte’s eyes.
When she’d asked, Charlotte had admitted that she was experiencing some discomfort but had insisted it was too soon to bother anyone. Babies, Charlotte claimed, took hours—sometimes days—to make their appearance. Besides, this was probably a false alarm. But by midafternoon, Abigail could wait no longer. Charlotte hadn’t been able to hide the fact that the pains were increasing in intensity and frequency, and so, even though her sister protested, Abigail had fetched Mrs. Grayson.
“You’re further along than I would have expected, especially for a first child,” the midwife said when she examined Charlotte.
A sheepish expression on her face, Charlotte admitted that she’d been having pains since the middle of the night. “They were twinges at first,” she told Mrs. Grayson. “I thought they’d stop, and even if they didn’t, there was no reason to tell anyone.”
Abigail nodded as another memory resurfaced. Those had been signs of strain she had seen on Charlotte’s face when the sergeant had summoned her to Ethan’s office. At the time, Abigail had been too concerned about Ethan to recognize that her sister needed help too. “You should have told me.”
Just as she should have told Jeffrey. But once again Charlotte had been adamant. “There’s nothing he can do. It would only worry him to know I was in pain.”
That had been hours ago. Though she hadn’t agreed with Charlotte, Abigail knew that the problem would be resolved at suppertime. When he returned for the meal, Jeffrey would learn that his child was about to be born. But he did not come, and neither did Ethan, and that worried Abigail. While it was possible that one of the other soldiers had seen her escorting Mrs. Grayson to the house and had told Jeffrey, Abigail would have expected him to come home, if only briefly. Surely he would want to know how his wife’s labor was progressing.
“What’s the matter, boy?” Abigail looked down at Puddles’s food dish. Though he normally devoured food as soon as it was served, today he’d sniffed the bowl, then turned away. “You’re worried too, aren’t you?” She sat on the porch step and reached out to stroke the puppy’s head. “She’ll be all right.” Soon, Abigail prayed. Bring this baby soon.
But when she opened the door to Charlotte’s room, the midwife shook her head and mouthed the words “No change.”
Mrs. Grayson was wrong. There had been a change. The baby might not be any closer to being born, but Charlotte was noticeably weaker. All color had leached from her face, leaving her looking decades older than her twenty-five years and reminding Abigail that some women died in childbirth. Please, Lord, save my sister.
Her heart pounding with alarm, Abigail reached for Charlotte’s hand. “Hold on to me,” she said. Mama had always claimed that the two most important elements of healing were prayer and human touch. Abigail had been praying for her sister, and whenever she was in the room, she extended her hand to Charlotte, letting Charlotte squeeze as hard as she needed when the pains began.
This time Charlotte shook her head. “Find Jeffrey. I need to see him.”
The trembling in Charlotte’s voice distressed Abigail even more than her request. Her sister sounded as weak as she looked, and the distant expression in her eyes made Abigail fear the situation was more serious than she had believed.
“Hold on, Charlotte. It’s just a little while longer.” Though Abigail had no way of knowing whether that was true, she wanted to encourage her sister.
Charlotte gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. “I need Jeffrey,” she repeated.
Mrs. Grayson nodded. Turning away so that Charlotte could not hear her, she said, “Perhaps it will help. This agitation is not good for the baby.”
Abigail forced a smile onto her face. “Don’t worry, Charlotte. I’ll find Jeffrey. By the time he gets here, you’ll have your son in your arms, and Jeffrey will be the proudest papa Fort Laramie has ever seen.” Please, Lord, make it so. Abigail squeezed Charlotte’s hand and pressed a kiss onto her forehead. “I love you, big sister,” she said softly.<
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Charlotte’s eyes lit. “I love you too.” And then another pain gripped her.
Abigail grabbed her hat and gloves and threw a cloak over her shoulders. Though the days were still warm, October evenings were decidedly cold, reminding everyone that winter was not far away. Instead of following the road, Abigail took a shortcut across the parade ground, praying all the while that Charlotte and the baby would be safe and that she would find Jeffrey at the Officers’ Club. Since women were not allowed inside, she pounded on the door.
Seconds later, Oliver opened it, his eyes widening in surprise. “Miss Harding, what are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for Jeffrey. Is he here?”
Oliver shook his head. “Not today. I saw him leaving the fort in the middle of the afternoon. Sorry, Miss Harding, but I don’t know where he was heading.”
Abigail did. There was only one place her brother-in-law would have gone that would have kept him away from home at suppertime. Oh, Jeffrey, why did you go there today of all days?
“Was Lieutenant Bowles with him?” That would explain why neither man had come for supper.
Oliver shook his head again. “I haven’t seen him all afternoon.” He turned to face his fellow officers. “Anyone seen Crowley or Bowles?”
The replies were negative, leaving Abigail no alternative but to continue her search. She headed for the stables, stopping abruptly when she realized she did not have her pistol. If Ethan had been with her, she would not have worried, but she had promised him that she not leave the fort without it. Heedless of decorum, Abigail picked up her skirts and ran back to the house. Minutes later, she was mounted on Sally, the pistol secured in her pocket, heading for the hog ranch for the second time that day.
