Summer of Promise (13 page)

Thanks to Samson’s unfortunate encounter with a prairie dog hole, the deserters most likely would not be caught, at least not today. Or tomorrow. Though Ethan would have ridden all night had Samson not been injured, his horse was showing signs of fatigue, and he would not risk another stumble. He and Samson would spend tonight camping on the prairie. Tomorrow would be a better day. It had to be.

But when he entered the fort late the next morning, Ethan’s relief at being home evaporated at the sight of two familiar figures emerging from the sutler’s store. Why was Abigail walking with Oliver, and why, oh why, did he care?

She shouldn’t be annoyed, Abigail told herself as she removed her gloves and untied her bonnet ribbons. She’d accomplished what she set out to do: buy the thread Charlotte had requested and a tin of mints she hoped would remind her sister of the afternoons they had spent as children, playing house with their dolls, serving imaginary tea, and pretending that mint lozenges were fancy cakes. That was what mattered, not the fact that Oliver Seton had entered the store while she was there and had insisted on accompanying her home. Short of being rude, there had been no way to refuse. She could hardly have said, “I’d prefer to walk alone,” even though that would have been the truth. Oliver was a nice enough man. She’d grant him that. It was simply that she didn’t enjoy his company the way she did Ethan’s.

Even though it had been only a day and a half since she’d seen him, she missed Ethan. Abigail frowned as she climbed the stairs. It was silly to wish there had been a baseball practice last night. The men needed to rest occasionally, and she needed to stop thinking about Ethan. She’d soon be on her way back to Vermont and Woodrow. That was what mattered, not Oliver’s unwelcome company or Ethan’s absence.

Abigail frowned again when she entered Charlotte’s room. She was certain she had not left the door ajar, but it was clearly unlatched. Charlotte was asleep, and Puddles’s box was empty. That explained the half-open door, but it provided no clue to the puppy’s whereabouts. Abigail closed the door quietly and descended the stairs. Puddles must be sleeping in the yard. That would explain why she hadn’t heard the yips and barks that signaled he was playing with an invisible companion.

Though he slept in a crate at night, Mrs. Channing refused to have him in either the kitchen or the pantry during the day, and he grew bored when Charlotte fell asleep. Simply letting him run in the backyard hadn’t worked, for the puppy would sit on the back step, scratching at the door and howling until Mrs. Channing paid him some attention. Even the swats on the rump that the cook delivered didn’t discourage Puddles. In desperation, Abigail had taken to tying him to a tree in the side yard whenever he was not with her or Charlotte. Not being able to see the entrance to the house appeared to have done the trick, because the pup would play for hours, batting at butterflies and chasing ground squirrels as far as his rope allowed.

Mrs. Channing must have tied him in the side yard when she went to the commissary. Abigail rounded the corner of the house, frowning when she saw no black and tan dog under the tree. The only evidence that he’d been there was a piece of rope that had obviously been chewed. Puddles had learned a new trick, a bad one. If he’d left the yard, he could be in trouble, for the soldiers were still patrolling, trying to rid the fort of runaway dogs.

“Puddles! Puddles! Where are you?” There was no answer. Abigail walked around the yard, looking for the dog. “Come here, boy. We’ll play catch.” But even the magic word
catch
did not elicit a reply. When she saw the door to the privy ajar, Abigail sprinted the few yards and flung it open. Puddles had hidden there once, apparently attracted by the smells. But today the outhouse was empty.

The mischievous pup could be anywhere on the fort. Abigail retrieved her gloves and hat and set out, leash in hand. When she found him—for she would not consider the alternative—she’d ensure that the dog was tightly leashed. And there would be no bone for him tonight.

Abigail looked across the parade ground. Other than a few soldiers heading toward Suds Row, it was empty. Remembering how attracted Puddles was by strong odors, Abigail nodded and increased her pace, heading toward the stables. Most of the horses and mules were out at this time of the day, but their smells would remain. Rolling in the straw and muck could be enough to entertain the puppy for an hour or more. Abigail tried not to grimace at the thought of bathing him if he had indeed rolled in something less fragrant than hay.

Slightly out of breath, Abigail blinked several times when she entered the stables, letting her eyes adjust to the relative darkness. She heard the snuffle of a horse and the rustling of a smaller animal. Puddles?

“Not now, boy.”

Abigail grinned. There was no mistaking that voice or the disappointed yip that followed it. Puddles was here, and so was Ethan. She hurried to the back of the stable and found Ethan crouched on the ground, unwrapping a horse’s leg while Puddles, apparently believing that the bandage was a new toy, tried his best to grab it.

Abigail bent down and attempted to scoop Puddles into her arms, but he scampered away. “I’m sorry, Ethan. I don’t know how he got away. Come here, Puddles.”

The dog took another step backward.

“Go.” Ethan accompanied his order with a gesture toward Abigail. The dog hunkered down and refused to move. “Go!” This time Ethan’s voice held a note that Abigail suspected sent tremors of fear through grown men. Even recalcitrant puppies recognized the sound of a command, for Puddles moved slowly toward her.

When she’d slipped the leash onto the dog, Abigail turned toward Ethan. “He seems to think he’s yours.”

Ethan ran his hands over the horse’s leg, then rose. To Abigail’s surprise, he looked as annoyed as she had felt when Oliver had accompanied her from the store. “I suspect Puddles is more interested in Samson than me.”

Now that her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, Abigail realized that Ethan’s uniform was more wrinkled than she had ever seen it, and his normally well-shined boots were coated with dust.

“What happened?” The horse was moving slowly around the stall, clearly favoring his front right leg.

“The poor old fellow.” Ethan put a reassuring hand on Samson’s muzzle. “We were searching for deserters when he stepped into a prairie dog hole. Fortunately, his leg’s only bruised, but it took us a day and a half to get back.” That explained the dusty clothing and the reason Abigail had not seen Ethan yesterday evening. It might even explain his uncharacteristically dour mood. Ethan had obviously walked and spent the night under the stars rather than put more strain on his horse’s leg.

He patted Samson again, then nodded toward the stable’s entrance. “I’m done here. May I escort you and Puddles to your house, or do you have someone else waiting?” The sharp note in his voice surprised Abigail. Ethan must be more tired than she’d realized.

“Thank you.” Though there was no question of safety on the fort during daylight hours, Abigail would not turn down the opportunity to be with Ethan. Somehow when she was in his company, she felt more alive than usual, and each time they were together, she learned something new about him. Ethan was a far more complex man than she’d thought at first, and that intrigued her.

“Come, Puddles.” Abigail tugged the leash, urging the puppy to leave the stall. Though initially reluctant, when he saw that Ethan was accompanying her, Puddles raced to her side, then whirled in front of her, tangling his leash in her skirts in his eagerness to be next to Ethan.

“See,” Abigail said as she extricated her skirts from the rope and transferred the leash to her other hand, “he thinks he belongs to you.”

Ethan shrugged. “More likely he’s intrigued by the smells on my boots.” The fact that the puppy was trying to lick them gave credence to his theory. “I walked a long way, so there’s no telling what scents I may have picked up.”

Puddles turned and looked back at the stable, causing Ethan to raise an eyebrow. “Your dog is fickle. He’d rather be with the horses than either of us.”

Abigail nodded, remembering the way Puddles had whined when she’d returned from her ride. “I’d take him with me the next time I go riding, if I could figure out a way to carry him. Those legs are much too short to keep up with a horse.”

Ethan frowned. “I didn’t realize you’d been out. Who went with you?” He seemed annoyed, but perhaps that was only fatigue.

“No one. Charlotte assured me I’d be safe as long as I stayed in sight of the fort.”

“Perhaps,” Ethan agreed, “but this is not Vermont. There are dangers here you never dreamt of. Prairie dogs, poisonous snakes, deserters.” He seemed to be ticking items off a list. “You shouldn’t leave the fort alone. If you want to ride again, I’ll accompany you. Samson won’t be ready tomorrow, but if you’d like to ride, we can go out the next day.”

It was a generous offer, and yet the frown that accompanied it told Abigail that Ethan considered it a duty, not a pleasure, and that hurt more than a tumbleweed’s thorns. She had thought she and Ethan had become friends, but friends didn’t act this way. What had changed?

“I’m so proud of him.” Abigail patted Puddles’s head as she laid him on the floor next to Charlotte’s bed the next morning. Though he’d proven adept at descending the stairs, he still needed help climbing, and so Abigail carried him rather than watch him struggle. Her sister was sitting up, propped against a pile of pillows, and her face had more color than it had the previous day. Even better, she had had no morning sickness today.

“Puddles used the paper I put beside his box,” Abigail announced. “I didn’t even have to coax him. When I went downstairs this morning, he was standing by it, proud as could be. I think he’s going to be easy to train.”

Charlotte smiled and held out her arms for the puppy. “I wish I had more energy,” she said as she placed him on the quilt beside her, smiling again when he rolled on his back to have his belly scratched. “Playing with him wears me out.”

“Mrs. Grayson said she thought you were stronger, and you look better this morning.”

“I feel better but not good, if that makes any sense.” Charlotte pulled Puddles into her lap and stroked his ears. “I keep remembering how Mama spent her last years in bed. Oh, Abigail, I don’t want to wind up like that.”

“You won’t.” Abigail infused her words with emphasis. Somehow, some way she had to convince her sister that she would not be an invalid like their mother. “This isn’t like Mama’s sickness. You’re not ill; you’re simply expecting a baby. Before you know it, the baby will be here, and you’ll be back to normal.”

“I pray that’s so.” A few minutes later, Charlotte handed Puddles to Abigail. “I’m so tired,” she said. “This is what worries me—that I sleep all the time.”

“Mrs. Grayson said that was the only cure she knew.”

“I hope it works.”

“It will.” Abigail kissed her sister’s forehead and descended the stairs, crooning to the now squirming puppy.

Half an hour later, leaving Puddles in the yard securely tied to his favorite tree with a length of chain, Abigail entered the parlor. If she couldn’t do anything for Charlotte, at least she could put this room back to normal. Now that Jeffrey was sleeping here rather than upstairs, it needed daily cleaning. Though he stashed his bedroll in the pantry and tried to restore furniture to its appointed positions, he never managed to hide the evidence that he and his dusty boots had been here.

Abigail sniffed as she straightened one of the antimacassars. It wasn’t her imagination. The room did hold the faint scent of perfume. How odd. Mrs. Channing did not wear scents, and the fragrance was not the rose water Abigail used nor the lily of the valley Charlotte favored. Still, there was something familiar about it. Abigail sniffed again as she tried to recall where she had smelled it before. It was somewhere in Wyoming. She thought back to the stagecoach. Mrs. Dunn had worn no toilet water. Perhaps Mrs. Fitzgerald’s perfume had been similar.