Summer of Promise (23 page)

There was absolutely no reason to be walking in this direction. Ethan stared at the moonless sky. Normally, this was not a time he enjoyed being outdoors, and yet here he was. Just because Abigail lived here and normally took Puddles for a walk at this time. Just because they had talked when he had joined her for that walk the last couple nights. Just because it was more fun talking to Abigail than anyone on the post. None of those were reasons to be here, and yet here he was, only a few yards from the house Abigail shared with her sister and Jeffrey. Though he had imagined her indoors, she was outside. The light from the parlor shone onto the porch, revealing Abigail.

Ethan’s eyes narrowed. She was not alone. A man was at her side, standing closer than he ought to be. Oliver. Of course. The man had less sense than a grasshopper. Somehow, he couldn’t see that Abigail was all wrong for him. Even if she weren’t almost promised to Woodrow, she was too serious for him. They were mismatched, unsuited . . . Ethan searched for another adjective, but the only one that reverberated through his head was
wrong
. Abigail and Oliver were wrong for each other. All wrong.

As Ethan took another step forward, determined to inform Oliver of his folly, he saw him raise Abigail’s hand to his lips. What was he thinking? The man
wasn’t
thinking. That was clear. Ethan’s hands fisted, and he longed to wrap them around Oliver’s shoulders and shake some sense into him. Instead, he spun around and headed the other direction.

There was no reason to be so annoyed, no reason to care. Of course there wasn’t.

It was dark, darker than it had ever been. The moon that had guided them was gone, and even the stars were hidden beneath a blanket of clouds. Though he knew there was a town over the next rise, no lights were visible. Or perhaps it was only that he could not see. Perhaps that was a blessing. Unfortunately, he could still feel, he could hear, and he could smell. It would have been better if he could not.

He lay on the ground in the shadow of the Dunker Church, one leg bent at an unnatural angle, the other crushed beneath the horse’s body. All around him, men moaned. The roar of cannons had ceased, leaving only the stench of gunfire mingled with two other unmistakable odors: fear and dying men.

He was one of them. He knew it. No man could survive for long when he’d lost this much blood. That was why they’d left him. The orderlies were trained to pick up those with the greatest chance of survival. Later, they would return for the rest. But he would not be here. All that would be left was his body.

He clenched his teeth against the pain. Time was short. He could feel himself slipping away. This was not the way he had imagined it. The generals had been wrong. There was no glory in dying. As the agony of broken bones and a crushed body subsided, he was left with nothing but the deepest of regrets. It was unbearable, knowing he would never see Veronica again, knowing he would never hold their child, knowing they would never hear his words of love. And yet, there was nothing he could do. The end was near.

“My son!” he cried as his last breath escaped.

Ethan bolted out of bed, his limbs trembling, his breath ragged.
It was only a dream
, he told himself as he stared out the window. Only a dream. But he had never had such a vivid dream. Tonight he felt as if he were there, seeing and feeling the aftermath of that horrible battle. He was no mere onlooker, seeing the bodies scattered on the fields outside Sharpsburg. No, indeed. He was there, inside his father’s mind.

His father! Ethan clutched the windowsill, trying to still the shivers that raced up his spine. If his dream could be believed, his father had died in what was now called the Battle of Antietam. Though he hadn’t thought of it in years, Ethan had heard about the Dunker Church and all the fighting near it. Now that church held a special meaning for him.

Was the dream the story of what had happened, or was he simply dreaming about fathers? Ever since the day he and Abigail had visited the Kennedy ranch, Ethan had been unable to forget the sight of Michael Kennedy ruffling his son’s hair and putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder. A longing had lodged itself deep inside Ethan, the wish that he had known such love and—even stranger—the desire to have a son of his own, a child he could love the way Michael Kennedy did his.

Ethan shook his head, trying to clear his brain. It was only a dream, and yet the details had been so real. No one had ever told him how his father had died, simply that he had been killed during the war. He hadn’t known that his father had fallen at Antietam and that his horse had died with him, but now he had no doubts. The man Ethan had seen in his dream was Stephen Bowles, his father, the man Grandfather had reviled all his life.

Ethan had lost count of the number of times he’d heard the story of how his father had trapped Veronica. He’d pretended he loved her, using the oldest trick of all to ensure that she would have to marry him. He hadn’t loved Veronica, or so Grandfather had claimed, and he most certainly had not loved the child he’d never seen. Stephen Bowles had loved nothing other than the prospect of Grandfather’s money. According to Grandfather, Stephen Bowles was a despicable fortune hunter who had died before he realized that Grandfather had ensured he would never touch a penny of it.

That was the father Ethan had known. He had envisioned him as a younger version of Grandfather—cold, aloof, and demanding—not a man who would tousle a boy’s hair. But the dream had felt so real. Had Grandfather lied?

13

I
t’s a McGuffey’s Reader.” Abigail handed the book to Leah, hoping the young woman would accept it. If she could learn to read and write well, perhaps Leah could break free from the hog ranch. Surely with such basic skills she would be able to find a respectable position in Cheyenne. She could certainly be hired as a cook or housekeeper, and with more skills she might be able to work in one of the shops or a hotel. But first she had to gain confidence.

Leah’s eyes widened. “For me?”

“It’s a loan.” Abigail nodded. “When you finish this one, I’ll bring you the next.” She pulled a slate and a piece of chalk from her bag. “I start teaching the soldiers tomorrow, and I hoped you’d let me practice on you.” Abigail hadn’t been certain Leah would come to the riverbank today, but she had brought an extra jar of water and two hard-boiled eggs in case the young woman was there and could stay for a lesson. It was the perfect time for Abigail, for Charlotte was occupied with morning calls and had agreed that it would be better for her sister to exercise Sally than to accompany her on what even Charlotte referred to as boring visits.

“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.