Summer of Promise (36 page)

When Abigail woke the next morning, it was to the sound of Charlotte singing. Her lovely soprano carried up the stairs, blending with the rattle of dishes and the clang of the teakettle.

“Oh, Abigail, you were right,” Charlotte said as Abigail entered the kitchen. “It wasn’t as bad as I feared.” She poured boiling water into the teapot, placed it on a tray, and handed it to Abigail to take into the dining room.

“Jeffrey and I talked for hours last night,” Charlotte continued. “I never realized he thought I wanted all these fancy things.” She gestured toward the delicate china cups and the silver teapot. “They’re nice, but not if it means he has to gamble to pay for them.”

When they reached the dining room and had placed the dishes on the table, Charlotte turned to Abigail. “Jeffrey promised he’d never go back there. He’s done with gambling.” She put her arms around Abigail and hugged her. “Thank you. You’re the best sister anyone ever had.”

“You are looking at the happiest man on Earth.” The grin that accompanied Oliver’s declaration made his plain face glow. “The captain vouched for me. He telegraphed her father, and he gave his permission. I’m going to marry Melissa.”

Ethan clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Congratulations, old man. You couldn’t have picked a better wife.” Unlike Abigail and the other women Oliver had pursued, Melissa Westland seemed well suited to both Oliver and military life. “When’s the happy day?”

Oliver’s smile dimmed. “That’s the only bad part. We’ve got to wait almost two weeks for her parents to arrive, but by then the administration building should be finished. Melissa’s looking forward to being the chapel’s first bride.”

Brides. Chapels. The words evoked painful images of Abigail walking down the aisle toward Woodrow. She hadn’t said anything about him recently, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t still planning to marry him. Rather than think about that, Ethan turned his attention back to Oliver. “It sounds as if big changes are coming.”

Oliver grinned. “They’ve already begun. Now that I’m getting married, I won’t be going back to the hog ranch. I said good-bye to Peg and her girls last night.” A low chuckle accompanied Oliver’s words. “Can you imagine? Peg asked if she would be invited to the wedding. She seemed sorry I was getting married.”

More likely, she was sorry to be losing another regular customer. First Jeffrey, now Oliver. That couldn’t be good for Peg’s business.

“I’m not sorry,” Ethan assured his friend. “I’m glad for you.”

Oliver’s grin widened. “Your time is coming. Just don’t forget the pretty words. That’s how you catch a wife.”

But words, no matter how pretty, wouldn’t help Ethan, for the woman he loved was going to marry Woodrow.

22

A
bigail smiled as she buttered a piece of bread. Almost two weeks had passed since the night she and Ethan had brought Jeffrey home from the hog ranch, and they had been two of the happiest weeks she could recall. Though Jeffrey seemed quieter than normal and Charlotte did not speak of what had occurred, Abigail could not miss the tender looks they shared. Whatever had happened between them, it appeared that their marriage had taken a turn for the better, and for that Abigail was deeply grateful.

It wasn’t only Charlotte and Jeffrey who were happier. Even though the bandits had not been caught, Ethan seemed more relaxed, perhaps because there had been no more robberies, perhaps because—like almost everyone on the post—he was caught up in the preparations for Oliver and Melissa’s wedding tonight. He smiled more often, and with each smile, Abigail’s heart soared. She had never, ever felt this way with Woodrow.

Woodrow. Abigail’s smile faded as she reminded herself that she had to find a way to tell him that she could not marry him. Though she had started letters to him a dozen times, she had torn each one up in disgust.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Jeffrey nodded at Abigail as he helped himself to another serving of roast. “A letter came for you. I think it’s from your beau.” He reached into his pocket and handed her the envelope.

The handwriting was definitely Woodrow’s. Feeling another stab of guilt that she had delayed so long in telling him the truth about her feelings, Abigail waited until she was alone to open the envelope. It was unlikely the letter would be filled with protestations of love, for that was not Woodrow’s style, but her fingers still trembled as she withdrew the thin paper.

Dear Abigail
, Woodrow had written.
This summer apart has given me time to reflect.
Abigail’s eyes widened. Woodrow was not a reflective man. Once he made his plans, nothing would sway him. What had happened to change that? Had her prayers been answered? Was it possible that God had used the summer to reveal new sides of Woodrow at the same time that he had revealed facets of Abigail?

It pains me to say this, but I realize that I do not know you as well as I thought. I believed you wanted the same things I did—to live in Wesley, to teach at Miss Drexel’s, perhaps one day to see a child of ours become the headmaster of the academy.
Those had been her dreams. When she had set foot on the train headed for Cheyenne, Abigail had wanted nothing more than to live out those dreams. And then everything had changed.

Your letters paint a different picture. I see that you crave adventure and that you will never be fully satisfied with life in Wesley.
Woodrow was right. Somehow, though she hadn’t realized she was doing it, she must have communicated her change of heart. It seemed that Woodrow had recognized what was happening before Abigail had. Her old dreams had crumbled like the pages of the ancient book she’d found in the school’s attic.

I know your sister is ill, but I also believe that if your heart were here, you would have returned for the fall semester.
Tears welled in Abigail’s eyes as she recognized the pain behind Woodrow’s accusation. What she feared had occurred. She had hurt a man who deserved nothing but kindness from her. She had hoped to break the news to him gently, but now it was too late. There was no way to undo the damage.

Your actions have spoken loudly, and I’ve heard their message. Because you are not the woman I believed you to be, the plans I made for that woman no longer have any validity.
A faint smile curved Abigail’s lips. This was the Woodrow she knew, a bit pompous. She had always suspected that his occasionally bombastic prose was his way of compensating for his less than average stature, but perhaps it was simply a way to mask his pain.

I know I have no right to give you any advice, but I will offer it anyway. Stay in Wyoming. It is where you belong.
Was he right? Abigail wasn’t certain. The one thing she knew was that she did not belong in Vermont, teaching at the academy, planning to marry Woodrow.

Cordially, Woodrow Morgan.
Cordially? Abigail raised an eyebrow. In the past, he had signed his letters “with much affection” or simply “your Woodrow.” The formality combined with the use of his surname told Abigail this would be the last letter she received from him. Their friendship was ended.

Regret filled her heart at the same time that she realized this had been inevitable. Even if Abigail returned to Vermont, their relationship would have been strained, and it would have been difficult teaching at the same academy. Though she would always regret the fact that she had hurt Woodrow, Abigail felt a sense of relief that she had been unable to complete her letter to him. This way Woodrow could take comfort from the fact that he had ended their relationship, and perhaps one day he would find a woman who loved him as a wife should.

Abigail folded the closely written sheets and started to slip them back into the envelope when she noticed a few lines scrawled on the back of the last one. That was unlike Woodrow. He considered it a sign of an untidy mind to include a postscriptum, and he spent hours lecturing his students on the necessity for clear, carefully formed letters.

Curious, Abigail pulled the sheets out and read,
P.S.—By the time you receive this, Henrietta Walsh and I will be wed
.

When the import of the words registered, Abigail laughed at the realization that her prayers had been answered. Henrietta was the perfect wife for Woodrow. Although a bit young, she adored him, and—like Woodrow—her dreams were centered on life in Wesley. Henrietta was perfect. Absolutely perfect.

Men! Frances muttered a curse under her breath as she began the tedious process of unknotting her reticule strings. When she was annoyed with someone, she tied a knot, pretending it was a noose around the man’s neck. Even if it was only make-believe, that helped. Unfortunately, she couldn’t kill them all. She needed men, at least some of them. If only they weren’t so difficult.

As annoying as he was, the baron provided a valuable service. He was the one who learned when wealthy folks were planning to travel, and when the jewelry they stole was too easily recognized, it was the baron who found buyers. Frances couldn’t sever her ties to him. Not yet.

The others were different. There was Schiller, foolishly thinking he deserved a greater share of the loot just because he’d been wounded. That was bad enough. The other was worse. If Schiller was a fool, the man at the fort, as the baron called him, was simply stupid. He seemed to think he could walk away and no one would notice his absence. He claimed he owed it to the love of his life to not visit the hog ranch. Love! If anything proved the man had taken leave of his senses, it was that. Love was a fairy tale for fools.

As she untied the last knot, Frances chuckled. The fool and the stupid one both needed a lesson, and she knew just what that lesson would be. It was perfect. She would kill two birds with one stone. Even the baron would approve.

The evening was cool with a hint of frost, confirming Charlotte’s observation that fall came early to the high plains. Abigail shivered as she accompanied her sister toward the site of tonight’s festivities. Though it was only late September, the weather felt more like early November in Vermont. Warm days were followed by decidedly cool nights, some cold enough that Charlotte lit the stove in the parlor. There would, however, be no need for a stove in the administration building tonight. With everyone at the fort attending its inaugural event, the theater wing would be both crowded and warm.

Though it was still early when Abigail and Charlotte arrived, they discovered the room was rapidly filling with soldiers and their families, their enthusiastic greetings echoing off the limestone walls.

“You look especially lovely tonight.”

Abigail smiled, not certain what pleased her more, Ethan’s compliment or the fact that he’d singled her out for a moment of private conversation. She had not thought he’d see her, for her seat behind the pianoforte kept her hidden from the guests.

Rising and giving him a curtsey that showed off the skirt Charlotte had labored to complete, Abigail said, “It’s the new gown. Charlotte insisted I needed something special for tonight.” Abigail had been pleased when Melissa had asked her to play the piano for her wedding and even more pleased by Oliver’s obvious happiness. Like Woodrow, Oliver had found the woman God intended for him. Now all that was left was Ethan, the man who stood so close that she could feel the warmth of his breath.

Knowing her cheeks were flushed, Abigail looked down at her gown. The lines of the rust-colored silk were deceptively simple. Somehow, Charlotte had draped the skirt without obvious tucks or pleats, making Abigail feel as if she were wearing a column of shimmering silk. It was a dress fit for a princess.

The expression in Ethan’s eyes only deepened Abigail’s flush. He tipped his head to one side, pretending to examine the gown. “The dress is pretty,” he conceded, “but it’s more than that. You look different. I can’t put my finger on it.” With a self-deprecating shrug, he continued. “Mrs. Eberle always claimed I was the least observant child she’d ever seen, so I can’t tell you what it is that seems different. All I know is that there’s something.”

Abigail laid the sheet music on top of the pianoforte and smiled again. Though the room was filled with people, their voices, the scraping of benches, and the click of boot heels forming a cacophony of sounds, this corner felt like an oasis, a pleasant respite from the noise. And while it was not the setting she would have chosen, Abigail wanted Ethan to know what had happened. She wouldn’t tell him that she loved him. A lady could not do that. But she could tell him the truth about Woodrow.