Summer of Promise (38 page)

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 finger 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.”

Ethan flinched as if he’d been struck, but he said only, “If I accept it.”

“What do you mean ‘if’?”

Ethan turned to face Jeffrey. “I received a letter from my grandfather’s lawyer, explaining that I could refuse the bequest. I suspect my grandfather half believed I would. That’s why he named some distant cousin as the contingent beneficiary.” When Jeffrey raised an eyebrow, Ethan continued. “It’s the first I heard that term, but then I had no reason to know about beneficiaries, contingent or otherwise. I’ve never been in this situation before.”

“What are you going to do?” Charlotte, who had remained silent, posed the question.

Ethan shrugged. “I haven’t decided.” He returned his gaze to Abigail, smiling when his eyes met hers. “It depends.”

23

H
ad she been mistaken? Three times now Abigail had believed that Ethan was on the verge of admitting he cared for her, perhaps even that he loved her, and yet each time that he had seemed close to a declaration, he had gone no further. First had been the night Private Schiller’s body was found, then the next evening when they had walked with Puddles, and lastly the day Ethan had received word of his inheritance. Abigail understood what had stopped him the first night, but the second puzzled her. That evening Ethan’s mood had shifted from discouragement to apparent tenderness and then back to a stoic discussion of the murder. Why? Was he afraid of her reaction, or had she simply misunderstood? Though it was true that she hadn’t expected Ethan to say anything more at the dinner table the day he mentioned his father’s letters because Charlotte and Jeffrey had been there, Abigail had thought the look he’d given her when he’d said “it depends” meant that he wanted to discuss his grandfather’s legacy with her. She did not understand why he had not.

“I don’t think it will be much longer.”

Abigail stared at her sister. Had Charlotte somehow read her mind? No. Charlotte was speaking of her baby, for she laid her hand on her stomach. The two women were in the parlor, putting the finishing touches on the baby’s layette, while Jeffrey, at Charlotte’s insistence, was at the Officers’ Club.

“I know that sitting here watching me sew isn’t very exciting,” Charlotte explained. “That’s why I told Jeffrey I didn’t mind if he went to the Officers’ Club a few nights a week. I don’t want him to be bored like you.”

“I’m not bored.”

Charlotte’s expression said she didn’t believe her. “Then why do I catch you staring into the distance so often?”

Abigail flushed. She hadn’t realized her distraction was obvious. “I’m thinking.”

“About Ethan?”

“Yes.” There was no reason to deny it. Charlotte had already guessed that Abigail harbored more than friendly feelings for him. “I’ve never felt like this about anyone. I think about him all the time.” It seemed as if everything reminded her of Ethan. Yesterday, when the story her class had been reading featured a brother and sister, she’d found herself pondering how different Ethan’s life might have been if he’d had a sibling. And today, when she’d gone to the sutler’s store to buy another spool of thread for Charlotte, she’d seen a warm scarf and had wondered if Ethan would like it.

Charlotte’s eyes sparkled. “That’s normal when you’re in love. You love Ethan, and that makes him the center of your life. It’s only natural.”

“I do love him.” Abigail wondered if she’d ever tire of saying those words. “But what if he doesn’t love me? What will I do then?”

Charlotte reached over to pat Abigail’s hand. “Don’t worry. Ethan loves you. I can see it in his eyes.”

Oh, how Abigail wanted to believe that. Charlotte was a married woman. She knew more about men than Abigail, and yet . . . “If he loves me, why hasn’t he said anything?”

“I don’t know.”

Ethan turned down the wick to extinguish the flame, throwing the room into darkness. It was no use trying to read, just as it was probably futile to climb into bed. If tonight was like the last few, he wouldn’t be able to sleep, for thoughts continued to whirl through his brain. Private Schiller’s murder, his grandfather’s death, his father’s letters, Abigail. Always Abigail. No matter what he was doing, he couldn’t get her out of his mind. The truth was, he didn’t want to.

He chuckled as he threw back the blankets and slid into bed. It appeared he’d inherited at least one thing from his father, and that was his fascination with a woman. Ethan had read the first letter from the packet, smiling when Father told Veronica—his Veronica, as he referred to her—that he thought of her every hour of every day. The words confirmed what Ethan had come to believe, that Stephen Bowles had been as deeply in love with Veronica as Ethan was with Abigail.

Abigail. Ethan laced his fingers beneath his neck and smiled. He had it all planned. Tomorrow he would ask Jeffrey to take Charlotte on a walk, leaving Ethan and Abigail alone. Even if the night was cold, they’d sit on the porch for propriety’s sake, but it would be late enough that they wouldn’t be interrupted by others. When they were alone, he would take her hand in his and tell her how much he cared. And then . . . That was where Ethan’s planning stopped. He didn’t know what would happen next, for everything depended on Abigail. He could only hope she cared for him.

Ethan swung his legs off the side of the bed, realizing there was no point in pretending to sleep, just as there was no point in pretending that all he wanted from Abigail was caring. Caring was fine. Caring was what friends or siblings felt for each other. Ethan wanted more. Much more. He wanted Abigail to love him as much as he loved her.

He made his way to the window and glanced out, his eyes widening when he saw a man leaving the barracks. His furtive movements, the way he kept his head lowered and looked back over his shoulder, as if afraid of being seen, told Ethan there was nothing innocent about this. He threw on his clothes and raced outside, but he was too late. The man was gone.

“Lieutenant, you gotta see ’em.” The sergeant’s words came in spurts, as if he’d run across the parade ground. “I left ’em right where they were.”

Ethan looked up from the report he’d been writing. “What is it, Sergeant?”

“I reckon you oughta see ’em. Over in the barracks.”

“See what?”

The sergeant only shook his head. “Best you see for yourself.”

When they reached the barracks, Ethan stared at the gleam of gold and red only partially hidden behind a soldier’s footlocker. No wonder everyone was alarmed. Men did not leave belongings outside their lockers, and they most definitely did not leave precious jewelry on the floor. There was no doubt that what the sergeant had found was a pair of women’s ruby and gold earrings.

“These look like the ones reported stolen in the last stagecoach robbery,” Ethan said, as much to himself as the sergeant.

The sergeant nodded. “That’s what I figured. I reckon Dietrich’s got some answering to do.”

Ethan frowned as he read the name on the footlocker. Every time something suspicious happened, Dietrich Keller seemed to be in the middle of it. Though he had had plausible explanations in the past, there was no ignoring the presence of stolen goods. How could the man have been so careless or so stupid as to leave them where anyone could find them? The earrings were small enough to tuck in a watch pocket where no one would have seen them.

Ethan turned to the sergeant. “Tell Corporal Keller to report to me.”

When the man arrived, Ethan wasted no words, simply held out the earrings. “Explain to me how these happened to be next to your locker, Corporal.”

“Vat are they?” Though Dietrich looked genuinely puzzled, Ethan knew that a man who was willing to steal could also be good at masking his emotions. Hadn’t he and Jeffrey both commented that Dietrich Keller was smarter than many of the men? This might be part of his act.

The sergeant snorted. “I don’t reckon Lieutenant Bowles will buy that innocent bit. We know you stole them. Likely you’re involved with them stagecoach robbers. Might be you’re the one who killed Schiller.”

The blood drained from Dietrich’s face, and when he spoke, it was in rapid German.

“English, Corporal.”

Despite Ethan’s admonishment, the man continued to babble in German. Though it could have been pretense, Ethan suspected the man was so disturbed that he reverted to his native language.

“Fetch Miss Harding for me,” he ordered the sergeant. “Perhaps she can translate.”

When Abigail arrived, the fact that her hat was crooked spoke of her concern. Still, even with her bonnet askew, she was the most beautiful woman Ethan had ever seen. It was irrational. He knew that, and yet his spirits soared at the sight of her. Alone he’d been frustrated; perhaps together they would be able to get to the bottom of this mess.

“What’s wrong?” Abigail looked from Ethan to Corporal Keller, something about her expression reminding him that the corporal was one of her students. He doubted she had faced situations like this at that fancy girls’ school in Vermont.

Ethan explained what the sergeant had found and that Dietrich appeared incapable of speaking English. “I’m afraid I need an interpreter. Would you ask the corporal where he got these earrings and why he was leaving the barracks around 10:30 last night?”

As Abigail posed the questions, Dietrich gesticulated wildly, shaking his head while his words came out in a torrent. Abigail listened carefully before turning back to Ethan. “He says he never saw the earrings until you showed them to him. As for the other question, he was reluctant to say anything, but he finally admitted that he wasn’t in the barracks at 10:30. He left around 9:00 and didn’t come back until after midnight.”

Ethan turned to the sergeant who’d been guarding the door as if he expected Corporal Keller to flee. “If he’s telling the truth, someone must have seen him.” While most of the men would have been asleep by 10:30 when Ethan saw the man leaving the barracks, at least a few would have been awake at 9:00. “See what you can learn.” When the sergeant left, Ethan turned back to Abigail. “Where did Corporal Keller go last night?”

“To Peg’s. He says he spent the evening with Leah and didn’t return until after midnight.”

“Is this true?” Ethan addressed Dietrich directly.

“Ja.”

A few minutes later, the sergeant returned. “Private Harrison confirms Keller’s story. He said he heard him leave around 9:00, but he can’t say when he came back.”