Summer of Promise (4 page)

The parlor was a surprise, this time a pleasant one. With two windows on the front and bright white paint, it was light and airy, filled with furniture that would not have been out of place in one of the finest homes in Vermont. It even boasted a piano.

“Tell me all about your journey,” Charlotte encouraged once she and Abigail were seated. Though she had gestured Abigail toward the settee, Charlotte took the chair opposite her, keeping her eyes fixed on her sister, as if she feared she would disappear. “How long can you stay?” Without waiting for an answer, Charlotte shook her head again, setting her uncombed hair to bouncing. “Let me get you some tea.” Her expression was apologetic as she said, “Truly, I have not forgotten all those lessons Mama gave us on being a good hostess. I’m simply surprised to see you here. It’s such a long way from Vermont to Fort Laramie.”

Abigail smiled at the realization that, though she might be pale and thin, this was the sister she remembered. Charlotte’s brain moved so quickly that it was sometimes difficult to keep up with her. Conversations could be tiring, simply because of the number of changes of subject.

“Tea would be wonderful. The air is so dry that my throat feels parched most of the time.”

“You must be careful. The sun is stronger here. At these high altitudes, you need to protect your skin.” That was vintage Charlotte, taking advantage of being the oldest sister to advise her younger siblings. But perhaps there was more to the warning than simple sisterly concern. Perhaps it explained why Charlotte was so pale. Perhaps she’d been afraid to expose her skin to sunlight. Still, while that was a possible reason, it wouldn’t explain why her eyes had lost their sparkle and why she was so thin. A more likely reason, although one Abigail wished she could dismiss, was that Charlotte’s childhood illness had recurred.

“Let me help you.” Abigail followed her sister into the kitchen. Like the parlor, it was well furnished.

Charlotte shook her head. “Nonsense. Mrs. Channing—she’s the woman who cooks and cleans for us—will be back shortly. She’s only gone to the commissary to buy some beef. In the meantime, I think I can boil water for a pot of tea.” Though her words were brave, Abigail noticed that Charlotte’s hands trembled as she lifted the heavy iron teakettle to place it on the stove, and she sank onto the long bench, as if the effort had exhausted her.

“Are you all right?” The words slipped out before Abigail realized what she was saying.

“Of course I am.” Charlotte looked down at her casual dress and frowned. “I was a bit fatigued this afternoon, and so I took a nap.” She raised her eyebrows in the imperious expression Abigail remembered from their childhood. “You remember that Mama used to take naps, don’t you?” When Abigail nodded, Charlotte added, “I’m perfectly fine.”

Though Abigail did not believe her sister, Charlotte would only become more intractable if she said anything more. That childhood bout of pneumonia had left Charlotte with more than a lingering weakness. It had made her overly sensitive to questions about her health.

As they waited for the water to boil, Charlotte leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees. “Now tell me what Elizabeth said when you announced you were coming. I thought you were planning to visit her this summer.”

“I was, but I changed my mind. Elizabeth’s so busy with her studies that Christmas will be a better time for a visit.” It was rationalization, Abigail knew, but she had believed that Charlotte needed her more than their younger sister, whose medical school classes kept her almost too busy to sleep. Though Abigail missed both sisters dreadfully, it was Charlotte who worried her.

A smile crossed Charlotte’s face as she rose to measure out tea. “Oh, Abigail, you’re so impulsive.”

There was that word again. “That’s what Ethan said.”

“Ethan? Ethan who?”

Though there was no reason, Abigail felt her face flush. “Lieutenant Bowles,” she said as calmly as she could. “He was one of the passengers on the stagecoach from Cheyenne.”

“Ah, that Ethan.” Charlotte nodded with approval. “Jeffrey says he’s a good man. He’s another West Pointer, you know.”

Once again, Charlotte was seizing on any subject other than her health. Knowing there was nothing to be gained by pursuing that now, Abigail picked up the tea tray and carried it back to the parlor. “Your house is lovely,” she said when they were once more seated. “I’m surprised you have a pianoforte.” And not simply a piano, but a Steinway. That was a far cry from the battered instrument their parents had taken from one parsonage to the next, its case seeming to acquire at least one more nick with each move.

Charlotte stirred sugar into her cup of tea before she replied. “Jeffrey insists on buying the best of everything. He’s very good to me.”

Surely it was Abigail’s imagination that her sister seemed as if she was reciting lines she had delivered many times. “Then you’re happy here.” She made it a statement rather than a question.

“Of course. Who wouldn’t be?”

Once again, Charlotte’s words rang hollow.

“Bowles.”

Ethan turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Though Jeffrey Crowley used his first name in private, he was formal in public, declaring that West Pointers had an obligation to maintain standards of dignity. Jeffrey’s boots were always perfectly shined, the creases in his uniform impeccable. Though that was nothing more than they’d been taught, Ethan suspected that Jeffrey’s insistence on dignity came from years of being taunted for his carrot-colored hair and freckled face rather than any protocol he’d learned at the Point.

“What are you doing here?” Jeffrey continued, his green eyes narrowing as he strode next to Ethan, appearing content to accompany him wherever he was going, which in this case was to their superior officer. “I thought you weren’t due back until tomorrow.”

Because he had not yet briefed Captain Westland, Ethan did not mention the attempted robbery. “There was nothing to be gained by staying in Cheyenne.” And, as it turned out, much to be gained by being on that particular coach.

Keeping his voice even, Ethan said, “I hit one dead end after another in Cheyenne, so I decided to come back. As luck would have it, I wound up accompanying your sister-in-law.”

Jeffrey’s blink was the only sign he was surprised. A couple inches shorter than Ethan, Jeffrey was a good twenty pounds heavier, with what Ethan’s grandfather used to call a boxer’s physique. “Why on earth did Elizabeth come? I thought she was still in school.”

“Not Elizabeth, Abigail. I gather she missed Charlotte’s company.”

To Ethan’s surprise, Jeffrey muttered a curse that had nothing to do with the four dogs that scampered beside him, barking, yipping, and trying to jump on him. “Abigail’s trouble. According to Charlotte, she’s always acted without thinking, and here’s the proof. She’s in my home. What did I do to deserve her?”

The answer was simple. “You married her sister. Didn’t I tell you that marriage is more trouble than it’s worth?”

“Wait until you meet the right woman. You’ll change your tune then.” Jeffrey stared into the distance, as if searching for a solution to what he obviously considered an unpleasant situation. “Come home with me and stay for supper.”

Ethan shook his head. Though a home-cooked meal was enticing, he had things to do. “I need to see the captain. Besides, I know better than to intrude on a family gathering.”

But Jeffrey would not be dissuaded. “Charlotte’s my family,” he insisted. “Abigail’s an unfortunate appendage. C’mon, Ethan, do me a favor. I don’t want to beard the lion alone.”

A lion? Abigail Harding was more like a swan with that long, graceful neck. “Oh, all right.” It was less than a gracious acceptance, but the invitation had been less than gracious. “That’ll give me a chance to tell you what happened on the trip back.”

Frances Colfax let out a string of curses that would have blistered the paint, had there been any paint to blister. Paint was the last thing she needed on the shanty walls. This place was fine the way it was—a tumbledown building so weathered by the wind and sun that no one would spare it a second glance, even if they happened to spot it. And few did, for it was a dugout, set deep into the hillside, miles away from the closest ranch. This was the perfect spot to stash her clothing and an even better one for stashing the takings. When there were takings.

Carefully folding the last of the seven petticoats that had made her look like a refugee from the War Between the States, Frances cursed again. Her words were nothing compared to what the baron would say when he heard about today’s fiasco. It couldn’t have been much worse. That lieutenant wasn’t supposed to be on the coach. Frances had been assured that no one from the fort was scheduled to travel then, much less an officer. The passengers were supposed to be a bunch of rich folks who deserved nothing more than to contribute their jewelry and cash to Frances’s fund. It was bad enough that there was only one couple instead of the four or five she had expected. It was even worse that the attack took place earlier than it was supposed to and that she had somehow fallen asleep. That was a fact she had no intention of mentioning to the baron. She would focus on that cursed Lieutenant Bowles’s interference.

Frances brushed the gray powder from her hair. By the time she was done, no one would find any connection between Frances Colfax, who had once dazzled audiences with her portrayals of Juliet, Desdemona, and her personal favorite, Lady Macbeth, and Mrs. Dunn, a helpless widow.

Helpless, hah! If it hadn’t been for that schoolmarm, Frances would have stopped the lieutenant’s sharpshooting, knocking that Colt out of his hand before he had a chance to aim. But the schoolmarm was stronger than she’d appeared, and she’d kept Frances from retrieving her reticule. The chit didn’t know that what Frances wanted from it wasn’t smelling salts but her derringer. Frances wasn’t only one of the finest actresses ever to tread the boards, she was also a crack shot, and—unlike the baron—she wouldn’t hesitate to kill a woman. No one stood between Frances Colfax and success.

Fastening the last button on her riding clothes and preparing to head for the ranch, she frowned as she pictured the baron’s reaction. Instead of money and jewels, they had a wounded man to deal with. Not good. Not good at all. If his hand was as badly injured as she thought, Schiller would be useless for at least a month. The baron would not be happy.

“Your stagecoach was robbed? Oh, Abigail, how dreadful!” Blood drained from Charlotte Crowley’s face, and she looked as if she were about to swoon. For the life of him, Ethan didn’t understand why women trussed themselves up so tight that they could hardly breathe. Look at the way Mrs. Fitzgerald had fainted at the first sign of danger. Even the widow had sought her smelling salts. And now Jeffrey’s wife appeared faint.