Waiting for Spring (23 page)

“How old is she?”

Mrs. Cox's expression said she understood Charlotte's unspoken concerns. “Nancy will be two next week. That's why I was shopping today. I wanted to buy a new dress for her birthday. I had hoped she'd be walking by now, but . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Have you tried having her hold on to a doll carriage?” Barrett's book had suggested that technique for encouraging children to walk. Though he still wasn't walking independently, David seemed to be gaining confidence from holding on to Rose's little carriage.

“I haven't.” Mrs. Cox's light blue eyes clouded with confusion. “How . . . ? Why . . . ?” She seemed unable to complete her questions.

“How do I know about using a perambulator?” When Mrs. Cox nodded, Charlotte said simply, “My son is blind.”

To Charlotte's surprise, Mrs. Cox smiled. “You don't know how happy that makes me.” As soon as the words were spoken, the woman flushed, and her smile disappeared. “I'm so sorry. Please don't misunderstand me, Madame Charlotte. I'm not happy that your son cannot see, but I am happy that I'm not alone. It's been so difficult.” She picked up another cookie, this time breaking off a bite-sized piece to hand to
Nancy. “I love my daughter dearly, but sometimes it's hard to know what to do, and there's been no one to ask. I've met several mothers whose children are hard of hearing, but none who are blind.”

Mrs. Cox stretched out her hand and touched Charlotte's arm. “Oh, Madame Charlotte, I'm so glad you were here today.”

 14 

C
harlotte drew her cloak closer, trying not to shiver as the wind buffeted her. It had howled all night, its mournful cry keeping her from sleeping and making David restless. When it seemed to lose some of its ferocity in the predawn hours, she'd donned her widow's weeds and set out for the boardinghouse. Mrs. Kendall had admitted that the women needed warm clothing, so today's delivery consisted of half a dozen heavy flannel petticoats. Though they lacked the fancy stitching and crocheted edging Charlotte's customers expected, she had added pintucks to each garment, wanting Mrs. Kendall's boarders to have at least a small touch of luxury. They had so little.

But it wasn't the women from 15th Street who had occupied Charlotte's thoughts for the past four days. It was Nancy Cox. Like Nancy's mother, Charlotte had believed she was the only person in Cheyenne raising a blind child. Now she knew that she was not alone and that at least one
other person believed as she did, that children benefited from being with their parents.

“We'll do anything we can to help Nancy, but we can't send our only child away.” Mrs. Cox confided that Nancy's had been a difficult birth and that the midwife had warned she would be risking her life if she had another baby. “Mr. Cox and I won't do that, especially since Nancy is . . .” She hesitated before saying, “Special. We want to be close to her as she grows up.”

Just as Charlotte wanted to be close to David. The problem was that the book Barrett had given her stressed the importance of having trained teachers, particularly after the first three years. Charlotte would not delude herself. While she had indeed been a teacher, she was not trained to work with blind children. But there had to be a solution.

Scraping her boots on the step to dislodge the packed snow, Charlotte knocked on the boardinghouse door. There would be time to worry about David's and Nancy's education on her walk back home. For the present, she would devote her attention to Mrs. Kendall.

“I have hot coffee if you'd like some,” the older woman said when she'd ushered Charlotte into the kitchen.

Charlotte shook her head. Though she would welcome the warmth, she did not want to raise her veil. While she doubted Mrs. Kendall would reveal her identity if she knew it, there was always the possibility that one of the boarders would enter the kitchen and recognize Charlotte. It was better to remain anonymous.

“I will warm my hands at the stove, though,” Charlotte said as she removed her gloves. She nodded toward the package she'd placed on the table. “I brought petticoats today.”

Eagerly Mrs. Kendall unwrapped the garments, her face glowing with pleasure when she felt the heavy fabric. “My gals are convinced you're an angel.”

“Hardly. I'm just a widow who wants to help.”

“That's why Sylvia's gals have took to calling you the angel widow.” Mrs. Kendall hung one of the petticoats over a chair and stepped back to admire it. “They don't mean nothin' bad by it, ma'am. They give all their regular customers nicknames. You're different, though. When they say your name, it's respectful-like, not like when they talk about the baron.”

Charlotte felt the blood drain from her face, and she grabbed a chairback when light-headedness threatened to overcome her. “The baron?” she asked, hoping her voice did not betray her distress. “Who's he?” It was probably coincidence, nothing to worry about, but she had to be certain.

Pursing her lips, Mrs. Kendall let out a small huff. “He's a bad man, is what he is. Sylvia's gals don't say much except that no one wants him as a customer. He's real mean.”

That sounded like the same man. Tamping down her fear and revulsion, Charlotte managed to squeak out a question. “What does he look like?”

Though Mrs. Kendall's eyes narrowed as if she were puzzled by Charlotte's curiosity, she merely shrugged. “Nobody knows. The girls say he wears a mask—more like a hood with holes cut out for his eyes and mouth. We reckon he's somebody important-like and he don't want nobody to recognize him.”

As her legs turned to jelly, Charlotte sank onto the chair. There was little doubt about it. The baron was in Cheyenne.

“It feels like spring, doesn't it?” Warren flashed Barrett a grin as he climbed the steps to the Cheyenne Club.

The rocking chairs that provided a comfortable place to meet friends and be seen by passersby during the summer months were still in storage, but the unseasonable warmth had brought Barrett and a few other men out onto the porch. Though it was only January 20th, the Chinook wind was a welcome change from the bitter cold that had plagued the city for what felt like an eternity.

“I sure hope it lasts.” Barrett opened the door to usher Warren into the club. “I don't mind telling you that I've been worried about my cattle. This is the worst winter I've seen.”

“But it's over now.” Though Warren grinned again, Barrett wasn't certain whether it was because of the change of weather or the fact that he was inside the club. He seemed to derive an inordinate amount of pleasure from the time that he spent here. Barrett hoped Warren's membership would be approved this time. Maybe then he'd realize that, while the club was a pleasant place to while away a few hours, there was nothing magic about it.

“Amazing, isn't it?” Warren continued. “A week ago the men started harvesting ice, and now we've left off our overcoats.”

“That's not amazing. That's Wyoming. You know the weather's fickle.” And that was what Barrett feared: a resumption of winter's frigid temperatures and this year's unusually heavy snowfall. “I'm heading up to the ranch tomorrow. Want to come along?”

Warren lit a cigar, shaking his head as he blew out the match. “Absolutely not. Why would I want to spend time with you and some bellowing, odoriferous cattle when I could be with a charming, soft-spoken, sweet-smelling woman?”

“The one you want to marry?”

“Exactly.” Warren nodded at Derek Slater as he entered the room. Rumor had it that Warren was hoping to land him as a client. “I just need to get a few things in line. Then I'll ask her to be mine.”

Leaning back in the comfortable wing chair, Barrett studied his friend. The man had seemed calmer, more relaxed, happier for the past few months. Could the difference be attributed to his plans to marry?

“Who is this mysterious woman? Do I know her?” Though Barrett suspected it was Gwen, Warren had never admitted it. He'd seemed taken with her when they were introduced at the opera house, and he'd asked Barrett to seat them together at his dinner, but Warren had not spoken of Gwen other than those two occasions. He hadn't even mentioned sharing Christmas dinner with her at the InterOcean, though he had to have known that the rumor mill would have taken note of that. Barrett hoped Gwen was the woman Warren was planning to marry and that he wasn't toying with her affections.

As a puff of smoke circled his head, Warren nodded. “You do know her. Mrs. Amos. Gwen.”

The relief that coursed through Barrett's veins was almost palpable. “She's a fine woman.” And, according to Charlotte, she was eager to remarry and give her daughter a father. It would be an ideal situation, for if Warren married Gwen, they would both be happy. What concerned Barrett was Charlotte. He knew that she had limited experience living alone and that Gwen was her friend as well as the woman who shared her apartment, and so he wondered how Charlotte would fare when Gwen left.

“Gwen will make a fine wife.” Warren's eyes narrowed.
“You know, Barrett, you shouldn't be waiting so long to take a bride. You need to show the voters you're a stable man.”

“You sound like Richard and my brother. They're both convinced I won't be elected unless I'm married. The only difference is, Richard thinks Miriam is perfect, while Harrison spent most of his visit trying to convince me that I shouldn't marry her.”

Warren rubbed his prominent nose, his eyes narrowing still further as he gazed at Barrett. “Is that why you haven't asked Miriam to marry you?”

The conversation had entered dangerous territory. “What's between Miriam and me is private.” Barrett had no intention of telling Warren or anyone else that increasingly, every time he thought of marriage, the woman he pictured sitting on the opposite side of his breakfast table was a beautiful brunette, not a lovely blonde. This was one time he couldn't depend on others. Harrison would be pleased if Barrett chose Charlotte, while Richard was certain Miriam would be the ideal wife. Warren didn't seem to care whom Barrett married so long as he did it quickly. Though he'd never thought of himself as ambivalent, Barrett was confused. Until he resolved his feelings, there would be no proposals of marriage.

Warren was silent for a moment, puffing his cigar as he considered Barrett's declaration. “I'm beginning to think I was wrong,” he said at last. “You're too soft to be a politician. You need more starch.”

“Starch is for shirts.”

“And politicians. Now, if you're really serious about running, here's what you need to do . . .”

Almost twenty-four hours later, Barrett was still considering Warren's advice as he rode north toward the ranch.
“You need to be more visible,” Warren had announced. “Find excuses to make speeches. Get your views and your face—especially your face—in front of voters. You need to be better known.” Though Warren had spoken for the better part of an hour, his advice boiled down to two things: visibility and marriage. They were both essential, at least in Warren's opinion.

But Warren's opinions were relegated to the back of Barrett's mind once he reached the open rangeland. The effects of the Chinook were different here than in Cheyenne. While the city's residents had welcomed the warmth and the partial melting of the huge piles of snow, out here there were no artificially created piles of snow, just rolling grassland covered with more than a foot of the white stuff. And now, thanks to the rapid melting, the low-lying areas had become ponds because of the several inches of water that had accumulated on top of the snow.

“I don't know, Boss,” Dustin said when Barrett entered the ranch house. “I ain't never seen a winter like this. It's mighty peculiar weather.”

It was, indeed, and Barrett feared that the worst might be ahead. “I'm afraid that the snow under all that water is icy. Cattle might slip and break a leg.”

Dustin nodded, his lips twisted into a scowl. “I reckon that could happen. We gotta hope it don't turn cold again.”

But it did. By the time Barrett returned to Cheyenne on the 24th, another blast of bitter cold had pummeled Wyoming, changing open water to a thick layer of ice. The ponds and streams froze, leaving the cattle with nothing to drink. That would have been dangerous enough, but the cold dealt a double blow, for the ice that now covered the snow was so thick that cattle could not break through it to reach the grass
that was their only source of nourishment. With no food or water, Barrett's cattle and that of all the other stock growers were endangered. They needed an early spring. Desperately.