Waiting For Spring Part 18

She was a remarkable woman. A truly remarkable woman. Barrett leaned forward, urging Midnight to gallop. He needed a chance to clear his head, and riding with the wind blowing across his face was the best way Barrett knew to do that. He could only hope that Midnight was enjoying the gallop as much as he was.

The ride was giving him a chance to think. Though he ought to be focusing on finding the baron, Barrett couldn't stop thinking about Charlotte and all that he'd learned about her. He'd been right in believing she had secrets, but never had he imagined either the depths of those secrets or the extent of her courage. She'd been frightened-terrified was probably a better word-by what had happened at Fort Laramie and the danger she and David faced. And yet she'd overcome that fear, replacing it with determination to make a new life.

She could have returned to Vermont. She could have lived with one of her sisters. She could have remarried. Any of those alternatives would have been easy, but Charlotte hadn't taken the easy way. Instead, she had chosen to remain independent and create a life for herself and David. Amazing. Charlotte Harding Crowley was an amazing woman.

Barrett frowned as he looked at the sky. Buzzards continued to circle, reminding him of the devastation he'd seen the last time he'd headed north. It was worse today. Though it had been less than a week since he'd traveled this route, the number of carca.s.ses was higher, some of the bodies so stiff with rigor mortis that he knew their death had been recent. Barrett didn't want to look. He didn't want to see the destruction of so many men's dreams, and yet he could not ignore it. Cattle continued to die. Though the loss of life saddened him, what was worse was the knowledge that he could do nothing to change it. If, as Charlotte claimed, he was put on Earth to make it a better place, being a cattle rancher was certainly not the way to accomplish that. Helping Charlotte just might be.

Midnight whinnied, and Barrett wondered whether he was disturbed by the dead cattle or whether he sensed Barrett's own distress. In either case, there was nothing Barrett could do for his horse. Charlotte's situation was different. He wouldn't accept defeat where she was concerned. He wouldn't give up until he'd found the baron, for until he did, Charlotte would continue to live in fear. There was only one solution. The baron must be brought to justice. That was why Barrett was on his way to Fort Laramie. He hadn't spoken to Richard and Warren, for he doubted they could help him. The answers, he was certain, were at the fort. And so he'd saddled his horse at daybreak and was headed toward the Army post.

By the time he reached the fort that stood at the confluence of the Laramie and Platte Rivers the next day, Barrett was tired. So, too, was Midnight. They both needed rest and food.

"State your business," the sentry barked as Barrett approached the post.

Barrett looked around, surprised that the fort resembled a small town more than a military establishment. With no surrounding walls, a mixture of architectural styles, and ladies strolling along boardwalks, it did not meet his mental image of a fort.

"I want to see Captain Westland." Charlotte had given him the name of the company commander, adding that she wasn't certain the man would still be there. The Army, it seemed, transferred its men regularly.

"That way, sir." The sentry pointed toward a large L-shaped building at the southeast corner of the parade ground. "That's the administration building. You'll find him there."

One hurdle pa.s.sed. The captain was still here. Now all Barrett needed was for him to know the baron's ident.i.ty. Glad to stretch his legs after the hours on horseback, Barrett lengthened his stride as he pa.s.sed what appeared to be barracks on the way to the limestone building the sentry had indicated. Less than a minute later, he was introduced to the fort's commanding officer.

"What can I do for you?" Captain Westland proved to be a stocky, bespectacled man whose graying hair made him appear to be about the same age as Warren. He was also as matter-of-fact as Barrett's attorney, eschewing any small talk once the introductions had been made.

Taking the seat the captain indicated, Barrett looked around the room. While it couldn't compare to Cheyenne's mansions, the room was less stark than he had expected. The crossed flags-United States and Army-on top of the mantel were no surprise, but the beautifully carved cherrywood desk and bookcases were, as was the potted plant that had grown spindly, trying to reach the windowsill.

"I want to learn what I can about Jeffrey Crowley's death and a man called the baron," Barrett said, fixing his eyes on the captain.

The commander frowned slightly. "You know that I can't discuss an officer's military record with you."

"I wouldn't expect you to. I realize that's confidential information."

Barrett's response appeared to surprise the captain. "Then why are you here?"

"I trust that what I'm going to tell you will remain as confidential as Lieutenant Crowley's record." Barrett looked back at the door, ensuring that it was fully closed.

"Certainly."

"I've met his widow."

The captain's surprise deepened. "How? Where? You said you were from Cheyenne, but I heard she had gone back to Vermont."

Barrett debated how much to tell the commanding officer, finally deciding on the basics. "Mrs. Crowley"-it felt strange to refer to her by that name-"moved to Cheyenne. She's worried that the baron might be searching for her."

Captain Westland removed his spectacles, polishing them carefully as he said, "That could be. The man's a bit of a legend. No one seems to know where he came from, where he lives, or even how he got his name. An eyewitness said he was the one who killed Lieutenant Crowley, but he stayed in the shadows so no one could identify him. Whoever he is, the baron is a wily man."

After hearing the captain's explanation, Barrett agreed with Charlotte that the man who frightened Sylvia's girls was likely the same one who'd led Jeffrey deeper into crime. He might have traded the shadows for a mask, but he hadn't changed his nature. Charlotte had said he was evil. Barrett agreed, especially now that he knew the baron had killed at least two people.

"I heard the baron might have been involved in stagecoach robberies," Barrett said.

"I heard that too." The captain replaced his spectacles and peered over them at Barrett. "There's no proof, though. The robberies stopped when Crowley died."

"And now the stagecoach has ceased running."

"Precisely." Captain Westland frowned. "I'm afraid I haven't been much help."

While it was true that the captain hadn't been able to identify the baron, Barrett had learned at least one new facet of the man's past. Whether he'd tell Charlotte that the baron was responsible for her husband's death remained to be seen.

"Thank you, anyway. I appreciate your time." Barrett rose and took a step toward the door, turning abruptly. "One more thing. Could you tell me where Lieutenant and Mrs. Crowley lived?" It wouldn't help him find the baron, but it might help him understand Charlotte.

"Certainly." The captain led Barrett outside and pointed to the west. "See that white house there?" he asked, indicating a good-sized building at the curve of the road. "It's divided into two residences. The left side was theirs."

Barrett walked the short distance and stared at the place where Charlotte had once lived. It was a pleasant enough building, two stories high with three dormers on the front and two on the back of the second story. Judging from the placement of the windows and chimneys, Barrett guessed the first floor contained a parlor and dining room and that the one-story addition to the back housed the kitchen. Though not huge by any standards, it was considerably larger than the apartment Charlotte now shared with three others. Did she feel cramped in Cheyenne? Did she miss the wide wraparound porch? Barrett could picture her sitting there, rocking slowly on a warm summer night.

He peered around the side of the building, noting that in addition to the normal outbuildings, the yard contained what appeared to be a small garden. Perhaps Charlotte had been the one who'd hoed the ground in that backyard garden. Perhaps she had done her sewing sitting by that front window, watching soldiers march on the parade ground. Or perhaps her days had been whiled away visiting with other officers' wives. There was so much Barrett wanted to know, so much he needed to understand about her past. If they were going to have a future together-and he was determined that they would-they both needed to know what had made them the people they were today. But first he had to find the baron.

"Tomorrow is March 1, and we haven't had any snow for ten days." Gwen looked up from the lace she was attaching to a collar, her face wreathed in a smile. "Spring can't be far away."

"I hope so. It seems like all of us are waiting for spring." Charlotte didn't add that she was also waiting for Barrett to return from Fort Laramie. She hoped he'd discover something there but wasn't optimistic. Instead, she worried that the only thing he would discover was more dead cattle along the way. At least the action of pulling a thread and needle through fabric helped settle her nerves. That was one of the reasons she was sewing tonight, that and the fact that she wanted to get another dress to Mrs. Kendall by the end of the week. This time, though, she would not make her delivery on foot. Barrett had insisted that he would take her in his carriage, and remembering the fear she had felt when she'd known she was being followed, Charlotte had not argued with him. It would be safer, not to mention more enjoyable, to go with Barrett, and, since she was no longer trying to expand her dressmaking business, she wouldn't worry about her customers learning what she was doing.

Gwen knotted her thread. "This awful winter has to end. It's making everyone miserable. Even Warren's been in a disagreeable mood." She frowned, then looked up at Charlotte, a question in her eyes. "I hope it's nothing to do with me."

"I'm sure it isn't." Charlotte had managed to overcome her initial reaction to Warren, telling herself that while he wasn't a man she would want to marry, he was kind to Gwen and Rose and had brought a sparkle to Charlotte's friend's eyes. "As you said, everyone's discouraged. According to today's paper, the loss of cattle is staggering. That will affect everyone, not just the cattle growers. Warren will have fewer clients if they go out of business."

Gwen wasn't convinced. "As awful as it sounds, I hope you're right and that's the only reason Warren's been out of sorts," she said, a tremor in her voice. "I don't know what I'll do if Warren doesn't love me. He's everything I ever dreamt of." Tears welled in Gwen's eyes. "I thought he loved me, but if he does, he should have declared himself by now." She dashed the tears from her cheeks. "Why hasn't he? I want to know that we have a future together. Rose and I need him."

Charlotte tried not to frown at Gwen's use of the word need. Her parents had taught their daughters that marriage should be based on love and respect, not need, but Gwen didn't want to hear that. And perhaps there was no reason for Charlotte to say anything, for it appeared that Gwen did love Warren, not simply the idea that he would take care of her and her daughter.

"Lent has started," Charlotte said, grasping at straws. "He may be waiting until it ends. You know that almost no one marries between Ash Wednesday and Easter." It was such a solemn time of the year that few engagements were announced then, and there were even fewer weddings.

Gwen's tears vanished, replaced by a smile. "You must be right. Warren wouldn't do anything that wasn't proper." Laying her sewing aside, she rose and hugged Charlotte. "Thank you. You've made me feel much better." When she returned to her seat, she raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't it be perfect if Warren and Barrett proposed at the same time? We could have a double wedding."

Charlotte couldn't let Gwen continue to weave fantasies that would not come true, fantasies that Charlotte only admitted in her dreams. "I don't expect to remarry," she said firmly. "The school will be my life."

"I thought you'd given up that idea." Gwen stuck her needle into the fabric and looked up, frowning. "Honestly, Charlotte, I think you're mistaken. Why would you want to spend your life teaching other people's children when you could have a life with Barrett? He'd take care of you and David. You could even have other children. Don't you see? It would be perfect."

Perfect appeared to be Gwen's favorite word today. The problem was, her idea of perfect was different from Charlotte's. "The school is important."

"It is," Gwen agreed, "but you don't have to be the teacher. If you married Barrett, you could use some of his money to hire someone. You don't have to do everything yourself."

It wasn't the first time Charlotte had heard that advice. "That's what Abigail and Elizabeth said." Her sisters had not been enthusiastic about her plan for a school. Part of the reason, Charlotte suspected, was that they had been hurt that she hadn't confided the truth of David's blindness sooner, and that feeling of hurt colored everything else.

"You should listen to us," Gwen said, a smug smile on her face. "We can't all be wrong."

But they were. Establishing the school was what G.o.d wanted her to do. Charlotte was certain of that.

Charlotte was helping a customer the next day when Barrett entered the shop. Though he said nothing beyond a brief greeting, the slump of his shoulders told Charlotte his trip had been discouraging.

As soon as the customer left, she turned to Barrett. "Welcome back," she said, infusing her voice with as much enthusiasm as she could. "I'm glad you're here."

"You won't be when you hear what I have to say." Barrett refused the chair she offered, and so Charlotte remained standing rather than have to crane her neck to look at him.

"What I learned at the fort is that the baron is even more dangerous than you feared," he said, his voice tinged with regret. "I know the school is important to you, but I'd advise waiting until we've found him."

Barrett swallowed, and Charlotte realized there was much he wasn't telling her. Though anger mingled with regret that he felt the need to shelter her from unpleasant news, Charlotte said nothing. After all, Barrett was only trying to help her. He would probably argue that it was caring, not coddling. Perhaps he was right and she was being overly sensitive.

"I don't want to wait," she said quietly.

"I know that, but if the baron learns that you're Jeffrey's widow, there's no telling what he might do. As you said, he's an evil man. I'm afraid you might be putting not just David but Nancy and the other children at risk."

Barrett had raised the one argument that would make Charlotte stop. Slowly, she nodded. Her dream would have to be postponed.

21.

She was falling behind. Though her ragged breathing told him she was running as quickly as she could, there was no way she could win the race. Even if she were not burdened by the child she carried, even if she did not catch her foot in one of the holes that pocked the prairie, even if the blazing summer sun did not sap her energy, her legs were no match for the man's. The man who pursued her had everything on his side: size, strength, and, most of all, the knife. Its silver blade gleamed in the sunshine, a wicked glint that matched the evil twist of his lips. While the woman was clad in only a thin nightdress, the man was dressed for the elements, leather chaps protecting his legs from the spiky leaves of the yucca and the thorns of the tumbleweeds. He was prepared. She was not.

The woman glanced behind her, and the fear he saw on her face stabbed at Barrett. She was right to fear her pursuer, for his intent was all too obvious. The man would kill her and leave her body and that of her child for the buzzards. He would laugh as he laughed now, untroubled by the death of two innocent souls. Charlotte's pursuer was evil incarnate, afraid to show his face in the sunlight. This was the masked man she feared. This was the baron. And somehow he had found her.

Barrett stared at the man, wondering who hid behind the ugly mask. More like a hood than an ordinary mask, it covered his head and face, leaving only his lips and eyes visible. Black as night, the disguise was the most ominous thing Barrett had ever seen, for he knew what was behind it: a man without a conscience, a man who planned to kill the woman Barrett loved.

"Stop!" Barrett shouted as he lunged toward the man. He had no knife, no weapon other than his hands, but somehow he would stop him. If it was the last thing he did, he would keep the baron from killing Charlotte and David. But though he ran faster than ever before, he could not reach the man. For each step he took, the baron took two.

"Stop!"

The man turned, his lips twisting into a sneer as he laughed. A second later, he grabbed Charlotte's arm, wrenching it backward. She stumbled and started to fall, and as she did, the man raised the knife, plunging it downward.

"No!"

Barrett wakened, his heart pounding, his body drenched with sweat. Springing out of bed, he stopped when the cold from the floor penetrated the soles of his feet. It had been a dream. Nothing but a dream. It was winter in Cheyenne, not summer on the prairie. Charlotte and David were safe. Or were they? Perhaps the dream was a premonition, a warning like the ones the Bible recounted. Ma had told him that the Lord used dreams to prepare people. Barrett shuddered, wondering if anyone could be prepared for the evil he'd seen shining from the baron's eyes. Only G.o.d could defeat that evil.

Keep them safe, Barrett prayed as he slid his feet into slippers and wrapped a robe around him. Keep Charlotte and David safe. Sleep was gone. Though the nightmare had destroyed any hopes of peaceful rest, it had strengthened Barrett's resolve. If the dream was a warning, he would not ignore it, any more than he had ignored Charlotte's fears the night he'd discovered her fleeing from a masked man. Somehow, some way, he would keep her and David safe, for nothing was more important than that. Charlotte's dream of a school might not come true; he might not be able to give her the financially secure future she deserved, but he could offer her protection . . . and love.

Barrett smiled as the word echoed through his mind, and he found himself wondering whether this was how Camden had felt when he asked Susan to marry him. It couldn't be. No one else could have experienced this wonderful warm feeling, the sense that he had found the one woman in the world who was meant for him. Others might have similar experiences, but they weren't the same. Just as Charlotte was one of a kind, what Barrett felt for her was unique.

Even when he'd tried to convince himself that Miriam was the wife he needed, he'd never experienced anything close to the feelings that surged through him now. It was as if every fiber of his body had become sensitized, heightening every thought of Charlotte. Picturing her smile, remembering the softness of her skin, recalling the delicate trill of her laughter filled Barrett with an almost inexpressible joy. At the same time, the prospect of anyone harming her sent anger and a fierce determination to keep her safe surging through him.

There was no doubt about it. He loved Charlotte. He loved her, and he wanted to protect her and David.

Barrett wanted-oh, how he wanted-to ask Charlotte to marry him today. But that wouldn't be fair to her. He could not forget the day Ma had lined her three boys in a row in front of her and had given them lessons on marriage. Ladies, she had informed them, deserved to be wooed. A man shouldn't a.s.sume that the woman he favored loved him and that just because he could buy her a house and a carriage meant that she would agree to marry him. A man shouldn't simply ask a woman to be his wife. She needed to be courted first.

Barrett grinned as he switched on the lights. Charlotte would have her courtship. Oh, it might not be quite what Ma had envisioned-after all, Ma's advice hadn't included the etiquette for wooing a widow with a child-but by the time he was done, Charlotte would know that he loved her. And if he was very, very lucky, she would agree to become his wife. But first he had to start.

As he drew back the drapes and looked outside, Barrett's grin widened. Fresh snow. Perfect.

"I'm glad to see you have no customers this morning," he said as he entered elan a few hours later. Wyoming snow was fickle. Even on a frigid day, the sun could be bright enough to melt it. That was why he'd come to the shop earlier than normal.

Charlotte wrinkled her nose. Had he ever noticed how attractive she was when she did that? He must have, but this morning she seemed more beautiful than ever.

"You may be happy, but I'm not," she said with a quick gesture at the rack of partially sewn dresses. "I don't know how I'll finish these. Molly's sick and Gwen has a blister on her finger. That leaves just me." She wrinkled her nose again. "I need to get back to work."

"You also need to play. Both you and David."

"We do play," she countered, her fingers plying the needle and thread with the expertise that came from years of practice. "Just because David won't bowl without you doesn't mean we don't play."

"But you don't play the way I intend. Now, won't you close the store and dress yourself and David in warm clothes? We're going for a ride."

Though he saw the curiosity in her eyes, she shook her head. "I can't, Barrett."

"Yes, you can. C'mon, Charlotte. This could be the last snow of the season. You wouldn't want to deprive David of a new experience, would you?"

As he'd known she would, she took the bait. While Charlotte would never play hooky for herself, she would do almost anything for her son.

"Hurry. I'll be waiting for you."

Sooner than he'd expected, she descended the steps, David in her arms. Both were so warmly dressed that they appeared to have gained a substantial amount of weight. It was almost as if she knew what he had planned, for the extra clothing would provide padding as well as warmth.

"h.e.l.lo, David," Barrett said, taking him from Charlotte so she could climb into the wagon that he'd parked in front of her shop.

"Bowl!" A grin wreathed the child's face.

"Not today. We're going to do something that's even more fun."

As Charlotte settled David on the bench between herself and Barrett, she raised an eyebrow. "That's an ambitious claim. I'm not sure there's anything David enjoys more than bowling."

"Wait and see." Though she was normally curious, it appeared that Charlotte had not noticed the blanket-covered object in the back of the wagon. That was good. Excellent, in fact, for it meant that their destination could remain a surprise.

As they headed north on Ferguson, Charlotte laid a hand on Barrett's sleeve. "Where are we going?"

Though he would do nothing to discourage her touch, he couldn't help smiling at the eagerness he heard in her voice. "Who's the child, you or David?" he asked softly. David was bouncing up and down on the seat, crooning to himself. "It seems to me you're as excited as he is."

"I am," Charlotte admitted. "It's rare for me to go outside the city."

When they reached the city limits, Ferguson turned from a street lined with houses and shops into an open road with few buildings in sight. A few minutes later, Barrett turned east, heading toward the snow-covered hill that was their destination. As he had hoped, though the sun was bright, it had yet to melt the snow. Instead, its brilliance made the tiny crystals sparkle more than the diamonds he'd seen in Mr. Mullen's store.

"It almost hurts my eyes," Charlotte said, shielding hers with a hand.

"I know, but it's beautiful, isn't it?"

She nodded. "Cheyenne's snow is special. We had more snow in Vermont, and it was different. Softer."

"Plus, it probably fell straight down, not sideways."

Charlotte laughed. "That's true. My sisters didn't believe me when I told them about sideways snow."