Summer of Promise (17 page)

“Are you sure you feel all right?” Abigail asked as she and Charlotte waited for the parade to begin.

Her sister nodded. “I feel wonderful, but even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”

As if on cue, a bugle announced the beginning of the parade. Abigail found herself standing taller, her eyes shining with pride as she watched the men march onto the parade ground. Though they were forbidden to smile, she saw the excitement reflected in their eyes and knew that it was more than anticipation of a special meal. At least for the moment, these men were enjoying being part of the Army. It was a longer parade than normal, an extra circuit of the parade ground, and yet when it ended, Abigail found herself wishing it would continue.

When the men had filed off the parade ground, heading for their mess halls, Abigail and Charlotte made their way to Mrs. Montgomery’s home, where she and Mrs. Alcott had arranged a communal meal for the officers and their families. Each household brought at least one dish to share, while the hostesses provided beverages. Though Charlotte had volunteered to help arrange the food, both women refused, citing her delicate condition, and so Charlotte and Abigail simply stood on the porch, waiting for Jeffrey and Ethan to arrive.

As the men approached, Abigail found herself comparing them. When she’d been a child, she had thought that soldiers were like the gingerbread men her mother used to make for Christmas, all the same. But as she’d matured, she’d realized how wrong she was. These two men were the perfect example. Though Jeffrey was several inches shorter than Ethan, he appeared to be the larger man, with broader shoulders and a more solid build. And, unlike Ethan, whom any woman would call handsome, Jeffrey was not a man who would inspire a second glance . . . except from Charlotte. During their brief courtship, Charlotte had declared Jeffrey the most wonderful, most handsome, most distinguished man she had ever met. Charlotte, Abigail had realized the instant she had set eyes on Jeffrey, was a woman in love, for Jeffrey was neither handsome nor distinguished. Ethan, however, was the personification of both of those adjectives.

“Did you enjoy the morning?” the object of her thoughts asked as he climbed the steps at a normal pace. Jeffrey had bounded up them and drawn Charlotte to the side for a private conversation.

Abigail nodded. “All except the cannons. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to them.” In Abigail’s mind a gun was a gun, and they were all dangerous. “The parade seemed even better than the ones on Sundays.”

Ethan’s smile told Abigail he understood. “I thought so too. The men are excited that today’s our nation’s birthday.” His grin widened. “It reminds us of why we’re proud to be Americans and why we joined the Army.”

He opened the door and ushered Abigail into the house, where the other officers and their wives stood in line, waiting to help themselves to the bountiful buffet laid out on the table. The adults appeared pleased, and cries of delight filtering through the door confirmed that the children were enjoying their picnic in the backyard. It was meant to be a special day for everyone, and yet though he smiled, Abigail thought she detected sadness or perhaps worry in Ethan’s eyes.

“I doubt you need to worry about deserters today.” She spoke softly, not wanting the others to overhear.

“I wasn’t.” Ethan gestured at the table. “Jeffrey pointed out that no one would be foolish enough to pass up a good meal. The men’s dinner may not be this elaborate, but it’s much better than normal.”

If the prospect of desertion wasn’t causing Ethan’s barely concealed emotion, Abigail suspected it was the letter he’d received the same day that Woodrow’s summons had arrived. Ethan had seemed more serious since then. Abigail made a silent resolution to ask him about it the next time they were alone.

The food was as delicious as the aromas promised; the conversation was pleasant; Charlotte was glowing with happiness, basking in Jeffrey’s attention. It was a close to perfect meal, and yet Abigail wished it were over and that she could find an opportunity to speak with Ethan.

Jeffrey rose. “We’ll join you later.” The meal had ended, and the men needed to prepare for the afternoon’s activities.

When Ethan and Jeffrey had departed, Abigail turned toward Charlotte, noticing that her sister looked peaked. “Why don’t you rest here?” she suggested. “I can check on Puddles.” They had agreed that the puppy could not be left alone for the entire day and had planned to take him for a walk between dinner and the first of the games.

When Charlotte nodded, Abigail picked up the parasol her sister had decorated to match her dress. As she walked briskly toward her sister’s home, she hoped that Puddles had not gotten into more mischief. Yesterday he’d discovered the joy of digging, and the Crowleys’ yard would never be the same. Jeffrey had not been pleased. When he’d seen the damage, he had declared in a tone that was reminiscent of Woodrow disciplining errant pupils that the dog could not be allowed to continue destroying the little amount of grass they had.

“You’re taking our nation’s birthday seriously, aren’t you? Even your parasol is patriotic.”

Abigail turned, startled by the sound of Ethan’s voice. “I didn’t hear you coming.”

“You looked as if you were lost in your thoughts. Were you wishing you were back in Vermont?”

Something in Ethan’s expression told her the question was more than a casual inquiry. For some reason, he cared about her response. “No,” she answered honestly. “I’m happy to be here.” It was the truth. “I was simply thinking that Jeffrey reminded me of someone.”

Ethan nodded as if he understood. “Jeffrey’s a fine soldier and a man of honor. If he reminds you of someone, that’s good. Isn’t it?”

“I suppose so.” Fortunately, Woodrow wasn’t a soldier. He would never carry a gun. He would never kill another human being. But Ethan was correct. Woodrow was honorable, and that was important. Even more important was the fact that he and she wanted the same things from life: a home, family, stability. If he lacked a sense of humor, well . . . no one was perfect.

They’d reached the Crowley home, and as Abigail had feared, Puddles was awake, furiously digging holes in the ground.

“No, Puddles!” Abigail gave the puppy a stern look before she sighed. “Jeffrey will not be happy about this.” She studied the piles of dirt, wondering how she was going to restore the lawn. Even if she did, there was no guarantee that Puddles wouldn’t try to dig another tunnel.

“Is there a shovel?” Ethan asked.

Abigail’s gaze moved from the dirt to Ethan, clad in his dress uniform. That was hardly appropriate garb for digging in the dirt. “I thought everyone was changing uniforms for the games.”

“Everyone who’s participating is,” Ethan agreed. “I’m not. My job is to announce the winners and award prizes. It seems to me it’s more special for the men if I’m in full dress when I do that.”

How thoughtful! “I cannot allow you to clean up after Puddles when you’re dressed this way,” Abigail said firmly. “Besides, Puddles will simply undo all the work, anyway. But I’ll warn Charlotte. Maybe she can sweet-talk Jeffrey a bit.”

As Ethan nodded, Abigail took a deep breath, knowing that if she let this opportunity pass, another might not present itself for days. “I hope you don’t think I’m prying, but you look as if something’s bothering you. I’ve found that talking often helps.”

Ethan was silent for so long that Abigail feared he would refuse to answer. “You weren’t supposed to notice. No one was.”

“Because you’re an officer, and officers solve their own problems?”

Ethan’s eyes widened. “Yes,” he admitted.

It was what Abigail had feared, masculine pride combined with his West Point training. “You’re also a person, and people confide in their friends.” She paused, giving him a small smile. “I’d like to think I’m your friend.”

He nodded slowly. “You are. But, as you probably guessed, I’m not used to talking about myself.”

She would have to probe if she were to learn anything. “You said you weren’t worried about deserters.”

When Puddles whined for attention, Ethan picked up a stick and tossed it across the yard. Yipping with delight, the puppy ran after it. Although she did not deny that Puddles needed the exercise, Abigail wondered whether Ethan had used the dog as a delaying tactic or whether he was simply ignoring her comment.

She looked at him, surprised when his lips curved again and she heard amusement in his voice. “I said I wasn’t worried about that today.” He emphasized the last word. “The truth is, I worry about deserters almost every day.” His tone was once more serious. “I worry that they’re connected to the theft of the revolvers; I worry that there’ll be another stagecoach robbery; and I worry about . . .” His voice trailed off, but the tightening of his lips told Abigail that the last, unspoken worry was the most serious.

“About what?” she asked softly.

Ethan tossed the stick again. When Puddles scampered away, Ethan turned back to Abigail. “Did you resolve whatever was in the letter that disturbed you?”

His question, though unexpected, told Abigail two things: the mysterious letter had caused Ethan’s greatest worry, and he was reluctant to share its contents with her. Perhaps if she told him about her letter, he would be willing to confide in her.

She nodded slowly. “My letter was from Woodrow.” When Ethan inclined his head slightly, Abigail realized he’d surmised that. “He insisted that I return to Vermont immediately—practically commanded me to take the next train.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t. I realized that it wasn’t time for me to leave. I still have things to do here.”

The afternoon was so still that Abigail could hear the buzzing of insects in the neighbors’ vegetable garden.

“I suppose you prayed about that.” There was no scorn in Ethan’s voice, only interest.

“And then I listened.” Abigail gave him a rueful smile. “For me, that’s always the hardest part—waiting for God’s response. I’m too impatient. I want answers right away, but it doesn’t always happen that way.”

When Ethan said nothing, Abigail took another deep breath. “What was in your letter?”

He let out a chuckle that held no mirth. “Oddly enough, it was similar to yours. My grandfather’s housekeeper wrote to say that he is failing and I should go back to New York to see him.”

The bitterness in Ethan’s voice told Abigail he had no intention of doing that. “Why won’t you go?”

“Like you, I have things to do here.”

It was an excuse. Abigail knew it. There were other officers at the fort, but he had only one grandfather. “Fort Laramie’s problems aren’t going away. It sounds as if your grandfather is.”

“Maybe, but he and I have nothing to say to each other.”

Abigail bit her lip, trying to find the correct words. She didn’t claim to understand the relationship between Ethan and his grandfather, but Papa had given more than one sermon about the need to make peace before it was too late.

“Are you sure of that?” she asked.

Ethan shrugged, then shook his head. “Perhaps I should pray about it. But now . . .” He pulled out his watch. “It’s time to return to the parade ground.”

Though she knew nothing had been resolved, Abigail sensed a lightening of Ethan’s mood and prayed that it would continue.

The afternoon was even more enjoyable than she had been led to expect, highlighted by races: foot, sack, and Abigail’s favorite, the slow mule race. She and Charlotte stood on the sidelines, laughing as the men tried to keep their mules moving, but only barely. Though the goal was to be the last mule to cross the finish line, it was a delicate balancing act, for a mule was disqualified if he stopped for more than two seconds. And mules, being more cantankerous than a rooster and harder to train than a puppy, were inclined to move when and only when they chose to.

“Now I understand why dogs aren’t allowed. Their barking might make the mules run.”

“Or at least trot.” Charlotte wrapped her arm around Abigail’s waist and smiled. “I’m so glad you’re here. It makes the day extra special.” Charlotte gave Abigail a little squeeze. “Perhaps you and Woodrow will come next year.”

Abigail looked around the parade ground, trying and failing to picture Woodrow there. “Perhaps.”

The races continued until it was time for supper, and then after another better than normal meal for the men, the dancing began.

“I hope I won’t step on your feet,” Oliver said as he led Abigail to the center of the parade ground. Once again he’d been the first to ask for a dance, with Ethan second. Though Charlotte had wrinkled her nose at the thought of sitting on the sidelines, she had taken Mrs. Grayson’s advice to refrain from any vigorous activity and was seated on one of the benches that lined the open area. Since Jeffrey was nowhere to be seen, Ethan had agreed to remain with Charlotte until it was his turn to dance.

“I’m certain you won’t crush my toes,” Abigail told Oliver. “You dance well.” It was not flattery. Though he reminded her of a scarecrow when he walked, Oliver’s dancing was flawless.

“That’s because I’m with you,” he said. “You’re the best partner I’ve ever had.” But that was flattery, for it had been Abigail who missed a step. She wasn’t normally clumsy, but she caught her heel on the edge of the oiled canvas that had been laid on the parade ground to form a dance floor and almost tumbled into Oliver’s arms. It was only his quick reflexes that kept her upright.