Waiting for Spring (12 page)

Just a few hours ago, Charlotte had believed that Barrett was her friend. She had thought she could trust him, but as it had with Jeffrey, her judgment had proven faulty.

Barrett leaned back in the chair, trying to escape the smoke. “You may be one of the best attorneys in Wyoming Territory,” he told Warren, “but those cigars are foul. Why on earth do you smoke them?”

Barrett's friend and lawyer shrugged. “They're an acquired taste. I started with cheroots, but these taste better.”

“And cost more too.”

Warren exhaled carefully, creating a series of smoke rings. “That's true, but thanks to clients like you, I can afford them.” He looked around as if checking for other clients. At this time of the morning, the smoking room of the Cheyenne Club was almost empty. Once the noontime meal had been served, it would fill with men who wanted to discuss the day's happenings or simply pass time until the evening meal was ready. The relative emptiness was one of the reasons Barrett had suggested they meet this morning.

Warren blew another smoke ring. “Is Richard coming?”

“Not today. Harrison'll join us for dinner, though.” Whatever had ailed his brother on Saturday had passed quickly, and Harrison had declared himself well enough to attend church yesterday. Fortunately, he'd been ready for the early service, which meant they had not seen Charlotte. Barrett had no regrets about that, for he was still stinging from the rebuke she'd dealt him.

He glanced at his watch. An hour before Harrison would arrive. Thrusting thoughts of Charlotte aside, Barrett focused his attention on Warren. “I thought you and I could review the plans first.” Richard had helped draft them, but Barrett wanted Warren's opinion before he put them into action. That was the reason he'd invited his adviser to join him at the club that Warren aspired to join.

“Doesn't your brother want to weigh in on them?”

“He already has.”

Though Barrett believed he had hidden his reaction to Harrison's comments, he must not have succeeded, for Warren raised an eyebrow. “And you don't like what he said.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Not all of it.” Harrison's assertion that Barrett should marry Charlotte was absurd. Positively absurd, but he hadn't relented. Harrison had mentioned the ridiculous idea at least daily. His brother's persistence as they'd traveled to the ranch had almost made Barrett forget how bad the grasslands looked and what their condition might mean for the coming winter. He would be thankful when spring arrived for more than one reason. Not only would the winter have ended, but Harrison's harangues would have too.

“Let me see what you have.” When Barrett handed Warren the two sheets of paper he and Richard had created, he watched while the attorney reviewed them. A few minutes later, Warren laid them on the table and took another puff of his cigar. “Not bad. Not bad at all. You might want to start earlier, though. I don't like waiting until the new year before you host a rally. You need to keep your name before the public, and if you wait that long, they might have forgotten you.” Warren tipped his head back and blew another series of smoke rings. “A Christmas betrothal to Miriam would help.”

Barrett was of the same opinion. “That's possible.”

A cynical expression crossed Warren's face. “You ought to turn that into probable. Even a man with only one eye can see that she's bonnet over boots for you.”

Barrett shuddered at the image Warren's words had evoked. Memories of a young boy with carrot-colored hair taunted Barrett. Charlotte's son had both eyes, but he could not see. Perhaps he would be like the blind calf that had been part of Barrett's herd. The poor critter didn't survive long enough for the spring roundup. The mother had tried to keep it by her side—Barrett had seen her nudge it back into the herd when it tried to stray—but somehow it must have wandered off. He had
found it in a ravine with a broken leg, leaving him no choice but to put it out of its misery. Barrett didn't know if the cow grieved the loss of her calf, but he knew that Charlotte would be devastated if anything happened to her son. She was like the bear sows he'd been warned to avoid, protective of their cubs, ready to do anything—even kill—to keep them safe.

“Why are you frowning?” Warren leaned forward, shaking his finger at Barrett the way Mrs. Cranston, the schoolmarm the children in Northwick had feared, had done.

Schoolmarm. That was another surprise. He hadn't realized Charlotte had been a teacher. He'd known she was intelligent, but it appeared that she had more education than he'd realized. Had she . . . ? Barrett dismissed his thoughts of Charlotte, forcing himself to concentrate on what Warren was saying.

“Most every man in Cheyenne would like to be in your place. Miriam Taggert is a good catch.”

“That she is.” Even though Harrison disagreed. Of course, Harrison didn't know about David. He'd change his tune if he did. Even Harrison wouldn't argue that a woman as encumbered as Charlotte would be a good senator's wife.

Seemingly mollified by Barrett's acquiescence, Warren settled back in his chair. “I know I can trust you not to say anything, but you're not the only one contemplating matrimony.”

His words took Barrett by surprise. “Who?” When there was no answer other than a smirk, Barrett raised his eyebrows. “You?”

“What's the matter? Do you think I'm too old?” Without waiting for a reply, Warren said, “A man's never too old if he finds the right woman.”

“And you have?”

A satisfied grin crossed Warren's face. “I believe I have.” He started to hum Mendelssohn's Wedding March.

Warren was right. He shouldn't waste any more time. If Barrett was going to marry Miriam—and he was—he needed to court her. That's why she was seated next to him in his carriage, headed for the InterOcean Hotel. That hadn't been his plan. When he'd invited her to join him for dinner, Barrett had planned to take her to the Cheyenne Club. To his way of thinking, the club offered the best food in the city, and it had the added advantage that the other diners would be people he knew, members of the club and their guests. But Miriam had other ideas. When he'd mentioned dinner, she had commented that her parents had enjoyed the roast grouse at the InterOcean. Barrett knew a hint when he heard it, and so he had made the reservation.

He'd hesitated over inviting Miriam anywhere, because it meant leaving Harrison on his own. Though he didn't always like what Harrison said, he was enjoying his brother's company and hated to desert him. However, Harrison announced that he'd be happy to spend the evening with Richard. “If I were a betting man, I'd wager that I'll have a better time than you,” he had said, his lips curving into a smile that bordered on mockery. “I know you don't want to hear it, but you're planning to court the wrong woman.”

He wasn't. Harrison simply didn't understand. Miriam was the woman Barrett needed by his side if he was going to become one of Wyoming's first senators.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” Miriam said softly as
she handed her cloak to the attendant at the hotel. “I know it wasn't your first choice.” She waited until they were seated and the waiter had handed them menus before she said, “Papa thought it would be good for us to be seen here.”

Barrett glanced around the dining room. With dark wood paneling extending halfway up the walls and a matching coffered ceiling, the room was gloomier than he liked, but there was no denying the excellence of the food or the quality of the service. No one questioned the InterOcean's reputation as Cheyenne's premier hotel, and Cyrus Taggert was correct in believing this was a place for Barrett to be noticed. Being noticed was important, particularly when he had Miriam at his side. While it was true that Barrett preferred the intimacy of the Cheyenne Club, there were more potential voters here.

“Your father's a very astute man.” Barrett took a sip of water as he prepared for the obligatory compliment. “I'm the envy of every man in this room, because I'm here with you.” When Miriam said nothing, he continued. “If you don't believe me, look around. Not a one can keep his eyes off that red dress.” It was eye-catching, and unless Barrett was mistaken, it was another of Charlotte's creations.

Miriam raised her eyebrows slightly, causing Barrett to expand his compliment. “A dress needs the right woman to display it to perfection. Otherwise, it's nothing more than a collection of cloth and lace. Your gown is attractive, but you make it beautiful.” Barrett had said the same thing to customers when they'd debated which of the Landry Mercantile's calicos to purchase and whether that extra yard of lace was an extravagance.

Miriam's smile seemed almost amused, as if she had realized he felt compelled to pay her a compliment. Surely he
hadn't been that obvious. “Thank you, Barrett. Papa was right. You have a gift for words.”

Charlotte would not agree, and Barrett couldn't blame her. When he'd seen David, he hadn't chosen his words carefully enough. Foolishly, Barrett had spoken from his heart, and he'd hurt Charlotte. He would not let that happen to Miriam. There would be no impulsive speech where this woman was concerned, for there was too much at risk.

The waiter appeared at the table, his hands folded behind his back, his manner more formal than Mr. Bradley's. “Have you decided what you'd like for dinner?”

“My mother suggested I try the roast grouse.” And Miriam was nothing if not an obedient daughter. Though Barrett suspected she had opinions of her own, she appeared to defer to others. Warren would say that was good; Harrison would disagree. And Richard? Barrett wasn't certain.

As if she'd read his thoughts, Miriam leaned forward ever so slightly. “Where did you and Richard first meet?”

Two hours later, as he escorted Miriam to her front door, Barrett realized that their dinner conversation had centered on Richard. How odd.

 8 

T
hou shalt not hate
. Warren held the cigar in front of his nose and sniffed. He'd never seen much point in smelling a cigar, but he'd heard that was what gentlemen did, and so he made it into a ritual, even when he was alone. That way he wouldn't forget in public and give the club's membership committee another excuse to deny his admission. He would play by their rules so that they'd agree that Warren Duncan was a man of sterling character, eminently suited to join the Cheyenne Club. He wasn't going to give them any reason to be like that doc back home who claimed Ma had delusions. She'd been perfectly fine. Warren knew that, but she hadn't played by the rules those silly townspeople set, and she'd wound up in a room with a locked door and bars on the windows. That would never happen to him. He'd learned from Ma's mistakes.

Thou shalt not hate
. The words reverberated through Warren's brain. As far as he knew, it wasn't one of the commandments. That must mean it wasn't as serious as killing
or coveting. Not that it mattered. He'd broken enough commandments to ensure that the pearly gates were not part of his future. But maybe he would not be consigned to fire and brimstone for hatred. After all, he wasn't certain he hated the man. All Warren knew was that it had taken more restraint than he'd known he possessed to keep from smashing his fist into Barrett's face. How dare the man look so surprised—so shocked—that Warren was planning to marry? Did he think he was the only one who deserved a wife and child? He'd learn. Oh yes, he would.

Warren lit his cigar, taking a puff before he strode to the window. No doubt about it. A good cigar could soothe a man's mood. That and the prospect of the night ahead. He grinned. Soon. Soon he'd have a far more pleasurable way to release his anger than smashing Barrett Landry's nose.

Though darkness came early at this time of the year, there were still too many people on the street. He'd wait another hour or two before he visited Sylvia, and even when he did, he'd take his normal precautions. No one must ever be able to connect Warren Duncan, successful attorney and prospective member of the Cheyenne Club, with the masked man who frequented the crudest of Cheyenne's brothels.

“Oh, Charlotte, it's been three days, and it's still all I can think about.” Gwen looked up from the gown she was hemming. Though normally Charlotte did not ask Gwen to help with sewing, the upcoming Christmas season had brought in more business than ever, and Gwen had volunteered her services. The help was a godsend, for it gave Charlotte a few extra hours to work on clothing for Mrs. Kendall and her
boarders. Three of the four dresses she planned to take there were finished. Unless David had another restless night, she should have the final gown completed within a week.

Gwen was a great help, but tonight, while they sat with yards of fabric draped over their laps, she appeared to have trouble concentrating on her sewing.

“I loved Mike,” Gwen said, furrows forming between her eyes, “but it wasn't like this. Saturday was the best afternoon I can imagine. We rode in the park and everyone waved at us and it was wonderful and afterwards he took me to Rue de Rivoli for tea and that was even better.” She paused for a quick breath. “Oh, Charlotte, Warren's amazing. He knows everyone and everything. If it hadn't been for him, I wouldn't have known that Rue de Rivoli isn't really French. He said it was built by a Scottish businessman from Colorado who put his offices on the second floor and wanted good food, so he opened the restaurant downstairs. I didn't care about any of that. I only cared that everyone treated me like a real lady because I was with Warren. He's the most wonderful man I've ever met.”

“I'm happy for you.” It wasn't Gwen's fault that Charlotte's Saturday had been so different from her friend's. While Gwen had spent the past three days mooning over Warren Duncan, Charlotte had passed the time trying desperately to forget what had happened at Mr. Ellis's shop. Her efforts had failed. Every time she closed her eyes, the image of Barrett's expression when he realized that David was blind floated before her. When she smelled fresh bread, she was transported back to the bakery, and though she tried to block the memories, she was forced to relive the sight of Barrett's pity while David searched for another macaroon. Even the simple sound of
cups rattling on saucers reminded Charlotte of the afternoon that had turned out so differently from her plan.

She could tell herself that Barrett had spoiled the day, but that wasn't true. She should have anticipated his reaction. It wasn't as if this was the first time someone had pitied David, and it wouldn't be the last. She needed to develop what Mama called a thick hide. Mama had claimed that that and the knowledge that God would never abandon her were what had sustained her through the times they'd been asked to leave a church when Papa's outspoken beliefs had angered the congregation. Those moves with three small children must have been far more difficult than dealing with one man's pity. Mama had survived, and so would Charlotte. She slid a length of thread into the needle, preparing to gather lace for the sleeve flounces.

“Warren said he likes children.” Gwen continued the litany of praises. “He even said he wants to take Rose with us the next time we go riding.” She held up the gown she'd been hemming for Charlotte's inspection. “I think he may love me. Oh, Charlotte, wouldn't that be wonderful? Warren would be the perfect father for Rose.”

And Barrett would be the worst possible father for David. Not that Charlotte was searching for a father for David. She wasn't. Not that Barrett would consider her a potential wife. He wouldn't, for he was planning to marry Miriam . . . but having him as a friend would have been nice.

“Just be certain he's the right man for you,” Charlotte cautioned. “It's dangerous to marry a stranger.” Her marriage was proof of that. Perhaps if she and Jeffrey had known each other better before they married, they might have recognized their differences, but they'd been too caught up in the magic
of what felt like first love to realize that marriage needed to be based on more than infatuation.

Gwen nodded. “I know that. We're not rushing into anything.” She gave Charlotte a self-deprecating smile. “Warren hasn't mentioned marriage. Perhaps I'm being foolish and imagining something that isn't there, but it seems that he cares.”

“He would be a fool if he didn't. You're a wonderful woman and a great mother, Gwen. Any man who doesn't see that doesn't deserve you.” Gwen's flush made Charlotte realize the woman was unaccustomed to receiving praise. She would have to change that. Gwen deserved to be recognized for her gifts.

“I hope he does love me. I've been praying so hard for a father for Rose, and I'd like to think that Warren is the answer to those prayers.” Gwen's smile faded. “The only thing that worries me is leaving you and David. What would you do if I married?”

Charlotte pinned the lace to the sleeve, then held it up to admire the effect. “I couldn't ever replace you,” she admitted. “I doubt there's anyone in Wyoming Territory who could do all that you do as well as you do it, but I'd need to find someone to care for David during the day. Molly would rather work in the shop, but there must be someone else.”

Charlotte was thinking out loud. Though she had known from the beginning that Gwen wanted to remarry and that she might have to find another person to help with David's care, until Warren Duncan had entered their lives, Charlotte hadn't given it serious consideration. As her needle darted in and out, attaching the lace to the velvet, Charlotte's thoughts whirled, recalling her initial mistrust of Warren. It had seemed
irrational at the time, but now she wondered if there hadn't been a good reason for her reaction. Perhaps the fact that Warren might disrupt her life was the reason Charlotte felt so uncomfortable around him.

“Now that David's older, the woman wouldn't have to live here,” Charlotte continued. “She could come during the day, or I could take him to her house.”

“Or you could send David to a school for children like him.”

Charlotte jabbed the needle into the velvet, trying to vent her anger on the fabric rather than her friend. “An asylum?” she asked, trying to keep her voice even.

Gwen shook her head, for she knew how much Charlotte hated the very word. “A school. A boarding school.”

The words might be different, but the effect was the same. “Not you too.”

Gwen seemed startled by Charlotte's reaction. “What do you mean?”

“Someone else suggested that.” She wouldn't admit that it was Barrett, for that would mean telling Gwen about their painful encounter at the confectionary. “I thought you'd understand because you're a mother. Surely you can see that the best thing for David is to be with me.”

For a long moment, Gwen said nothing. Then she raised one brow. “Is it?”

He couldn't stop thinking of her. Barrett took another spoonful of the pea soup Mrs. Melnor had made for lunch, knowing that it would seem as tasteless as everything had since he'd left Mr. Ellis's store. This was ridiculous. Three
days had passed, and the memory hadn't faded. If anything, it had intensified. Meals were the worst. Though he managed to keep himself busy the rest of the day, whenever he sat down at a table, his memory was drawn back to the small round table at the confectionary. He'd been an idiot, a stupid, insensitive idiot. Charlotte didn't deserve the treatment he'd given her, nor did David.

“Are you going to tell me what's wrong?” Harrison laid his soup spoon on the liner plate and leaned forward. “Don't bother claiming it's nothing. I've known you too long to believe that.”

Harrison was right. There was no point in pretending. “I've been a fool.”

“And that's news?” Though Harrison's question was light, Barrett did not smile. “What did you do this time?” his brother continued. “Forget to tell the lovely Miriam just how lovely she is?” The sarcasm that laced his words left no doubt that Harrison expected Barrett to laugh. He did not.