Waiting for Spring (28 page)

“What happened?” Though Barrett thought he knew, Dustin was the expert. He wanted his foreman to confirm his fears.

“They couldn't break through the ice to get to the grass. I cleared out as much as I could, but it weren't enough.” The anguish he heard in Dustin's voice told Barrett the man was suffering as deeply as he was. “The ponds stayed frozen, so they couldn't drink, neither. When I chopped at 'em, all I got was ice. They was frozen clear to the bottom. Poor critters.”

Starvation and dehydration. Barrett shuddered. “It's not a pretty way to die.”

Dustin looked up, his eyes filled with pain. “I ain't never seen nothin' like it. There's no easy way to say this . . .”

He broke off, leaving Barrett to complete the sentence. “I'm ruined, and so are all the other stock growers.”

“'Fraid so.” Dustin opened the stove and poked at the wood. “I'll pack my bags and head back to Missouri. Ain't no reason to stay here. I just waited so's I could tell you where I was headin' and why.”

It was what he had feared. Barrett knew that pain and anger would come, but for the moment he was numb. The only pain that registered was Dustin's. His foreman had had more time to see the devastation and to recognize the consequences. Unlike Barrett, Dustin had no emergency fund. Barrett hadn't lost everything. Not quite, and with what remained, he could ease Dustin's worries. “There are still some cattle alive. We'll need to round them up this spring. I want you to do that.”

His eyes widening with surprise, Dustin stared at Barrett. “You sure, Boss?”

“Sure enough to pay you in advance.” Barrett reached into his pocket, withdrawing his wallet. “Here you go.” Four months' pay wasn't a lot of money for Barrett, but it would make a difference for his foreman.

Dustin looked at the bills. “You trust me with that?” It was customary to pay cowboys for the work they'd completed, not to give them an advance on wages.

Barrett nodded. “I trusted you with my cattle, and you never let me down. Money's nothing compared to those animals.” He closed his eyes, trying to blot out the image of the carcasses. “Yes, Dustin, I trust you won't leave until you've earned that pay. I only wish it hadn't ended this way.”

Because, no matter what anyone might say, Barrett's life as a cattle rancher was over. He couldn't go through this again, watching animals suffer and die from starvation. Even Dustin, normally the most optimistic of men, didn't try to
contradict him when Barrett said the best thing was to sell all the cattle that survived the winter.

The two men sat around the stove, sharing a can of beans, occasionally muttering a desultory word or two, but mostly lost in their thoughts. When he prepared to leave the next morning, Barrett clapped Dustin on the shoulder. “Thanks,” he said. “You did everything you could. A man couldn't ask more.”

But as he rode home, Barrett couldn't stop the questions from whirling through his mind.
What do you want from me, Lord?
he asked as he caught sight of yet another buzzard settling onto a dead steer.
My plans to run for office are gone. The cattle are gone.
Though Barrett had told Harrison he had enough money to restock, he knew he wouldn't do it, for there was no promise that the new herd would survive. Barrett had seen the signs of overgrazing. Even though the grass was resilient, it needed time to recover. He didn't know whether all this snow and water would help or hinder the prairie. What he did know was that if the next summer was another dry one, there might not be enough grass to keep a herd alive. He wouldn't take a chance of more innocent creatures dying slowly and painfully.

What should I do?
Barrett raised his eyes to the sky, looking for a sign, hoping for an answer. There was none. All he saw were dead cattle and buzzards, and that made him want to weep.
Is this what Egypt looked like after one of the plagues? How could Pharaoh harden his heart when he saw such a loss of life?
Barrett tightened his grip on the reins. Never again. He couldn't bear the thought of facing such loss again.

“This is not what I'm meant to do.” To Barrett's surprise, he spoke the words aloud, his voice so emphatic that Midnight
turned, as if startled. Barrett wasn't meant to be a cattle baron. Hadn't Harrison told him that? Now he was hearing the same message from God. The question was, what was he meant to do?

Charlotte had no doubts. She knew the school was what the Lord intended for her future. She even believed that was the reason her son had been born blind. Charlotte had found her way. Barrett was still stumbling.

Perhaps the death of the cattle was a sign. Perhaps the party's disavowal of his candidacy was another sign. The problem was, all the signs were negative. He'd heard the messages. He wasn't meant to run for office. He wasn't meant to raise cattle. What was he meant to do?

As he closed his eyes, images filled his brain. Charlotte, that first day he'd seen her in her shop. Charlotte at the opera house. Charlotte sipping hot chocolate in his dining room. Charlotte blushing as she poured him a cup of tea at Rue de Rivoli. Charlotte. Charlotte. Charlotte. Was she his future?

Barrett's eyes sprang open, and he stared at the horizon as if he expected to see her suddenly appear. He hadn't been flattering her when he'd told her that she was unforgettable. Never before had a woman caught his imagination the way Charlotte did. Never before had a woman haunted his dreams the way she did. Never before had he cared so desperately for a woman.

He loved her.

Barrett laughed out loud as the words reverberated through his brain. He loved Charlotte. He wanted to marry her. It was no wonder he had never asked Miriam to be his bride, for he'd never felt this way about her. No matter how often Warren and Richard had advised him to marry Miriam, Barrett
had never been able to imagine a life with her. Now when he thought of the future, Charlotte was the one concrete thing he could envision. Everything else was still shrouded in mist, but Charlotte's face was as clear as the Laramie range on a summer day.

He closed his eyes for a second, picturing himself and Charlotte walking arm in arm through his house, taking David for drives in the park, laughing about everything and nothing at all. That was what he wanted: a future with Charlotte.

Barrett's laughter faded as his eyes focused on another dead steer. He might want a future with Charlotte, but how could he ask her to marry him when he had so little to offer her?

 18 

I
t's over.”

Warren stared at the man who stood in the door of his office. He'd seen Barrett happy, he'd seen him angry, he'd seen him disappointed, but never before had he seen him looking like this. Warren's most important client appeared defeated. His shoulders slumped, his eyes were clouded, his skin looked almost gray. It seemed as if he were turning into a shadow.

Warren felt the blood drain from his own face as Barrett took one of the chairs in front of his desk, not bothering to remove his hat or coat. On an ordinary day, Barrett would be joking, pretending that the decision of whether to sit in the dark green leather chair rather than the one covered in deep red suede was a momentous one. Today he was not joking.

Though it was clear that something was terribly wrong, Warren had no idea what it could be. Barrett was like that mythical King Midas. Everything he touched turned to gold. That was why Warren had allied himself with him. It wasn't simply that the work associated with Barrett's cattle raising
was lucrative or that other cattle barons had sought Warren's counsel because of his connection to Barrett. That was good, but what was even better were the possibilities if Barrett gained public office. When he'd realized that political patronage could be a gold mine for the candidate's advisers, Warren had chuckled. Working for Senator Landry would be far more profitable and decidedly less strenuous than actually mining gold. All Warren had to do was wait for the man to send work his way. But now it appeared that his dreams of wealth were in jeopardy.

“What do you mean?” Warren demanded, his voice harsher than he'd intended. “If you play your cards right, the party will come around.”

For the first time since he'd entered Warren's office, Barrett's eyes showed a spark of light. “If you believe that,” he said, his lips curving into a rueful smile, “you're probably the only person in the territory who does. Even Richard tells me I have no chance. He advises me to wait at least a year until everyone has forgotten that I mentioned regulating stock growers.”

“That wasn't your finest moment.”

“It could have been.”

Barrett shook his head when Warren offered him a cigar. The man didn't appreciate good tobacco, but that wasn't going to stop Warren from enjoying a smoke.

Warren lit the cigar and took a deep puff. “I still think you have a chance.”

Turning his head when the smoke rings drifted in his direction, Barrett tapped his fingers on the chair arms. “Did you hear about Betty Dawson's Valentine's party?”

Warren felt his muscles tighten. Was Barrett asking a simple
question, or was he reminding him that, no matter how much he tried, Warren wasn't yet accepted by the cream of Cheyenne society? It rankled him to know that he was considered good enough to manage their legal affairs, but he wasn't invited to dinners and other social occasions.

“No,” he said abruptly.

“Half the party leadership was there, or so it seemed. I can tell you that, despite the occasion, their hearts were not filled with love, at least not toward me. They barely acknowledged my existence.”

“They'll get over it. Their memories are notoriously short.”

Though he had expected Barrett to smile, the man shook his head. “I doubt that. I'm beginning to believe you're right, that I don't have the starch that's needed.” Before Warren could protest, Barrett continued. “Besides, I have bigger problems than running a political campaign now. My days as a cattle rancher are over.”

“That can't be true.” Warren didn't want to consider the possibility of ruin. The money Barrett paid him to handle the cattle business's affairs was too important to lose, especially if there would be no political patronage. “You have one of the finest herds in the territory.”

“Had, Warren. Past tense. At least half the herd is dead, and I have no idea how many more I'll lose before spring.” Barrett looked directly at Warren, his eyes once more bleak. “It's over.”

Five hours later, Warren stared out the window, his hands fisted, his rage still simmering. This wasn't the way it was supposed to play out. It was bad enough that Barrett appeared obstinate about not running for office. Though Warren had counted on that extra money, he might have been able to
survive the loss of it, were it not for Barrett's other news. That had turned his stomach sour. He had bet money—far too much money—on this year's cattle profits. It was supposed to be a sure thing. Prices were cyclical, and this was the year they should have risen. Warren had counted on '87 being as good a year as '83. Now it appeared that it would be a disaster. If Barrett's livestock were dying, they all were.

Spring, which was supposed to have brought him wealth, privilege, and a wife, was starting to look bleak. It was true that he had the Franklin ranch, small as it was, but that wasn't enough to convince the Cheyenne Club to admit him, and it certainly wasn't enough to show Gwen how much he valued her. He couldn't let her slip through his fingers. No, sirree. Gwen Amos was a fine woman, part of his ticket to acceptance, and he intended to dress her in jewels and furs and make her Mrs. Warren Duncan before spring ended. To do that, he needed money.

Warren pounded the windowsill in frustration. Money. He'd been so close, and now . . . Now there was only one answer. He had to find the money Jeffrey Crowley had taken. Once he had that, there would be no more problems. He'd be richer than Barrett Landry or F.E. Warren or Joseph Carey ever dreamt. He'd find that money. He would. But in the meantime . . .

Warren reached into his bottom desk drawer and pulled out his mask. It was time to pay Sylvia a visit.

Someone was pounding on the door. Though his bedchamber was at the back of the house, the noise was loud enough to rouse Barrett from a sound sleep. Thrusting his feet into
slippers and donning his dressing robe, he hurried downstairs. By the time he reached the door, Mr. Bradley, similarly clad in nightclothes, was opening it.

“Where is she?” Cyrus Taggert's face was contorted with rage, the bulging veins so prominent that Barrett feared they would burst. “Don't try lying. I know she's here.”

There was no question who he meant. “Miriam's not here. I haven't seen her in several days.” Barrett kept his voice low and calm as he ushered Miriam's father into the parlor. “Why did you think she was here?” He forbore pointing out that Miriam's presence in a man's house at 5:30 would be highly scandalous.

“This is why.” Cyrus held out a crumpled sheet of paper. “Mrs. Taggert thought she heard a strange noise. When I went downstairs to investigate, I found this on the breakfast table.”

Barrett smoothed the paper and read.
Dearest Mama and Papa, please forgive me, but I cannot live without him. I love him more than I ever thought possible. I love you too, but my future is with him. Miriam.

“Where is she?” Miriam's father repeated. “She's got to be here. You're . . .”

It might be rude to interrupt, but Barrett couldn't let Cyrus Taggert continue. “I'm sorry, Mr. Taggert, but Miriam is not here. I'm not the man she loves.”

The older man's face sagged. “Then who?”

Though Barrett had a strong suspicion, he would not voice it until he was certain. “Why don't you go home? I'm sure your wife needs you to comfort her. I'll search for Miriam.”

“Will you bring her home?”

Barrett wouldn't lie. “I won't force her, but I'll tell her how worried you and her mother are.”

Cyrus Taggert nodded as he made his way to the door, his gait that of a much older man. “Thank you, Barrett. You're a better man than I thought.”

Someone was following her. At first Charlotte had thought it was her imagination. After all, she had never before seen anyone out at this time of the early morning once she turned onto Ferguson. While it was true that she'd passed an occasional vagrant on 15th Street, the homeless men had paid her no attention. This was different. Whoever it was hadn't wanted her to be aware of his presence, not at the beginning. The first few times she had heard what she believed were footsteps, she had turned to look but had seen no one. Now there was no doubt. The man was becoming careless. Either that or he wanted her to know he was there. The last two times he had barely concealed himself in a doorway, his sleeve protruding.

Charlotte increased her pace. In another block, she'd be home. She'd be safe then. The footsteps were closer now, and for the first time she heard the man. It was nothing more than a chuckle, and yet the sound sent shivers down her spine. Whoever it was was evil. When the chuckle was repeated, she turned, and as she did, Charlotte felt her heart stop. Her pursuer did not bother to hide. He stood there, as if taunting her, a figure clothed in black, his face hidden by a mask. The baron.

Charlotte began to run.

By the time Barrett was dressed, Mr. Bradley had the carriage ready. It would have been easier to simply saddle
Midnight, but Barrett wanted the carriage in case he was able to persuade Miriam to return to her parents' home. He doubted he'd succeed. If she was with Richard as he believed, she was unlikely to leave.