Waiting for Spring (30 page)

Comprehension glimmered in his eyes. “Because I'm a man and you're a woman?”

“Exactly. Widows have a good deal more freedom than unmarried women, but a gift of a house would be frowned upon. There would be speculation about our . . .” Though she had intended to say “relationship,” Charlotte bit off the word. “It would be seen as at least slightly scandalous, and if there's one thing a school does not need, it's any hint of scandal.”

Though Barrett frowned, he did not appear discouraged. “If the gift is a problem, we'll make it a sale. I'll sell the
building to you for a dollar. Warren can do all the paperwork, and no one needs to know what you paid. I imagine by now everyone's aware my fortunes are on the skids, so they won't be surprised when I sell the house.”

As reports of the enormous loss of cattle had reached Cheyenne, conjecture had begun over which of the cattle barons would be the first to declare bankruptcy and leave Wyoming. Though Charlotte had tried not to dwell on the possibility, she hated the thought that Barrett might return to Pennsylvania.

“That's another reason why I cannot accept your offer. You shouldn't be giving away your greatest asset. I don't mean to pry into your personal affairs, but how would you live?” While he might not be able to recoup the full cost of the house, Barrett would certainly be able to sell it for far more than a dollar.

He leaned forward and took her hand in his. “You needn't worry about me. Unlike some of my fellow stock growers, I'm not in debt. I even have some savings.”

His hand tightened, and the warmth from his palm spread up Charlotte's arm. It was silly, but she felt almost light-headed. It must be the shock of Barrett's offer. Surely it wasn't the fact that this man who was so dear to her, the man who'd admitted that he cared for her, held her hand. She was reading too much into it, feeling cherished simply because he held her hand in his.

If Barrett was affected by their entwined fingers, he gave no sign of it. His expression was calm, his voice even. “When I was a boy, my father used to tell us we should have emergency funds. I can't speak for Harrison or Camden, but I took that advice to heart. My mother said it was rude to talk about
money, so I won't tell you how much I have saved, but I will say that I can live for at least a year on it. Admittedly, I won't be living in a mansion, but I'll have a roof over my head, and I won't starve.”

Though he'd been staring into the distance, Barrett returned his gaze to her face, his eyes meeting hers. “Tell me you'll take the house. Please, Charlotte. I want to give it to you and David. I want to help make your dream come true.”

It was a wonderful offer, an almost irresistible one, from a wonderful, almost irresistible man. Barrett was kind, caring, unbelievably generous. He believed in Charlotte's dreams, and he wanted to help her achieve them. He was everything she had dreamt of. That was the problem.

“I can't, Barrett. I can't let you make that kind of sacrifice.”

He shook his head, as if he didn't understand. “Why not?”

Charlotte took a deep breath. She should have told him months ago. She knew that, just as she knew she had been making excuses each time she'd postponed the discussion. Landry never lies, but Charlotte had. She could argue that she had good reasons for the deceptions, but the simple fact was, she had lied. Now it was time for the truth.

She took another deep breath, exhaling slowly, keeping her eyes fixed on Barrett as she said, “I'm not the woman you think I am.”

 20 

A
s Barrett's eyes widened, Charlotte saw shock and disbelief reflected in them. Next would come revulsion, once he understood what she'd done. She had known that was inevitable, that the man who prized honesty would want nothing to do with a woman who'd built her life on lies. That was one of the reasons she'd waited so long to tell him the truth.

“What do you mean?”

To Charlotte's surprise, she heard no condemnation in his voice, only a simple question. She rose and drew the curtains over the front windows, then turned the door sign to “closed.”

Willing her hands not to tremble, she settled back into the chair across from Barrett. Though she longed for the comfort his touch had given her, Charlotte knew she did not deserve it. “I'd better start at the beginning. My name isn't Charlotte Harding.” She shook her head, contradicting herself. “That's not really true. That was my name until I married Jeffrey. Then I became Charlotte Crowley.”

Barrett looked at her steadily. Someone else might have missed the momentary tightening of his lips at the realization that she had lied, but Charlotte did not. It was what she had expected. Barrett would not easily excuse what she had done. When he spoke, his voice was almost harsh. “Why didn't you keep his name? Was he a cruel man?” The way Barrett clenched and unclenched his fists told Charlotte that thought disturbed him, and a glimmer of hope rekindled itself. Perhaps that was the reason he looked so somber, and it wasn't solely because she'd been less than honest.

“No,” she hastened to assure him. “He was foolish, perhaps, but not cruel. Jeffrey loved me, but sometimes it seemed that he loved money more. He gambled and did some very foolish things, because he thought we needed more than his lieutenant's pay.”

Though Barrett seemed to relax a bit with her reassurance, his eyes widened in surprise at her final words. “Your husband was a soldier? I thought he was a farmer.”

Another lie. “Jeffrey hated farming. His parents had a farm and could barely make ends meet. I think that's one of the reasons money was so important to him—he had lived with so little. As soon as he could, he escaped from the farm and went to West Point.”

“A very different life.”

“Yes, it was. He chafed at the restrictions and complained about the pay, but he admitted it was better than being a farmer.” Charlotte managed a small smile, remembering the times when Jeffrey had seemed happy. “He was stationed at Fort Laramie. That's how I came to Wyoming.”

“So you weren't lying when you said that your husband brought you here.” Once again, there was no censure, merely
a simple statement of fact. Charlotte felt some of the tension that had stiffened her spine begin to ebb. This was more than she had dared hope, for Barrett's reaction wasn't what she had feared.

“I tried not to lie any more than necessary, but I couldn't let anyone know I was Jeffrey Crowley's widow.”

“Why not? Were you ashamed of his gambling?”

If only Jeffrey had limited himself to gambling, she wouldn't have had to lie, but he had wanted more money than gambling provided. Though she had never asked for it, Jeffrey had believed that Charlotte craved a life of luxury, and so he'd done whatever he could to pay for fancy china and silver, a Steinway piano, a cook and housekeeper. He had never asked whether Charlotte would have been happy without those things, and she'd been equally at fault, for she had never questioned the source of the money. It was only when it was too late to change anything that Charlotte had realized that if they'd talked more, Jeffrey might still be alive.

“It wasn't only gambling,” she told Barrett. “Jeffrey was a thief too. He got involved in stagecoach robberies.”

Barrett nodded, his expression so calm that Charlotte wondered if anything she could say would shock him. Once he'd learned that Jeffrey had not been abusive, he'd relaxed. “In its heyday, there was a lot of gold on the Black Hills line.”

The coaches that used to run from the Black Hills gold mines in Deadwood to Cheyenne were famous for the cargoes they carried, and until the company added specially armored coaches, they had been prey to robberies. After that, although passengers had been robbed of their belongings, there had been no spectacular holdups. And then, with the extension of the railroad, an era had ended. Since there was no further
need for stagecoaches, the last one had left Cheyenne less than two weeks ago.

“Jeffrey never got any gold, but one of his . . .” Charlotte searched for the correct word. “Partners,” she said at last. “One of his partners believes he found Big Nose Parrott's stash, and he wants it. The man has already killed at least one woman trying to find the money.” Charlotte looked at Barrett, willing him to understand. “That's why I've been lying. It's not shame; it's fear. I'm afraid he'll find me and that he'll hurt David to make me give him the money.” She clasped her hands together to still their trembling. “I thought we were safe in Cheyenne, but then I learned he was here. I think he was the man who followed me the other night.”

“No wonder you were so frightened.” Barrett's voice was warm and comforting. “Don't worry, Charlotte. We'll find him. Then you'll be safe.”

She wanted to believe him. Oh, how she did. Charlotte swallowed deeply, trying to tamp down the fears that thoughts of the baron raised. “I hope that's true. I've hated living with lies, but I had to do whatever I could to keep my son safe.”

Barrett was silent for a moment, and Charlotte sensed that he was trying to absorb everything she had told him. When he spoke, his voice was gentle. “I understand.” He paused, then added, “As well as anyone who's not a parent can.”

“Then you don't hate me for lying?” The question slipped out, unbidden. She had heard no condemnation in his voice and had seen no revulsion on his face, and yet she had to be certain.

“I could never hate you. Surely you realize that. I care for you and David. I want you both to be safe and happy.”

This was the second time Barrett had said he cared for
her, and this time he had included David in that declaration. Warmth flooded Charlotte's cheeks, and her hands ceased their trembling.

“If you're going to be safe,” Barrett continued, “we have to find out who this man is. If he's a murderer, he deserves to be behind bars until a jury can decide his fate. What does he look like?”

“I don't know. I never saw him. The woman at Fort Laramie who warned me about him only told me his name. She called him the baron.” Charlotte frowned, remembering that day. She had been so frightened by the woman's words that she hadn't been thinking clearly. By the time she regained her common sense, it had been too late. “I wanted to ask her more, but she was killed that night. I think the baron was responsible. She said he was ruthless and that nothing would stop him from getting the money.” Charlotte gripped the chair arms. “I don't have it, but he doesn't know that.”

Barrett laid his hand on hers, and once again she drew strength from his warmth. “You'll be all right, Charlotte. We'll find the baron.” Though he'd said it before, Barrett seemed to know that Charlotte needed the reassurance.

“Are you sure he's actually a baron?” Barrett appeared skeptical. “We have a number of cattle barons here, but no one uses that as a title. We've even got some blue bloods from Europe. There's a viscount and a couple earls, but no barons.”

“It probably isn't a real title,” Charlotte admitted, “but he still uses it.” She shuddered, remembering the stories she had heard. “I can't believe that there are two such cruel men living in Wyoming and calling themselves the baron. It has to be the same one.” Quickly, she explained about how she
knew that Sylvia's girls feared him. “The worst part is, no one knows what he looks like because he wears a mask.”

Barrett seemed disturbed. “If this Sylvia knows he's cruel, why does she let him into her establishment? Surely the money can't be worth it.”

Charlotte had asked the same question. “It's not just the money. Mrs. Kendall said he threatened to burn down the brothel with everyone inside. Sylvia believed he'd do that, and so do I. He seems to be a truly evil man.”

Barrett rose and began to pace the floor. “Someone must know who he is. I'll make some discreet inquiries.”

It was necessary. Charlotte knew that, and yet she couldn't help shuddering. What would happen if the baron learned that she was Jeffrey's widow before Barrett found him?

Barrett seemed to understand, for he stood next to her chair and looked down at her, his expression warm and comforting. “I won't do anything to endanger you. I'll only speak to my friends.”

“Thank you.” Charlotte nodded as relief settled over her like a soft blanket.

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 carcasses 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.