Waiting for Spring (36 page)

“Yes, but—”

She wouldn't let him apologize. She wouldn't let him rationalize. Friends didn't do that to friends. Before he could continue, Charlotte said, “You may have it.”

Though she had expected to see relief reflected on his face, Barrett appeared almost annoyed. That was undoubtedly her imagination. She had just given him what he wanted. Of course he was not annoyed.

“You haven't heard everything,” he said.

“I've heard enough. It's a fine idea, Barrett. An excellent one.” When he looked as if he were going to say something, Charlotte continued to outline the reasons Barrett's plan was ideal. “Mr. Yates will be able to move to Arizona, you'll
have the future you deserve, and the citizens of Cheyenne will have a newly expanded place to buy their dry goods.” If only she didn't feel so horribly empty inside, everything would be perfect.

Barrett said nothing, and the silence stretched between them, an awkward silence as Charlotte wondered why he wasn't responding. Hadn't she said what he wanted to hear? What more did he want from her?

At last he cleared his throat. “Now may I tell you why I invited you to dinner?”

Blinking in confusion, Charlotte stared at him. “You already have.”

He shook his head. “That was the prelude. Yes, it's true that I would like to buy Mr. Yates's store. It's also true that I would like to expand it by incorporating what is now Élan, but none of that matters unless I have what I want most in life.”

Pausing for a moment, Barrett stretched his hands out, capturing hers in his. “I'm supposed to be the man with the golden tongue,” he said, his lips twisting with irony. “Folks say I can convince anyone of anything. Now, when it matters more than ever before, I feel like a tongue-tied schoolboy.”

He cleared his throat again. “You know what a difficult winter this has been. I've been like everyone else in Cheyenne, waiting for spring. I told myself that everything would be better then, and it will be, if you . . .” He stopped abruptly. “There I go, getting ahead of myself.” Though he shook his head in apparent self-disgust, his eyes sparkled.

Charlotte stared at Barrett, her breath catching at what she saw in his eyes. When he'd spoken of buying the dry goods store, she had seen enthusiasm. When he'd recounted the story of helping the customers, she had seen satisfaction.
But now his eyes reflected something softer and yet stronger than either enthusiasm or satisfaction. Love.

Barrett raised her hands to his lips and pressed a kiss on them. “I love you, Charlotte. I love you with all my heart, with every breath in my body.”

She started to smile. This was what she had hoped for. This was what she had dreamt of. She tugged Barrett's hands and turned them over, slowly raising them to her lips so that she could return the kiss he had given her, but he shook his head. “Please let me finish.”

As she nodded, Barrett's lips curved into a smile. “The store is important, but if I were there alone, it would be meaningless. I need more. I want more. I want to marry you and spend the rest of my life with you and David. That's what is important to me. Will you do it, Charlotte? Will you make my life complete? Will you be my wife?”

Her heart pounding so furiously that Charlotte feared it would break through her chest, she nodded. “Yes, Barrett, I will.”

Dreams did come true.

 25 

H
is dreams were coming true. He could feel it in his bones. Slowing the horse as he reached the outskirts of Cheyenne, Warren grinned. He'd ridden harder than normal, but there'd been no choice, not unless he was willing to waste another day, and that was something he wouldn't do. Though he didn't like to abuse good horseflesh, he didn't want to wait until morning. That was why he was still riding, though it was well past sunset. He might be tired, the horse might be winded, but he was here.

He had it all planned. The red-hot fury he'd felt when he'd realized that Widow Crowley had tried to outsmart him had faded, but in its wake, he'd found a new resolve. She would pay for the time he'd waited for the money. She would pay, and so would that brat of hers.

Two days ago, all he'd wanted was the money. Now he wanted more. He deserved more. It was no longer enough to send her a demand for the money or to wear his mask when he confronted her. Now he wanted to see her face when she
realized who he was and what he intended to do. That was why he'd decided that he needed to visit Charlotte tonight.

Her shop would be closed, so he wouldn't run the risk of encountering any of her customers. He didn't want anyone—especially Gwen—overhearing their conversation. That was why he'd tell Charlotte they had business to discuss and that it would be best if they went to the store. She'd agree. Just as she'd agree to tell no one of his demands. Of course she would, for Warren was a most persuasive man. He'd make sure she knew that her son's life was at stake. Silly Charlotte wouldn't realize that he had every intention of killing both her and the boy. That was the only way he could ensure her silence. Besides, if Charlotte were dead, the victim of an unfortunate accident, Gwen would have no one to turn to but him.

Warren's grin widened. By tomorrow, he would have the money—his money. And the next day he would ask Gwen to marry him. His grin turned into a chuckle. In less than forty-eight hours, his future would be secured.

Once he'd hitched the horse, he climbed the steps leading to the second floor apartment and knocked on Charlotte's door. The time of reckoning had arrived.

“Warren?” Gwen's eyes widened in surprise as she opened the door. “I didn't expect you,” she said as she ushered him into an immaculately clean kitchen. “Did Barrett send you? Has something happened to Charlotte?”

Warren stifled a curse. This wasn't going the way he had planned, for Jeffrey's widow was not here.

“Where is Charlotte?” His words came out harsher than he'd planned, causing Gwen to flinch.
Careful, Warren
, he admonished himself.
You don't want to lose control now.
Gwen must never know what you've done and what you intend to do.
Sweet, innocent Gwen would not marry a murderer and a thief.

“She's having dinner with Barrett.” Gwen tilted her head to one side in the gesture he found so endearing. “At his house. I don't know what came over me. Of course there's nothing wrong. It was foolish of me to think otherwise. I was just so surprised to see you.”

Warren's mind began to whirl. Though there would be an unfortunate delay, perhaps he could turn it to his advantage. He might be able to learn something from Gwen, and even if he didn't, he'd have the pleasure of her company.

“May I stay for a few minutes?”

Gwen started to nod, then shook her head, her indecision apparent. “I'm not sure it would be proper, since we have no chaperone.”

“Didn't you say Charlotte was with Barrett at his house?”

“Yes,” she admitted, “but there are servants there. No one's here but Rose and David, and they'd hardly qualify as chaperones, even if they were awake.”

Her protests only heightened his determination. Everything she did and said underscored what a perfect wife she would be. Once they were wed, no one, not even the most persnickety member of the committee, would question Warren's suitability for the Cheyenne Club.

“Please, Gwen. I missed you while I was gone. No one will know I'm here.” Warren's thoughts flew to the horse that was hitched in front of the store. It was a gray, and grays were not common in Cheyenne. That had been part of the gelding's appeal. It was also the reason he never rode to Sylvia's. That was one place where he could not afford to be recognized. This
was another. He hadn't expected to be here long enough for anyone to notice his horse, and so he hadn't taken his normal precautions, but now . . . Warren tossed caution aside. “I'd like to spend some time with you,” he told Gwen.

She hesitated again, then nodded. “All right. Come in.”

As she led him into what appeared to be the parlor area of the apartment, Warren saw that she was wearing house slippers. Perhaps that was another reason she was so reluctant to invite him in. A lady like Gwen would feel uncomfortable entertaining a man in her slippers. But soon, if everything went the way Warren planned, he would see her house slippers every day. He grinned at the prospect of sharing a house and a life with this woman.

While Warren waited until Gwen seated herself, he looked around the room. Since he'd been inside Mr. Yates's store, he was familiar with the basic dimensions of the apartment. He'd known it would not be large, but to Warren's surprise, there was no sign of wealth. To the contrary, the furniture was well-worn, and though a table had been placed over it, he spotted a hole in the carpet. Apparently Charlotte had not lavished any of Big Nose's gold here. It made no sense. If he had all that money, he wouldn't be living in a small apartment with used furnishings, but he didn't pretend to understand the workings of a woman's mind. Perhaps Charlotte had a conscience and knew the money wasn't hers.

As he settled himself on the chair Gwen indicated, Warren nodded. That must be the case. Hadn't Jeffrey mentioned that his wife's father was a minister? It figured that a parson's daughter would have scruples. Warren almost laughed out loud. Charlotte's scruples meant more money for him.

Tiny furrows appeared between Gwen's eyes. “Are you certain nothing is wrong?”

“Why would you think anything is amiss?” Plenty was wrong, but Warren didn't want to worry Gwen.

“Your expression when you were looking at the room. I never saw you look quite like that.”

Warren shrugged as he feigned nonchalance. He hadn't realized Gwen was so perceptive. He'd have to be careful after they were married, especially on the days when he planned to visit Sylvia's. Whatever else he did, he couldn't let Gwen learn about that side of his life.

“If I'm looking strange, it must be because I'm so tired.” Determined to change the subject, he made a show of looking around the room, this time keeping his expression neutral. “This is the first time I've seen where you live. It's not what I expected.”

Gwen seemed surprised, but at least she was no longer studying his face. “Why not?”

“I thought it would be bigger.” He wouldn't say that he had thought it would be nicer, because the furnishings weren't Gwen's fault. He knew she had little money. That was why she lived here, working as a glorified servant for Charlotte Crowley, a woman who could afford a mansion. It was Charlotte who was to blame for these modest surroundings. Tamping down his anger, Warren searched for proof that Charlotte Harding, proprietor of Élan, was actually Jeffrey Crowley's widow. The parlor was barren of personal touches other than some children's toys and a sewing basket.

“I'm surprised you have no photographs of your family here.” He gestured toward the mantel and the wall. “Most homes I've visited do.”

Gwen looked at the bare walls as if seeing them for the first time. “There's a portrait of Mike in my bedchamber.” A faint blush stained her cheeks, and he wondered if she'd broken some rule of etiquette by mentioning her sleeping quarters. “I keep it out because I don't want Rose to forget her father.”

This was the opening Warren needed. As casually as he could, he asked, “And Charlotte? Does she have a picture of her husband? What was his name?” He paused for a second, as if racking his brain. “Jeffrey?”

Though he hadn't intended it, confusion clouded Gwen's eyes. He must have sounded like he was cross-examining a hostile witness. He'd have to be more careful. Gwen shook her head slowly. “There are no photographs of him, but it doesn't matter. I'm sure Charlotte's like me, and she'll never forget her husband's face. As for David, the poor child wouldn't know if there were a dozen portraits of his father.”

That might be true, but the absence of photos struck Warren as suspicious. Only a woman with something to hide would have changed her name and hidden all evidence of her past. Warren stared into the distance, acting as casual as he could. “She must have loved Jeffrey very much if she can't bear to see reminders of her marriage.”

It was the wrong thing to say, for Gwen started to bristle. Perhaps she thought he was questioning her love for Mike, since she kept his portrait on display. “Why do you keep saying ‘Jeffrey'?” she demanded. “I don't believe that was his name.”

But it had to be. There couldn't be two Charlotte Hardings in Wyoming Territory. “Then what was his name?”

Gwen pursed her lips. “I don't know. Charlotte doesn't talk about him very often, and when she does, she refers to him as ‘my husband.'”

“Then she never mentioned Jeffrey Crowley?”

“No.”

“And she never told you she lived at Fort Laramie?”

“No.” Gwen's face began to flush. “Warren, I don't know where you got those ideas. You must be mistaken.” She looked at him, her eyes dark with anger. “I know Charlotte. She's my dearest friend. If what you're saying were true, she would have told me.”

“Unless she's a liar.”

Charlotte sighed as she wrapped her arms around Barrett's neck. Never had she dreamt that his kisses would be so enticing. At first they'd been feather light, teasing her with a gentle brushing across her lips. And then he'd deepened them, pressing his lips to hers, kissing her with an intensity that left her breathless and longing for more.

“Oh, Barrett, I love you,” she whispered when they broke apart.

“I will never, ever tire of hearing you say that.” His words were little more than a murmur before his lips captured hers again. When at length he ended the kiss, he kept his arms around her waist and smiled at her. “I have so many questions for you, but when you're this close, it's hard to remember them.”

With obvious reluctance, he dropped his arms and stepped back a pace, leaving Charlotte feeling oddly bereft. Her eyes lighted on the ormolu clock. Was it possible that it had been less than half an hour since they'd entered the parlor? So much had changed in so little time. Half an hour ago she hadn't known what was in Barrett's heart. Now she wore his
ring—the most beautiful ring she had ever seen—and they were making plans to marry.

Barrett's lips curved into a crooked smile as he gestured toward the chairs they'd used before. “I'd better keep my distance. Otherwise all I can think about is kissing you again.” He waited until she was seated before taking the other chair. “There, that's better. Now I can ask my questions. Let's start with the most important one. When would you like to be married?” He reached out and clasped her right hand between his, leaving the left one with the exquisite opal resting on the chair arm. “If it were up to me, I'd say tomorrow, but I know that brides need more time to prepare.”