Waiting for Spring (33 page)

“I had an ulterior motive for asking you both to come.”

Warren raised an eyebrow when Barrett made the announcement. He had waited until the serving dishes had been placed on the table and the butler had left, as if to ensure there would be no interruptions. Warren had been surprised by the timing of the invitation, since Richard was Barrett's other guest. While the newlyweds were waiting until summer to take a wedding trip, they had remained practically sequestered in Richard's town house, and when they'd emerged, it had always been together. Until today.

Warren looked at Barrett. As was normally the case when they dined at the Landry mansion, their host was seated at the head of the table, with Richard on one side of him, Warren on the other. It was a matter of amusement for Warren that one time he would be seated on the right, the next on the left. Barrett Landry was a man of scruples, even to the point of avoiding a hint of favoritism among his friends. What would he think if he knew of Warren's scruples, or—more
precisely—the lack thereof? Fortunately, that subject would never be addressed.

Richard feigned shock as he helped himself to a serving of roast beef. “I thought you invited us so we could enjoy another of Mrs. Melnor's fine meals. You'd better be careful, Barrett,” he said playfully. “Miriam wants me to hire her away from you. She says no one does a roast as well as your cook.”

Barrett nodded. “Miriam's correct. Mrs. Melnor is a gem, but that's not what I want to discuss.”

When it was evident that Richard was more interested in the beef and potatoes or perhaps thoughts of his bride than Barrett's motives, Warren spoke. “So, why did you summon us?”

The way Barrett's face clouded told Warren this was no trivial matter. He only hoped Barrett wasn't going to announce that he was leaving Cheyenne. He'd been counting on Barrett's support when his application for membership in the Cheyenne Club was reviewed.

Barrett's lips tightened as he said, “I heard a rumor that there's someone in Cheyenne who calls himself the baron. I wondered if either of you knew anything about him.”

Thank goodness he was eating. Warren took another bite of meat to give himself the excuse of a full mouth, then busied himself with buttering a slice of bread. He dared not look at Barrett for fear that his expression might reveal his shock. No one important was supposed to know about the baron. Oh, it was true that the girls at Sylvia's knew him by that name, but that was by design. Surely Barrett hadn't gone to Sylvia's. Not straitlaced Barrett. So how had he heard the name?

Richard looked up from his plate, his face showing only a modicum of interest. “The baron? I haven't heard of anyone with that name. He could be a newcomer.”

Barrett shook his head. “Not from the stories I heard. This man's been here for a few years.” He turned toward Warren, pointing his fork at him. “What about you, Warren? You know more people than I do. Has anyone mentioned him to you?”

Warren almost laughed. The way the question was phrased, he didn't have to lie. Perjury didn't bother him under special circumstances, and this was certainly one of those, but he tried to avoid lies—and self-incrimination—whenever he could. “I'm afraid not.” He forced a light tone to his voice. “While I'd like to claim that my clientele is the most exclusive in the city, it doesn't include any barons.”

Barrett's frown deepened. “Despite the moniker, it doesn't sound as if this baron is someone we'd meet at the club. He frequents one of the seedier brothels on 15th Street, and he has a reputation for being rough on the women.”

Whoever they were, Barrett's sources were good. There had to be a way to deflect his interest. “Don't be so prudish, Barrett. I suspect a number of the Cheyenne Club's members employ the services of prostitutes.”

“Perhaps.” Barrett helped himself to a serving of green beans. “Whether he visits whorehouses is not what concerns me. I want to meet this man.”

On the opposite side of the table, Richard sputtered. “Why on earth?”

Yes, why did Barrett care about the baron? Warren fixed his gaze on Barrett, trying to fathom his motives.

“He has a key to something I want.”

“A key? What kind of key?” The questions spilled out before Warren knew what was happening.

“It doesn't matter now.” Though he'd intrigued Warren, Barrett dismissed the subject. “I doubted either of you would
have heard of him, but I needed to ask. Now, let's talk about something more pleasant.”

An hour later as he walked home, Warren clenched his fists. It had taken all the composure he could muster to avoid grabbing Barrett by the throat and demanding to know why he wanted to learn about the baron and—just as importantly—who had told him about Warren's alter ego. But, though he'd seethed inside, he had forced himself to sit there as quietly as if they were discussing nothing more important than the weather.

What had happened? The question reverberated through his brain. There should have been no way that Barrett would ever hear of the baron. The baron didn't travel in the same circles, and despite what Warren had said to Barrett, the members of the Cheyenne Club did not frequent establishments like Sylvia's. There were other houses that catered to men with money and influence. But somehow the baron had come to Barrett's notice.

It might not be a problem. Barrett might forget all about the baron in a day or two. Warren pounded a fist into his hand. He was deluding himself if he believed that. Barrett Landry was nothing if not tenacious. If he was able to ferret out the truth, everything Warren had worked so hard to establish would be lost. He had taken every precaution to avoid having his name linked with the baron's. The mask, the clandestine visits, disguising his voice. And yet, there was always the chance that he had missed something. All it took was one little slip.

He couldn't let that happen. He couldn't let Barrett connect the baron and Warren Duncan. And he wouldn't. First he had to discover why Barrett had suddenly become so
interested in the baron. Warren thought back, remembering the night—early morning, really—when he'd followed a woman north on Ferguson. At first it had been nothing more than a lark, an opportunity to demonstrate his power by frightening her. But when the gracefulness of her walk told him she was younger than he'd thought, the game had changed. His night at Sylvia's had left him dissatisfied. Perhaps a kiss or two—maybe something more—would sate his desires. He'd almost reached her when he saw the carriage headed toward him. Nothing, not even the sweetest of kisses, was worth being discovered, and so he'd faded into the shadows and made his way home.

Had that been Barrett's carriage? Of course not. Barrett had no reason to be out at that hour. Barrett's interest had been piqued by something different.

The sudden interest in the baron must have something to do with Barrett's trip to Fort Laramie. When he'd mentioned that he had gone there, Barrett had refused to explain his reasons, claiming they were personal. To Warren's knowledge, Barrett had never kept secrets, but he'd been different since he'd returned.

Warren shuddered. He had sworn he would never again set foot on that fort. The dangers were too high. But the dangers in not going seemed equally threatening. As distasteful as the prospect of entering the Army post was, he had to learn why Barrett had gone there and what he had found. Warren would go to Fort Laramie tomorrow. And then, one way or another, he would ensure that Barrett Landry did not discover the baron's identity.

 22 

H
e's courting you.”

Gwen leaned against the door frame while Charlotte pulled on woolen socks in preparation for her next outing with Barrett. When he had invited her and David, he had refused to say where they were going or what they would do. All he'd told Charlotte was that it was something new and to dress warmly.

“I told you he cared about you,” Gwen continued. “Now, if only Warren would speak, we could have a double wedding.” Weddings were Gwen's favorite topic of conversation, and for her sake, Charlotte hoped that Warren did propose. Barrett was another story.

“He's simply being kind.” Admittedly, the smiles he had given her were warmer than mere courtesy demanded, and he touched her hand more frequently than absolutely necessary. And then there had been the time his hand had brushed her cheek. Though it might have been an accident, the way it had
lingered seemed to say otherwise. But courting? Charlotte doubted that.

Gwen's lips twisted as she shook her head. “A man who's simply being kind doesn't find an excuse to spend time with a woman every day. Mark my words, Charlotte. He's smitten, and you'd be a fool if you didn't take advantage of that. You won't find a better husband than Barrett.”

“You're right.” Charlotte had told herself that she would not remarry unless she found a man who would love both her and David. She hadn't expected that to happen, and yet she could not deny that Barrett seemed to care for David. She wouldn't claim that he treated David like any other boy, for he did not. Instead, he recognized David's blindness but sought ways to give him experiences that would make his life as close to normal as possible. That was caring. If Charlotte let herself dream, she would say that it was more than caring, that it was love.

Barrett was the kindest, most wonderful man she had ever met. When they were together, her heart beat faster, and every one of her senses seemed more acute. She was aware of the lightest of scents, the faintest of sounds, and even a gentle touch set her blood to pounding. When they were apart, she felt bereft, as if the world had suddenly faded to pale gray.

Gwen took a step into the room, a satisfied smile on her face. “Then you admit it. You love him.”

Charlotte pulled out her heaviest flannel petticoat. Though it spoiled the lines of her gown, it would keep her warm if they were outside for an extended period, and with her long cloak covering it, no one would realize that Madame Charlotte was not dressed in the latest fashion.

“I do, but . . .”

“No buts. Oh, Charlotte, can't you see how perfect this is? This is what God intended for you, not teaching school. He brought Barrett into your life so you could marry him.”

Charlotte wished she were as certain as her friend. Though she had believed that God wanted her to open the school, Barrett's inability to discover the baron's identity made her wonder if she'd been mistaken. Perhaps it had been nothing more than a passing dream, not one that she was supposed to turn into reality. Each morning, every night, and many times in between, Charlotte prayed for guidance, but she had heard no answer. If the Lord was going to speak, it seemed he was giving her a lesson in patience first.

“We'll have to see what the future brings.” Charlotte fastened the last button. “Right now, it's time for me to get David ready.”

Ten minutes later, she heard Barrett's knock on the door.

“Hello, my boy,” he said as David raced across the floor to fling his arms around Barrett's legs. “Are you ready?”

While her son nodded vigorously, a smile lighting his face, Charlotte felt a lump rise to her throat. Though he probably meant nothing by it, the sound of Barrett calling David “my boy” brought tears to her eyes. Gwen was right. This was what she wanted, a man who would be a father for David and a husband for her. “Sled?” David chortled with glee when Barrett picked him up and swung him around. The brief swing had become a tradition, and judging from the grin on David's face, it was one he enjoyed.

“He's learned a new word,” Charlotte told Barrett as they descended the steps. Today he'd brought his carriage rather than the wagon, confirming his statement that they would not be sledding. Though it would have been possible to put
the sled at the back of the carriage where luggage was often carried, it was easier to load it into a wagon bed.

“I'm afraid there'll be no sledding today.” Barrett placed David in the center of the seat, then helped Charlotte in beside him. “But both of you might like this even more. You can learn a new word too.”

“And what word would that be?” Charlotte asked as she settled into her spot.

He chuckled. “In your case,
patience
.”

As Barrett flicked the reins and the horse began to trot, Charlotte laughed. “You've discovered one of my weaknesses. I'm not very patient.”

“Which is why you have to wait until we reach our destination before I tell you what we're going to do.”

When they approached 17th Street, Barrett turned east, continuing past Central. Charlotte's smile broadened. Without a horse, she rarely came this far from home, but it was pleasant riding with Barrett, seeing the elaborate homes in this part of the city, enjoying the sparkle of the sun on the snow. Though last week's snow had melted, as Barrett had predicted, another inch had fallen yesterday, making the yards once more pristine and white.

Barrett slowed the horse when they reached what could only be a park. While few trees were visible, the road led to a series of lagoons and a small lake, all of which appeared to be frozen. In the distance, several children ran across the ice, sliding on the slippery surface, while their mothers kept watch from the gently sloping banks.

“Oh, it's beautiful!” Charlotte wrapped her arms around David, drawing him closer. “There's ice here, David.” She looked up at Barrett. “Does the park have a name?”

“Of course. Minnehaha. It's the city's newest park.” As he slowed the carriage even further, Barrett explained that a few years earlier, the town fathers had decided the city needed a park on its eastern boundary. “They dug ditches to bring water from Sloan's Lake so there could be a lake here.”

Charlotte nodded. “I've heard of the park, of course. Miriam told me it was her favorite and that she especially enjoyed boating on the lagoons.”

“That would be a little difficult right now,” Barrett said with a chuckle. “I checked the ice this morning, and it's safe. Would you like to skate? And don't tell me you have no skates. Mr. Yates was happy to sell me three pairs.”

Charlotte flushed. She should have realized that Barrett would provide everything they needed. After all, he'd bought a sled so that David could enjoy the thrill of sliding down a hill. Sledding had been marvelous, but skating presented new challenges.

“Three pairs? David can hardly walk.”

Barrett busied himself hitching the horse to one of the posts, then returned to the carriage to help Charlotte dismount. “I don't want David to miss the opportunity. If we both take an arm, he should be able to skate. Or,” he said, his lips twisting into a crooked grin, “what passes for skating for a one-year-old. If he shuffles his feet, we can call it skating.”

This was what she wanted, what she'd dreamt of, the opportunity for David to live a close to normal life, and thanks to Barrett, her dream was coming true. Blinking back tears of happiness, Charlotte turned to her son. “Oh, David, you're going to have so much fun.”

“I hope you will too,” Barrett said as he pulled the bag of skates from the back of the carriage and led her to a bench
that had been placed at the side of the lagoon, perhaps as a place for skaters to rest.

“I know I'll have fun if my ankles support me. It's been a long time since I've skated.”

When Barrett handed her two pairs of skates, Charlotte shook her head. “First I need to introduce David to ice.” She gathered him into her arms and carried him to the edge of the lagoon, then removed one of his mittens. “Ice, David,” she said as she placed his hand on the frozen surface. “It's cold, and it's hard. We're going to skate on it.” Returning to the bench, she handed him one of the small skates and let him discover the shape and texture. “These go on your feet,” she explained. A puzzled expression crossed David's face. “It's more fun than walking,” she promised.

After fastening the runners to David's boots, Charlotte put on her own, then tried to rise. As she had feared, her ankles wobbled, but within a few minutes, the three of them were gliding slowly across the ice. David refused to move his legs, clinging tightly to her hand and Barrett's, but as they propelled him along, he began to smile.

“It's fun, isn't it, David?” Charlotte asked, delighted with his progress. He might be too young to recall his first sledding and skating trips, but she knew the memories were engraved on her brain. A year ago, she had despaired of her son ever living a normal life, and now—thanks in great part to the man who stood so close to her—David was doing better than she had dreamt possible.

Charlotte looked at Barrett. “Thank you for making this possible.”

The tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes disappeared as his smile faded, and his voice was sober as he said, “I'm
always happy to help. All you have to do is ask. I'd do anything for you and David.”

Charlotte felt a flush color her cheeks. If Gwen were here, she would declare that Barrett's words were proof he was courting her. Though Charlotte had worried that Barrett might consider her and David a burden, especially when he realized that life with a blind child would never be completely normal, it seemed that he didn't mind the extra work David required. Like David himself, Barrett seemed to be having fun.

“You're enjoying this, aren't you?” she asked.

Barrett nodded. “Very much. I can't think of anything I'd rather be doing than spending the day with you and David.”

“Even though neither of us can skate very well?”

“Maybe
because
you aren't the best skaters on the lagoon. It makes me feel useful.”

Barrett's words echoed through Charlotte's mind that night. As she gave her hair its ritual hundred strokes, she replayed the time they'd shared at the lagoon.
“It makes me feel useful,”
he had said, his expression asking whether she understood. She did. Oh, how she understood.

Charlotte drew the brush through her hair again, smiling as the long tresses crackled with electricity. Helping others made her feel useful. She had lived her life believing that her purpose for being on this earth was to help others. That was one reason establishing a school appealed to her so greatly. It was a reason she enjoyed sewing clothing for others. Even though her customers paid her, she was rewarded with more than money. Knowing that they felt better about themselves when they were dressed in flattering colors and styles was a reward too. And then there were the garments she made for Mrs. Kendall. Though she received no money for them,
the knowledge that those dresses helped Mrs. Kendall's residents and Sylvia's girls build new lives was worth more than a dozen gold coins.

Being needed, helping others, and feeling useful were basic human needs. Charlotte laid the brush on the dresser and began to braid her hair. Why hadn't she realized that? She wasn't the only one who wanted to feel useful, and David wasn't the only one who was blind. Though her fingers moved methodically, Charlotte's brain skittered as the thoughts tumbled through it. How wrong she had been! She had believed she needed to do everything herself. Asking for help was a sign of weakness, or so she had thought. It would mean that others were coddling her, proving that she was incapable of helping herself.

She had been wrong. So very wrong. She had been so blind that she hadn't realized that by struggling to do everything herself, she was depriving others of the opportunity to be needed. It had been a matter of pride, of deluding herself into thinking she could—and should—be self-sufficient. That was why she hadn't told her sisters about David's blindness, even though they would have given her much-needed comfort. That was why she hadn't let Gwen help her deliver dresses to Mrs. Kendall, although Gwen might have enjoyed the opportunity to bring a bit of beauty to the women's lives. That was why she hadn't wanted to accept Barrett's help, even his wonderfully generous offer of his home. She had forgotten that the simple act of giving brought so much pleasure, and so she had deprived Barrett of that.