Courting Carrie in Wonderland

by Carla Kelly

  ALSO BY CARLA KELLY

  FICTION

  Daughter of Fortune

  Miss Chartley’s Guided Tour

  Marian’s Christmas Wish

  Mrs. McVinnie’s London Season

  Libby’s London Merchant

  Miss Grimsley’s Oxford Career

  Miss Billings Treads the Boards

  Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand

  Summer Campaign

  Miss Whittier Makes a List

  The Lady’s Companion

  With This Ring

  Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind

  One Good Turn

  The Wedding Journey

  Here’s to the Ladies: Stories of the Frontier Army

  Beau Crusoe

  Marrying the Captain

  The Surgeon’s Lady

  Marrying the Royal Marine

  The Admiral’s Penniless Bride

  Borrowed Light

  For This We Are Soldiers

  Coming Home for Christmas: Three Holiday Stories

  Enduring Light

  Marriage of Mercy

  My Loving Vigil Keeping

  Her Hesitant Heart

  The Double Cross

  Safe Passage

  Carla Kelly’s Christmas Collection

  In Love and War

  A Timeless Romance Anthology: Old West Collection

  Marco and the Devil’s Bargain

  Softly Falling

  Paloma and the Horse Traders

  Reforming Lord Ragsdale

  Enduring Light

  Summer Campaign

  Doing No Harm

  A Timeless Romance Anthology: A Country Christmas

  A Timeless Romance Anthology: All Regency Collection

  The Star in the Meadow

  NONFICTION

  On the Upper Missouri: The Journal of Rudolph Friedrich Kurz

  Fort Buford: Sentinel at the Confluence

  Stop Me If You’ve Read This One

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  © 2017 Carla Kelly

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.

  This is a work of historical fiction which, by definition, contains certain historical figures prominent in history. In addition to the real persons which inhabit this work, other characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. The opinions and views expressed herein belong solely to the author and do not necessarily represent the opinions or views of Cedar Fort, Inc. Permission for the use of sources, graphics, and photos is also solely the responsibility of the author.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4621-2663-7

  Published by Sweetwater Books, an imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc.,

  2373 W. 700 S., Springville, UT 84663

  Distributed by Cedar Fort, Inc. www.cedarfort.com

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: Kelly, Carla, author.

  Title: Courting Carrie in Wonderland / Carla Kelly.

  Description: Springville, Utah : Sweetwater Books, an imprint of Cedar Fort, Inc., [2017]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016055719 (print) | LCCN 2016059935 (ebook) | ISBN 9781462118724 (mass market) | ISBN 9781462126637

  Subjects: LCSH: Yellowstone National Park, setting. | LCGFT: Romance fiction. | Historical fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3561.E3928 C68 2017 (print) | LCC PS3561.E3928 (ebook) | DDC 813/.54--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016055719

  Cover design by Priscilla Chaves

  Cover design © 2017 by Cedar Fort, Inc.

  Edited and typeset by Deborah Spencer and Jessica Romrell

  In memory of Dan Christie Kingman (1852–1916), and Hiram Martin Chittenden (1858–1917), US Army Corps of Engineers.

  Gentlemen, thank you from the depths of my heart.

  And to my dad, Kenneth Carl Baier (1923–2010), who shared his Yellowstone stories with me and my dear sisters.

  Why, No One to Love?

  Chorus:

  No one to love!

  Why, no one to love?

  What have you done in this beautiful world,

  That you’re sighing for no one to love?

  Stephen Foster, 1862

  Chapter One

  APRIL 24, 1903

  Full dress uniform? Check. Xerxes brushed to a fare-thee-well, including a new saddle blanket? Check. That medal on his chest centered properly by the wife of B Company’s first sergeant? Check.

  Sergeant Major Ramsay Stiles edged Xerxes into line next to Captain Hiram Chittenden, Army Corps of Engineers, with the comment, “No one really knows where to put me, Captain, so here I am.”

  “And you’re welcome here, Sergeant Major,” Captain Chittenden said most formally. He lapsed quickly enough. “Ramsay, this is a how-de-do for Yellowstone Park. I hear Teddy had a great two weeks, swapping lies with our fair major and making rough camps where there wasn’t too much snow.”

  The men grinned at each other; so much for rough camping in Yellowstone. Ramsay was well aware of the commodious tents, the horse docile enough not to throw the president of the United States, and better food than usually found among the troops in the back country. Logistics seemed to be Ramsay’s lot in life, now that he had accepted the exalted promotion of sergeant major, which had the unfortunate consequence of throwing him out of B Company and into a private office in Admin. This was not his idea, of course.

  They waited for Major Pitcher and President Roosevelt to take their places at the head of the column of troopers, some still in blue, and others—especially Philippine war veterans like Ramsay—in the new khaki mandated last year. Can a man be too ambitious? he asked himself.

  He decided the answer was yes. If he had turned down the honor, he would still be First Sergeant Stiles of B Company, First Cavalry Regiment, better known as Sarge. Now he was Sergeant Major Stiles, addressed by the full title in excessive syllabic splendor. Granted, the title gave him more of a free rein, but Ramsay knew some of his work this coming summer would be to assure the men of the First (and best) Cavalry Regiment that he hadn’t changed much, not really.

  The day was mild for April 24. The winter of ’02–03 had been a bit of a tease, with snow beginning in September as usual, but melting by early April, when Roosevelt arrived for two weeks of private camping. Even a president can’t control the weather, but fortune seemed to smile on Teddy.

  Ramsay Stiles and Captain Chittenden saluted smartly when the two men in question passed them and moved to the head of the column, right behind the American flag, regimental colors, and a presidential flag. As much as his new promotion still hadn’t quite settled onto his shoulders, Ramsay Stiles could not deny the pleasure of riding so close to the front as sergeant major, First Cavalry. No more eating dust for him.

  As the column began to move, he couldn’t resist looking back down the line at B and F companies, everyone smartly attired, every horse stepping in unison. He noticed with amusement and some nostalgia that the first sergeants in those companies were doing exactly the same thing he was. Once, one of Ramsay’s lieutenants, when he
was more drunk than usual—long dead now because he never could pay attention in Indian country—had remarked that sergeants really ran the army. Ramsay, stone cold sober, already knew that but he had smiled and nodded anyway.

  As they approached Gardiner at a dignified trot, Ramsay stared at the size of the crowd. “Captain, is there any chance that Gardiner will eventually be home to more saints than sinners?”

  “Not anytime soon!” the engineer said with a laugh. “That fence I built to keep our antelope and elk inside and away from poachers has made me a target for any number of nasty letters.”

  “I didn’t know, sir,” Ramsay said.

  “They can’t spell, so I save them for Nettie to laugh over when she gets here in June.”

  “She won’t laugh, sir.”

  “Probably not.” Chittenden pointed toward the partially built rock wall in the distance, their destination. “That, my friend, might someday be a silk purse from the proverbial sow’s ear.”

  Ramsay nodded. Last year, he and the captain had indulged in occasional late-night visits after the day’s work was done. Chittenden had mulled over some way to make this north entrance into something more remarkable, rather than a bleak expanse of blown-out sagebrush country. Ramsay had probably been the first person to see Chittenden’s rough drawings of a stone wall with an arch for park traffic to pass beneath. Ramsay had been more impressed with Chittenden’s message in stone, For the Benefit and Enjoyment of the People. “It’s in the National Park Enabling Act, so why not?” Chittenden had asked his audience of one.

  The drawings had made their way up the chain of command, with an architect given the actual duty to lay it out. The result stretched before them—the stone wall, at least. The arch would follow, but here was President Roosevelt, a handy tourist. Why not turn his camping trip into a dedication, complete with cornerstone and the inevitable speech?

  The cornerstone mortaring came first, with everyone crowding around. Ramsay knew the Northern Pacific Railroad had run four extra trains to Cinnabar, three miles north of Gardiner and the current terminus of the rail, which by June would be through to Gardiner. Stagecoaches had brought more than three thousand spectators from Cinnabar to this place. Fort Yellowstone’s two companies of cavalry had worked themselves into place to help with crowd control, Ramsay among them.

  Speechifying followed, always the tedious but necessary part when leaders and people of some influence from Montana and Wyoming preened and patted themselves on the back. Captain Chittenden, a modest man, had already declined to say anything, confident—as he mentioned to Ramsay—that his initial idea would be remembered long after the windbags blew away.

  In his clipped, staccato style, the president had assured Major Pitcher, acting superintendent of the park, that he wanted his constituents to crowd as close as they could, the better to hear.

  It was a big gathering and a noisy one. Ramsay frowned to see brown bottles passed around and a certain amount of belligerence in evidence. No teetotaler he, the sergeant major knew there was a time and place for most things, and a cornerstone dedication wasn’t one for booze. Hopefully the crowd was a friendly one, but who knew?

  Captain Chittenden seated himself on the stand, which had been erected by his carpenters right next to the new stone wall. Ramsay counted the other dignitaries and angled Xerxes as close as he could until he reined in next to the platform, decked in patriotic bunting. He turned his attention to the crowd, scanning east to west, and then back, constantly surveying the rowdy, enthusiastic citizens.

  After an effusive introduction by Major Pitcher, who knew Roosevelt well, the great man himself stepped forward, notes in hand. True to form, he leaned over the wooden railing, shook a few hands, and made some laughing remarks. Ramsay smiled when the president even kissed a baby some father held up.

  Ramsay searched the crowd again, and rose in the saddle when he heard a commotion and glimpsed sudden movement. Two men hung onto a bearded old boy with a bottle in one hand and a gun in the other.

  The man broke free and started for the stand. Sergeant Major Stiles stepped from his horse onto the platform. Quicker than speech, he pushed Roosevelt behind him. He stood in front of the president, shielding him from the drunk. He’d thrown away his bottle and stopped not ten feet away, blinking his eyes and swaying, gun in hand.

  There was no time to take out his Navy Colt, so Ramsay Stiles stood still, ready for whatever came, calm because he knew the president of the United States was behind him and protected. It was all a soldier could do.

  To his relief, others in the crowd tackled the drunk and disarmed him. Privates from B Company hustled the man away, his arms held tight behind his back, as he protested loudly, and then threw up over a second lieutenant’s boots.

  Ramsay sighed with relief, then he turned around to face President Roosevelt. “I’m sorry that happened, Mr. President. Gardiner is a no-account town.”

  “Western rough and tumble,” Roosevelt said calmly enough. “I remember it well from my Dakota days.” He held out his hand. “Shake, Sergeant Major. Thank you for your vigilance.” He gave his toothy grin, the one that signaled to the other dignitaries that all was well. He lowered his voice for Ramsay’s ears only. “This little incident will never make it into any newspapers or history books, but you were ready to protect me with your life.”

  Ramsay shook hands with President Theodore Roosevelt. “I’d do it again, sir.”

  “I know you would. I see it in your eyes.”

  Dignitaries on the platform crowded close and Roosevelt waved them back. “I’m fine and this speech needs to be given, eh, Sergeant Major?”

  Ramsay laughed. “If you say so, sir.”

  Roosevelt took him by the elbow this time and looked into Ramsay’s face. “I believe I know you.” He touched the medal on Ramsay’s uniform. “In fact, didn’t I pin on that little gem in January?”

  “You did, sir.”

  “Is it heavy?”

  He could tell Roosevelt was deeply, deadly serious now. “It weighs even more than you can fathom, sir. Or maybe you can. You know combat.”

  “I do, indeed. Medal of Honor for the Philippine Insurrection, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Nasty place.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Roosevelt looked down at the notes he still clutched in his hand, then over at Major Pitcher, who ushered him back to the lectern, the crisis over. Roosevelt walked toward it, and then turned around.

  “I won’t forget this, Sergeant Major.”

  Chapter Two

  JUNE 10, 1903

  Sergeant Major Ramsay Stiles had never expected much ease in life. All the same, was it too much to ask for a peaceful night’s sleep without having to stare down barely visible enemies in a stinking, sweltering cave? Didn’t dead men know the difference between the Philippines in 1900 and Fort Yellowstone in 1903? Apparently not.

  With a sigh, he knifed one Moro insurrectionist again and then another, pushed them aside, and took the cave with his men right behind him, at least the ones still alive. He was used to heavy enemy fire, but did it have to seem louder within the confines of a cave?

  Here it came: claustrophobic blankets needing to be tossed aside with all swiftness so he could leap out of bed and stand there a moment, wondering why he was continually retaking that stupid cave in his union suit. Once his heart stopped pounding, he had to smile. No man looks great in a union suit.

  He did what he always did. Sergeant Major Stiles laughed off the whole matter, scratched, and started to crawl back into bed. He knew it would only take him a few minutes to return to slumber, and he knew he wouldn’t be bothered again. Lately, the dreams were wider and wider spaced apart, so a soldier couldn’t complain too much. He knew it would pass.

  One knee up, ready to climb back in, he changed his mind. The moon outside was full to the point of bursting, and he liked the way it rose over the mountains. After his return from the hospital in November, Ramsay had watch
ed the moon, as well as the gradual retreat of the constellation Orion, and winter stars he had seen in many a state and territory, and also in the Philippine Islands, where Orion seemed out of place because nights were hot and muggy, and not cold.

  He padded downstairs and out the front door to stand on the porch, lifting one foot and then the other because even June in Wyoming is not a warm month. They had finally put away the skis for the season—dried, sanded, waxed, and stacked until next winter. At least there weren’t any repeats this winter of Private W. H. Davis’s death by freezing while skiing alone from Lake to West Thumb. That cautionary tale from six years ago still served to keep troopers alert, traveling by twos, and, for the most part, sober. Dragging a stiff body from Thumb to Fort Yellowstone’s dead house on the man’s own skis created an image destined to linger. Companies came and went, but the story remained as a warning.

  The winter had gone well enough, all things considered. Poachers had caused their usual nuisance amongst the overly plentiful elk and few remaining bison, but there had also been the satisfaction of arresting some of the miscreants. Trouble was, the wretched men usually pleaded starvation and untold misery for the wife and kiddies before Judge Meldrum gave his patently heavy judicial sigh, stamped his official stamp on official papers, fined the bad men, and sent them to Rawlins to think about their sins for a few months. It was better than nothing.

  Ramsay took a deep lungful of brisk air, and blew it out, already looking forward to summer, when breath didn’t hang in mid-air, and a man could put away a few of those blankets; not all, but some.

  Summer brought the Wylie Camping Company to the park. Sergeant Major Stiles smiled at the thought of cherry pie, with real whipped cream from Wylie Camping Company cows, and peach pie ditto. One thin dime of heaven, or maybe only a nickel, if Mr. Wylie himself was there and feeling benevolent.

  He leaned his elbows on the porch railing and watched the elk hunkered down not far from noncommissioned officers’ quarters, here in the easterly end of the fort. Another deep breath brought the always-present fragrance of sulfur from Mammoth Hot Spring’s magnificent terraces. Soon summer would bring tourists with their Kodaks to take enough pictures to bore any number of relatives back home, or maybe convince them to see Wonderland.