Courting Carrie in Wonderland

by Carla Kelly

  Thank you, Mr. Wylie, Ramsay thought.

  “Bring a note pad and pencil too. I suspect Sergeant Major Stiles is here on business, even though he’d like pie.”

  “On my way,” she said, closing the door quietly behind her.

  “The Philippines?” Mr. Wylie asked. He leaned back in his swivel chair and regarded Ramsay with interest. “Stiles, Stiles. There was an article about you in the Bozeman paper last winter, wasn’t there?”

  Here it came. “Yes, sir, there was.”

  “Something about a Medal of Honor.”

  “That’s the one.” He took a chance. “It’s good to be back here in Yellowstone, sir.”

  “I feel that way at the start of every season,” Mr. Wylie said, letting him change the subject, to Ramsay’s relief. “You have some business with us?”

  No, I’m just here to eat pie and admire the help, he thought but had the sense not to say it. “Out in my saddle bag. I’ll be right back,” Ramsay said.

  Xerxes gave him a patient look, the look that told Ramsay he wasn’t measuring up, but a horse is just a horse, even a smart one. Ramsay took the letter from the saddlebag, gave Xerxes a pat, and turned around in time to open the door for Carrie, who held a tray of pie.

  She was about to hoist the tray to her shoulder to get a free hand when he made his move. He opened the door with what he wished was a flourish, except that it’s hard to give a grand gesture to a door on a shed.

  “Yours is the one with all the whipped cream,” she said as he stepped back for her to pass.

  She set the tray on another Nabisco box and handed a plate to Mr. Wylie and the other to him, after he resumed his perch on his box. He set the letter on Mr. Wylie’s desk, but the man just waved it away.

  “Pie first. That’s my rule. Dig in, Sergeant Major Stiles.”

  After tucking a napkin into the neck of his uniform blouse, he dug in with no hesitation. It took every ounce of discipline not to utter small cries of delight as the first bite went down so smoothly, well-lubricated with whipped cream. He glanced at Carrie, who was watching him, her face full of good humor.

  “It’s edible?” she asked.

  “You cannot imagine how good this is,” he assured her.

  “I made it,” she said and took a bite of her own, one not burdened with too much whipped cream.

  “In addition to shorthand and some secretarial classes, Carrie is taking the domestic science course at Montana Agricultural College in Bozeman,” Mr. Wylie explained, after he took his own bite. “Did you make an A in pie?”

  “Fruit and cream pie, plus eclairs, creampuffs, and cookies,” she told Mr. Wylie. “Cake is fall semester this year.”

  “You know shorthand too?” Ramsay asked, knowing he was here on business, but tossing all discipline to the wind, if only for the moment.

  Carrie gave a kind look in her employer’s direction. “Mr. Wylie says I should maximize my efficiency in all areas, because we live in a modern century.”

  Who could argue with that? Ramsay nodded and applied himself to the more important issue of eating pie, grateful down to his boots that the First Cavalry was still garrisoned at Fort Yellowstone and not back in Arizona Territory, staring down surly Apaches.

  The three of them ate in silence. Carrie finished first because she had only cut herself a sliver of pie. She wiped her mouth with some delicacy and picked up the notepad and pencil from the tray.

  Ramsay took his time, savoring the nearly unimaginable delight of crust flaky enough to make a grown man weep and apples lightly dusted with cinnamon and some other spice he couldn’t identify. He rolled one bite around in his mouth, trying to figure it out, then he looked at Carrie.

  “Mace,” she said. “And now you know all my secrets.”

  He probably did. There was something open about Carrie McKay. He hadn’t known her more than thirty minutes, but he understood her. She was a western woman, the frank and fair kind not found in urban areas. She bore herself with an air of capability he had long noticed in the ladies who inhabited the Rocky Mountains and Southwest. And maybe his mind was wandering too. Still, he wanted to know more about her, even as he knew he had to hurry up a bit, because he was wasting time, something Uncle Sam frowned upon.

  He held up a fork in salute. “Until only recently, every private in each company, skilled or not, took a weekly turn cooking for the company. Miss McKay, you are a prodigy.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said softly, but he saw the pleasure in her eyes. “I like to eat, and that is all.”

  Ramsay happened to glance at Mr. Wylie as she spoke, and saw a shadow of something close to melancholy cross his face. He might have imagined it; the lighting wasn’t too good in a shed for food storage that happened to have a desk crammed in it.

  He finished his pie and handed the letter to Mr. Wylie. “I’m taking similar letters to all the concessionaries and hoteliers in the park, sir,” he explained. “Major Pitcher wants me to be his troubleshooter this summer.” He couldn’t help a self-deprecating laugh. “I suppose there are better ways to put it, but that’s what I am.”

  Mr. Wylie nodded while Carrie took notes.

  “I’ve been thinking about my job on the ride this morning,” he said and then made an executive decision, the kind that perhaps sergeant majors in more traditional posts might make. How would he know, stuck out here in the wilderness? “I believe I will be making a twice-monthly circuit of the Grand Loop, just to find out what’s going on.”

  Before he had rescued Carrie McKay from the backhouse, Ramsay had decided to ask each recipient of each letter to shoot a memo to the nearest soldier station, where, depending on the seriousness of the offense, it could be telephoned to Fort Yellowstone if the lines were operating, or carried on a fast horse. Miss McKay was right; this was a modern century. Since the rescue, he decided it might be better to make the circuit himself, especially if there was dessert at Willow Park.

  “You’re always welcome here,” Mr. Wylie said. He leaned back in his chair again. “Take note of this, Carrie. When we’re done, you can type up a memo for me on my fancy new typewriter.”

  She bent diligently over her tablet. Ramsay watched a tendril of hair escape from her red bandanna and rest against the back of her neck. She must have felt the hair bolt for freedom because she tried to stuff it in among its brethren, with little success.

  “Major Pitcher wants everyone to be aware of visitor misconduct and to make a note of it, particularly if certain offenses seem to be repeated,” he explained. “It’s all in the letter, but with some ten thousand tourists anticipated this summer, we need to stay on top of events. We can establish patterns and see what changes to make.”

  Mr. Wylie nodded. “That’s forward thinking. We’ll be mindful, Sergeant Stiles. “I wonder—would your major be receptive to a comment from me about his soldiers?”

  “It works both ways,” Ramsay said. “You’ll let me know, and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Carrie can tell you right now, eh? Remember our chief complaint each summer?”

  Ramsay braced himself for some misdemeanor and thought of the times he had dropped in on Wylie campgrounds in the evening to enjoy the singing and stories and popcorn. “Maybe you’d rather the soldiers didn’t come around in the evenings for the campfires?” he suggested, hoping he was wrong.

  Somehow, Carrie’s response didn’t surprise him. “Don’t worry, Sergeant Major. It’s not that.” She cleared her throat. “How to explain this: We know your men are stationed at the geysers and paint pots and rivers to keep visitors from trouble, but I … we … wish some of them knew more about what they are guarding.”

  “That’s it in a nutshell, Sergeant Major,” Mr. Wylie said. “Some soldiers say nothing when spoken to.” He chuckled. “And others tell the tallest tales. Last summer, one lady at our Lake campground asked one of our chore girls if she knew there were certain birds with nests near the geysers that laid boiled eggs.”

  “Remember the
visitor who said a soldier told him all geysers were set on a timer?” Carrie asked.

  Ramsay understood. “We discussed this only yesterday in a staff meeting, Miss McKay,” he told her. “Some of the company commanders want their men to be as silent as sentries guarding Buckingham Palace, and others think fooling the tourists with tall tales is funny.”

  “What do you think?” Carrie asked.

  “I think we ought to do better than hard boiled eggs and timers,” Ramsay admitted.

  Mr. Wylie shrugged. “It’s not a big thing, in the scheme of events, I suppose. I came to Bozeman from Iowa to be superintendent of schools, so I am in favor of education. At my Wylie camps, we pride ourselves on answering visitors’ questions about Wonderland. Could you help us with this?”

  “I can, sir,” Ramsay said. The vagueness of his summer’s assignment, unsettling to a fellow used to crisp orders, began to gel in his mind. “I’ll ask the other businessmen I see on the Loop if they have a similar concern. Can I help you with anything else?”

  “We’re bothered by bears more and more,” Mr. Wylie said. “At each of my campgrounds, I have to assign men to stay awake at night and pound on pans to move them away.”

  Ramsay nodded, thinking of the bleachers at each hotel, set not too far from the hotel garbage dumps, where the nightly feeding of scraps was a well-established routine. So far most of the freeloaders were black bears, but how long would that last?

  “It would help if the hotels, and your camps too, didn’t toss out garbage for the bears,” he said. “I know the tourists want to see bears, but is that wise? Could you find better ways to dispose of garbage?”

  Ramsay watched Mr. Wylie’s face for some sign of anger, but he saw only interest.

  “I’ll give it some thought. Visitors want to see geysers and bears,” Mr. Wylie said, after a pause. “Isn’t the mandate of this national park to provide for the enjoyment of all Americans?”

  “It is, sir.”

  “I’ve heard your own Major Pitcher talk about the bears as entertainment, so he’s on my side,” Mr. Wylie said.

  “He is,” Ramsay said, already pretty certain he was going to lose this round. “But that’s why bears come around more often, isn’t it?”

  “No argument from me. We walk a delicate line, don’t we, Sergeant Major?”

  Ramsay nodded, wondering just how delicate that line was going to become. He thought about the wolf pups he had heard yesterday morning, and the buffalo behind wire fences because they were scarce. “I worry about visitors being mauled, Mr. Wylie, but I have another concern. Bears eating garbage and marshmallows are not healthy bears. They’re on their way to becoming beggars, fun to watch, to be sure, but beggars.”

  “Whose side are you on, Sergeant Major?” Mr. Wylie asked.

  Mr. Wylie had tipped himself back in his swivel chair and was staring at the ceiling. Ramsay glanced over at Carrie and saw concern writ large on her face. Was it for the tourists, or the bears?

  “I am on the side of the bears,” he replied. He wondered if his answer would get him in trouble. He touched his medal of honor ribbon. Who is brave now? “What if this park, and others to come, turn out to be the last stronghold of our national wildlife?”

  Mr. Wylie tipped his chair down. “We may have to agree to disagree on this issue, Sergeant Major Stiles,” he said, and again Ramsay heard no animosity. He held out his hands, as if encompassing the entire region. “There’s so much space here. I believe your worries are unfounded. This wilderness will never disappear.”

  Ramsay wanted to ask how he could be so certain, but he said nothing.

  Mr. Wylie looked at Carrie, who sat with her pencil poised and her eyes troubled. “What about you, Carrie? Your summer employment keeps you in tuition money for college. What if visitors couldn’t see any bears? What if I had to lay off workers if too many visitors go elsewhere?”

  You’re putting her on the spot, Ramsay thought, irritated. Somehow it surprised him that a person as charming as Miss Carrie McKay worked for tuition money. From her carefree demeanor, he had thought she did this as a lark. He thought indulgent parents let their darling daughter earn some money and have a good time during the summer. Why he thought that he couldn’t have said, except that her easy ways and kindness pointed to someone well cared for. Well, he had been wrong before.

  She put down her pencil. “I am on the side of the bears, Mr. Wylie,” she said, her voice firm.

  Her employer smiled. “I believe you are, Carrie.” He gestured to the tray. “You can take this now. I’ll get back to you later about a memo.”

  She nodded and picked up the tray. She smiled at Ramsay and left the shed quietly.

  “People like Carrie McKay need the jobs I provide, Sergeant Major,” Mr. Wylie said. “She has tuition and room and board to pay.”

  Ramsay wished she hadn’t left. The room seemed smaller somehow. “I guess I assumed she was working here for fun,” he said, and it sounded lame.

  “Some of my workers do precisely that. They come from good homes in Washington, Oregon, and Montana,” he said. “Not Carrie. You’ll have to ask her about her life sometime.”

  “I can’t imagine a situation where I would ever have that opportunity,” Ramsay said honestly. He looked around for his hat. This interview was obviously over.

  “Don’t be such a pessimist, Sergeant Major,” Mr. Wylie said. He stood up and extended his hand again. “I don’t think Carrie has ever piled that much whipped cream on anyone else’s pie before. Stop by on your return around the Grand Loop.”

  He felt that traitor blush spread up his neck again. “I just might.”

  “I would,” Mr. Wylie said. “Something tells me Carrie will move mountains to find some canned cherries between now and the end of the week. Good day, Sergeant Major Stiles.”

  Chapter Seven

  Ramsay Stiles could hope all he wanted, but he had no excuse to keep from mounting Xerxes and continuing south to the Norris soldier station. Carrie was not in sight. He thought about dumping the etiquette book in the nearest burn barrel. He hadn’t done a single thing that the book recommended, but did it matter?

  Someone had left a bucket of water for Xerxes, someone kind. He looked around again and there she was, her hair tucked up better under her bandanna and a broom in her hand.

  “Stop by on the way back,” she said. “There might be some canned cherries around here, desperate to escape confinement. And thank you, Sergeant Major Stiles.”

  “I will stop by, Miss McKay,” he replied formally, uncertain if he could resurrect some good manners that would satisfy a reader of an etiquette book. “Are you thanking me for your rescue?”

  “No, sir,” she said firmly. “I would probably have taken my chances sooner or later. Thank you on behalf of the bears.”

  He looked in her eyes and she returned his gaze. “I’ll do what I can for them.”

  “They were here first, after all,” she said. She started sweeping the back steps. Unable to help himself, he looked back at her several times as he left.

  As the apple pie and whipped cream settled in his still-amazed stomach, Ramsay prodded Xerxes into something more ambitious than a stroll, but not much. They sauntered through Swan Lake Flats, their traverse of that lovely meadow heralded by nesting birds who squawked and wished them elsewhere. He watched a mother plover drag herself over the ground, one wing awkwardly extended, trying to lure him to follow an injured bird and not a path close to her babies. A bird is a bird, but her instinctive action touched him.

  He crossed the meadow and reined in Xerxes in silent wonder closer to the tree line when a black bear mama idled along under the warm sun, two cubs behind her. They followed her dutifully enough, but with the stop, start, roll, and play of youngsters. Mama gave him a hard stare from a distance, decided he was harmless, and left him alone.

  He paused longer at Roaring Mountain, listening to the sound—something between a hiss and a growl—emitted by fumeroles hard at work to
ssing up water so hot that it turned to steam on the surface of the mountain. Sulfate gives the mountain its ashy gray color, he thought, remembering one of Captain Chittenden’s informal lectures to visitors lounging on the Mammoth’s National Hotel porch. The engineer was a one-man Chautauqua, ready to dispense information if anyone asked.

  He thought about Mr. Wylie’s wish that soldiers could furnish factual information. “Why not?” he asked Xerxes, who only shook his big head. “Seriously, Xerxes. Who is in a better place to teach than soldiers guarding park treasures?”

  He was approaching the soldier station near Norris Geyser Basin, idling along the Gibbon River, when he reined in to watch a moose and her baby work their way down the bank toward the water. The mother went in easily in a spot where the water was shallow and protected by a fallen tree. The baby paced back and forth, tossing its head, uncertain.

  “You can do it, little guy,” Ramsay whispered, even as he fingered the coiled rope looped on his saddle. Jack Strong ranched in Paradise Valley north of Gardiner and had taught him to rope one summer. Ramsay wondered if he remembered anything.

  Ramsay watched the moose calf come closer to the water a step at a time. Mama cow stayed right there. Over the hiss and hum of the water, Ramsay heard her low encouragement.

  “You can do this, Mama,” he said and took his hand off the rope. In another moment, the calf went in, flailed a bit, then was nudged upright by Mama’s long nose. They stood nose to nose a moment, and soon Moose Junior munched on vegetation at the water’s edge.

  He sat there in appreciation of motherhood and thought that Carrie McKay might like to spend a day along this bank too, doing nothing more than watching critters. Too bad she had to work for her living, same as he did. A chipmunk sassed him from a rock and he took it as a sign to move along.

  He spent the night at the Norris Soldier Station, happy to sit on the porch with the corporal and two privates from B Company. It was no imaginary supposition they had looked at him warily at first, he who knew them well, but who now held a significantly more exalted rank and wore those silver stars on their little blue ribbon. Better to clear the air right now, or it would be a long summer and longer winter.