Courting Carrie in Wonderland

by Carla Kelly

  This doesn’t happen to people like me, Carrie reminded herself. Not ever. She hung onto her fork, but handed him the rest of her pie, not because he was eyeing it, but because she wanted to. “I’m full, and you’re not, Ramsay,” she said simply.

  “Thanks, Carrie,” he said with no embarrassment, and ate her pie too. “Here’s what’s on my mind,” he began when he had finished and had set the two plates on the ground. “I want to write something about each hot spring and geyser, or … or Roaring Mountain—just a little something—and put it in a booklet. So every soldier standing patrol at one of Wonderland’s features will be able to answer simple questions visitors might ask. What do you think?”

  “You mean, as opposed to telling them that breathing too much sulfur will make a man go bald?” she teased.

  “Hadn’t heard that one,” he said and ran his hand across his thick head of hair, probably an unconscious gesture.

  Good thing she hadn’t added she overheard the teamsters telling one wide-eyed tourist that sulfur made a man bald and sterile. She bit back a smile. “I think your idea is a great one. Would all the soldiers go along with it?”

  “Carrie, you forget what organization I work for. If Major Pitcher likes the idea, he’ll make it an order.”

  She could see from the enthusiasm in his eyes that enough solitary miles on horseback equaled a well-considered plan.

  “It can be a small book, something the size of the red book we already carry.”

  He pulled a worn, red leather notebook from his back pocket. The curve told her he had carried it on his hip for years. Somehow that touched her heart, even though she couldn’t have told a jury of her peers precisely why. Maybe it spoke of duty, and lots of it.

  He handed it to her. “Take a look. If you ever want to know what to do in Yellowstone, here’s your bible, right down to arresting poachers.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I’d … You’re teasing.”

  She leafed through the book, feeling her face grow rosy again because the book was still warm. She stopped at random on page twenty-one and read out loud. “ ‘Scouts and noncommissioned officers in charge of stations throughout the park are authorized and directed to kills mountain lions, coyotes, and timber wolves.’ ” She looked up and watched the light go out of Ramsay’s eyes. “My goodness. I don’t think you like this much. Not sure I do, either.”

  “You found my least favorite page,” he said. He took the book from her, closed it, and slipped it back in his hip pocket. He gazed into the distance then and she knew he was quoting from memory: “ ‘They will do this themselves, and will not delegate the authority to anyone else.’ ”

  She stared at him, not knowing what to say, all the while certain he had so much he wanted to tell her. “Why?” she asked finally, wondering if he had anyone to unburden himself to. Come to think of it, did she? “Why?”

  “Someone in the Department of the Interior, someone who has probably been no farther west than Pittsburgh, is convinced he knows what we need out here,” he said, and there was no mistaking his disdain.

  “No one can change this man’s mind, whoever he is?”

  “We’re talking about the government, Carrie,” he said and seemed to almost age before her eyes. “They don’t seem to grasp that when the predators are finally gone—and gone they will be, mark my word—what’s to prevent the elk and deer herds from growing to uncontrollable size? What will that do to the grass and foliage in this park? Tree bark even?”

  “I … I could write a letter,” she offered, which made the sergeant major smile and look not quite so old. “Don’t make fun of me!”

  “I’m not,” he said. “I appreciate your concern. You’re not afraid of man-eating wolves and slavering mountain lions, ready to pounce?”

  When had this conversation gone from cherry pie to hard duty? Carrie could nearly feel the sergeant major’s concern. She was silent, thinking what it was that made her care about creatures she should probably fear.

  “I guess I believe every living creature deserves a chance,” she said finally, hoping she didn’t sound silly, which was the last thing she wanted to seem before this thoughtful man. “I hope that doesn’t make me sound silly.”

  “It makes you sound kind,” he said.

  “All I ever want is a chance,” she told him, remembering dark days in the too-recent past, and worry about making enough money this summer for tuition.

  Maybe her face clouded over then. She didn’t mean to air out her problems in front of someone she barely knew.

  “Life’s kinda tough?” he asked gently.

  She nodded before she could stop herself. “Could be worse,” she amended hastily.

  He looked at his timepiece again. “We only have three minutes.”

  Carrie took a deep breath, uncertain she could laugh this off. She could try. “My worries are not your worries,” she told the sergeant major, striving for a light tone. “I’m not in charge of wolves or mountain lions.” She chuckled and felt better. “Only pie. Come on. Let’s see if Mrs. Boone will sell you that pie.”

  He put on his hat, picked up the dishes which she took from him, and walked beside her, in no particular hurry. They passed the tent where Millie Thorne stood, hands on her hips, watching them. When they were closer to the dining room, Ramsay gave Carrie a sidelong glance and whispered, “That one back there was giving one of us the hairy eyeball, and I don’t know her.”

  Carrie smiled at his slang. “Wasn’t you,” she assured him. “The things I could tell you.” There I go again, she thought, exasperated with herself. He’ll think I am the most helpless female in Gallatin County. “I can’t tell you in three minutes,” she concluded, hoping that would put him off.

  It didn’t, and she wasn’t certain if she was relieved or dismayed. “Is the Willow Park Camp having its usual evening entertainment with popcorn and singing?” he asked, opening the dining room door for her.

  “Same as always,” she said.

  “Maybe if I stopped by some night, you could squeeze out more than twenty minutes?”

  She could have said no, and ended all this. Heaven knows why she decided to look at his face again and into the kindest eyes. He was tall; he was dignified; he wore a Medal of Honor service ribbon on his uniform blouse, for heaven’s sake. He was a grown man, and not one of the Wylie camp men or the college students in Bozeman. For all she knew he was forty years old. A man doesn’t get that many wrinkles around his eyes and not have a lot of years to accompany them.

  “How old are you?” she blurted out, amazed at herself the moment the words left her mouth. Had she never heard of proper manners?

  “Thirty-four,” he said promptly. “Time’s up, but I have all my own teeth, plus a scar or two. No tattoos. I’ve never been that drunk. Good day, Miss Carrie McKay. Close your mouth or you’ll catch flies. Now where is that cook?”

  Silent, eyes big, she pointed toward the kitchen. “Where’s my broom?” she asked, desperate to be doing something because she felt young, awkward, and silly.

  She couldn’t help but laugh when the sergeant major pointed to the broom in plain sight beside the back door. “Planning a quick flight?”

  “You are perfectly wretched,” she said and felt better again.

  “See you some night when the moon is full, so my trusty horse won’t stumble into a geyser or fall off the Golden Gate Canyon,” he said and then went into the kitchen. “Mrs. Boone,” she heard him say. “I have a proposition. Fifty cents and you’re in.”

  “My goodness,” Carrie said softly as she returned to setting the table. “My goodness.”

  Chapter Ten

  Bonnie Boone gave Ramsay the pie for forty cents and wrapped the tin in great swaths of waxed paper. “Make sure I get that tin back,” she ordered.

  “Without fail,” he assured her.

  “Don’t send it along with someone else,” the cook said, and Ramsay couldn’t ignore the twinkle in her eyes. “Make sure you bring it back.”


  He did something so out of character that it amazed him the moment he did it. He kissed Mrs. Boone’s forehead.

  He could tell he had flustered her, but Mrs. Boone was not a woman to be trifled with. “Bring back the tin, Sergeant Major,” she said. “It’s a good idea.”

  “Preferably during a campfire when some of your staff might be otherwise off duty?”

  “You are wise beyond your years.”

  Ramsay secured the pie in his saddlebag and swung aboard Xerxes. He knew he had a friend and ally already. “Mrs. Boone, tell me, please: Does Carrie McKay have a fellow?”

  His shoulders slumped when she frowned. Too late. “Guess I missed out.”

  “No, you didn’t!” Mrs. Boone said emphatically. “It’s like this.” She moved closer to Xerxes, who stood still like the gentleman he was. “Lots of new summertime help seem interested, same as last year, and then Millie Thorne gets her hooks in them, tells lies, and everyone backs off.”

  “Why would anyone lie about Miss McKay?” he asked, dismayed for Carrie and curious to know more.

  “Ask Carrie.” She shook her finger at him. “And if you do, you’d better find a way to help her!”

  I’ve been threatened, Ramsay thought, amused in spite of his misgivings, even though he didn’t see a smile on the cook’s face. So Carrie needed help? Didn’t Major Pitcher tell him in that staff meeting that one of his summer duties was seeing to the welfare of everyone in the park, and not just soldiers? If ever a soldier was given a mandate …

  He gathered his reins. “Let’s leave it at this until I return, Mrs. Boone: You might be surprised what authority I have over everyone in this park. Good day now, and thank you.”

  “For what?” Mrs. Boone asked.

  “For rationing me twenty minutes with Carrie McKay. I’m an amateur at all this, but I think I used my time well. See you later.”

  Ramsay kept a smile on his face until he was back on the Grand Loop road heading north to Fort Yellowstone. His pleasure at seeing Carrie McKay turned contemplative. He thought of Major Pitcher teasing him about finding a wife, if teasing it was. His next emotion was chagrin, wondering at startling complications in his life, especially when he was feeling his way through new responsibilities and a promotion he doubted he deserved. He stewed next over Millie Whoever for dealing in rumor and innuendo about someone who already struck him as a straight shooter.

  But a person can only stew so long on the beautiful road to Mammoth Hot Springs, courtesy of Lieutenant Dan Kingman, the first engineer to envision the Grand Loop, incorporating the major features of the park into one roadway. He was also the first engineer brave enough to tackle what was now called the Golden Gate, where Kingman’s wooden-trestle road cantilevered out over a canyon of some depth and terror.

  Kingman had built the impossible road and timbered the bridges through the Golden Gate nineteen years ago, when Yellowstone boasted nothing grander than dusty roads steep enough to terrify even the most intrepid tourist. Captain Chittenden had replaced the Gate last year with the concrete viaduct sporting graceful arches, the engineer’s stock in trade.

  He paused a moment at the entrance to Kingman Pass, named after that intrepid engineer, and looked around, willing the beauty to sink into his tired heart and soul. It took a bit longer than usual, but Yellowstone did not fail him. He snapped off a sharp salute at the familiar sight of the monster stone Lieutenant Kingman had used on the Golden Gate to buttress the death-defying road naturally. Captain Chittenden had carefully raised the twenty-three-ton stone column into its new home last year as his own way of honoring Kingman’s work. There it stood. Ramsay hoped no future engineer would ever remove it.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Kingman!” he shouted. For reasons unknown, some trooper from an earlier company when Kingman worked his engineering magic had started the salute and the shout and the tradition continued.

  Feeling immeasurably better, he let Xerxes set the pace, knowing better than to crowd his horse, any horse, onto a road that still demanded careful attention. All was silent, once the irritated ravens turned their tail feathers to him and tried to get back to sleep after his vocal disturbance. A mountain jay told him what it thought, and then flew away on slow wing beats, intent on whatever it was jays liked to do.

  Once through the canyon, Ramsay indulged in bit of daydreaming. He had never been a particular fan of strawberry blond hair, considering it vaguely unmanly on him. He was even less pleased with the beard he always grew in winter—they all bearded up then—because it came in distressingly red. But by golly, reddish-blond hair on Carrie McKay’s head was totally acceptable. While he sat by her on the campfire log a mere hour ago, he had tried to angle his head a little to catch the sparkling highlights in her hair.

  She wore her hair in one long braid down her back, maybe because it was early times yet, and Mr. Wylie probably didn’t care what his help looked like before the tourists started arriving. A deep breath had brought that fragrance of almond. Even if he never saw Carrie again, he knew he was doomed to think of her every time he ate cherry pie and breathed what he thought was almond extract.

  Thinking of Carrie occupied his thoughts pleasantly all the way to Mammoth Hot Springs. On the Upper Terrace, he paused a moment to admire the fierce blue of Jupiter Terrace. In mere days, there would be soldiers standing there to protect both the natural wonders and the tourists. The summer season had arrived.

  One huge perk of his new rank was the ability to turn over Xerxes to a private in company stables for grain and a good rubdown. He knew he’d be back to check on his horse later that day, because he was a cavalryman before any rank entered the picture. Still, it was nice.

  He went into his office, closed the door, and wrote a concise summary of his tour around the park, noting the comments and suggestions of concessionaires and soldiers on duty. He added his ideas, then left it on the admin clerk’s desk for Major Pitcher, who was currently in the quartermaster storehouse, according to the clerk. After going back once to pick up a book on his desk, Ramsay said he would return.

  He enjoyed the walk down Officers Row toward Captain Chittenden’s house, which now appeared to have all its windows. New recruits to B Company were drilling on the parade ground. He watched them for a few minutes, wishing he were drilling the men in equitation, instead of their perfectly qualified sergeant.

  He knew he was starting to wallow in self-pity, stuck in an office, filling out reports. I should have considered that before I accepted this promotion, he told himself. He was known as a man who thought things through—quickly on the field of battle, and more deliberately when time and tide didn’t matter. He hadn’t really considered the responsibility of such a rank, which made him feel more remorse than pleasure as he watched the troops at work.

  “I’m a hands-on man,” he quietly announced to his boots as he stared down at them. “Maybe a fool too. I hate sitting at a desk.”

  He crossed the road and noticed the stakes Captain Chittenden had put in place to mark off this year’s Corps of Engineers building. Maybe I’ll not re-enlist this fall when it comes up and I’ll go to working on the captain’s road crew, he thought, but then shook his head at his own folly. Maybe you’d better start learning to like what you’re doing now, Sergeant Major Idiot.

  The front door to the captain’s quarters was wide open, but Ramsay knocked anyway. Captain Chittenden stuck his head into the hall and gestured him forward. Ramsay saluted and went into what was the dining room. At least there was a dining table in place, even though the chairs were shoved back and the table was covered with blueprints.

  “I gather your wife hasn’t arrived yet, Captain,” Ramsay said.

  “You’re perceptive, Sergeant Major,” the engineer replied cheerfully. “Wise beyond your years, even. Two more weeks, and this mess will be relegated to a back room. An unfinished back room, I might add. It’s a small price to pay for excellent feminine company.”

  Ramsay looked at the blueprints. “A corkscrew road
, sir?” he asked, winding his finger around an impossible route.

  “Only way I can think of to get through Sylvan Pass to open an east entrance. Would you use it? We started the approaches last year, so the answer had better be yes.”

  “Only if you continue building it, sir.”

  Chittenden smiled and perched on the edge of the table. He pointed to the book in Ramsay’s hand, the one he had been reading off and on all winter. “Looks familiar, Sergeant Major. Nettie thinks I should have named it something more tantalizing than The Yellowstone National Park.”

  “Maybe something with Wonderland in the title, Captain?”

  Both men laughed. “Wonderland Revealed,” Captain Chittenden said, holding up his hand as if outlining the words.

  “Or maybe Dallying in Wonderland.”

  “I like that,” Chittenden said. “You know, suggestive without being scurrilous.”

  Ramsay knew better than to waste too much of the man’s time. “I’d like your permission to take some of the information from your book, shorten it considerably, and issue it in pamphlet form to the men who stand patrol at the geyser basins and other prominent sites,” he said. “Tourists have questions and they deserve proper answers, sir.”

  “You mean, when a tourist asks in all earnestness, ‘Does Old Faithful go off at night?’ the answer won’t be, ‘No. Everyone is asleep so no one can turn it on,’ ” Chittenden said, his eyes lively.

  “Not even if they ask, ‘How long does it take for a deer to turn into an elk?’ ” Ramsay responded, getting into the humor of the situation. “Captain, these are silly questions to us, but many visitors truly don’t know the West, or wilderness, or roads with no street cars on them. They come here ignorant, and sometimes we make fun of them. Is that what we should be doing?”

  “You want the troopers to become educationists?” Captain Chittenden asked.

  “I think we owe it to the American public, sir.”