by Carla Kelly
There it was, laid out neatly in front of a woman used to her own way. “Take it or leave it.”
“I could have President Roosevelt yank you right out of the army,” she said.
He folded his arms and knew he stood on sure ground. “No, you can’t. Send this crybaby to Bozeman to wait for you, and I will escort you to the National Hotel at Mammoth Terraces. You’ll have to make do on your own for a day while I convince a sensible young lady to work for you temporarily.” He pulled out his timepiece. “I need an answer now.”
“Yes,” she said quickly, somewhat to Ramsay’s surprise. “You are unpleasant and already a cross to bear …”
“So are you, Mrs. LaMarque,” he interrupted.
He thought he saw a tiny twitch of her lips, and maybe even a gleam in her eye, but he had to be mistaken. Then again, maybe the old warthog liked to do battle and no one had challenged her recently.
“I will overlook that,” she said. “What will this paragon cost me?”
“A year’s tuition at Montana Agricultural College, plus whatever fees and books are required,” he said promptly.
“How much?” she demanded.
He had no idea. He also knew he was fighting with a woman well-endowed with a fortune who probably had no idea, either. “One hundred dollars. Fifty paid right now to me to convince her when I argue your case. Fifty when we all survive five or six days together, because survive it we will.”
“Done, you irritating man.”
He held out his hand and wiggled his fingers. “Let’s see that fifty.”
Chapter Nineteen
The last dish was washed and put away and Carrie took off her apron, ready to rush back to her tent and change for the evening campfire. She was going to sing, “Why, No One to Love?” again. After several days of including it in her repertory, she discovered it earned her more tips than “Old Dog Tray.”
Beyond more dimes than nickels, she knew she sang the song to be reminded of the cavalryman who liked to think of his mother. She wanted to see Ramsay Stiles again. If there was another reason, she was equally certain she was mistaken. A lifetime of expecting nothing wasn’t something easily amended, even though this summer of 1903 was full of surprises.
The night after Ramsay left on that horse so improbably named Xerxes, Jake Trost, the campfire magician, had asked her to dance in the first impromptu hop of the season, now that scheduled tours were bringing more visitors to Willow Park. The camp men moved back the tables in the dining hall and Bonnie Boone set up the a punch bowl and cookies on a side table. Mary Ann Wylie herself came down from Gardiner with her handful of sheet music, and the tourists assembled, those who weren’t worn out from hiking Mammoth’s Terraces.
Mrs. Wylie started with a polka, which segued into a waltz, because some of the visitors and savages used to lower altitudes were starting to gasp from the speed and energy required, Jake Trost among them. He finally cried uncle at even the slower pace, and sat Carrie down on a bench.
Any thoughts that the civil engineering major from the University of Washington was a lightweight were quickly dispelled by the man himself.
“Carrie, I have to be honest.” Jake’s face was serious, and she steeled herself for the worst. “I’ll admit it. We have heard some rumors about you.”
“I know,” she said and started to rise. “I’ll go.”
“No,” he said and she sat down. “Before he left our tent the other morning, the sergeant major told us not to believe everything we heard.”
“Did he? My goodness,” Carrie said.
“In no uncertain terms!” Jake said, not so serious now and more like the Jake she knew. “He has a way of looking you in the eye and making a statement that couldn’t be anything but the truth, and you had darn well better believe it.”
“I think it’s called command,” Carrie teased. “Thanks, Jake.”
She couldn’t overlook his wry expression. “Carrie, he said if we have any questions, just to ask you.”
That was her cue to tell him that yes, she had lived on the second floor of the Railroad Hotel, but that she had been just a child and she and her mother had cooked and washed dishes in the restaurant below. “I worked there a few more years after my mother died, and then the Wylies took me in hand because I was an orphan,” she finished, figuring even Ramsay would agree that was enough of the dirty details.
Jake nodded, and gave her his own look of command, not as forceful as Ramsay’s but strong enough to assure Carrie she was still in good hands. “With your permission, I’ll drop the word to the other savages.”
“I’d appreciate it,” she said simply. She stood up. “All right, Jake, you’ve had long enough to rest, and I like to two-step.”
“You’re on, Carrie,” he told her and whirled her away.
There was more dancing the second night, and not just with Jake. The other camp men of Tent Twenty led her through a waltz, another two-step, and then the hesitation waltz back with Jake again. The dance was new to most of them and required instructions from one of Jake’s tentmates and the shy teacher from her own tent who turned out to be not so shy on the dance floor.
“I’m not too good at this,” Carrie finally confessed to Jake, who promptly turned it into a standard waltz.
“Neither am I,” he whispered. “Carrie, do you dab almond extract behind your ears?”
She giggled. “No! You’re smelling faithful application of Jergen’s hand cream, a necessity if you wash as many dishes as I do. It goes everywhere.” Now that was too much information, she thought. I hope he overlooks it.
“I like it,” he said, and whirled her to a chair, because he was starting to puff again. “How long until I can breathe and not gasp?”
“Another two weeks.”
Carrie looked around in surprise to see Sergeant Major Stiles perched on the edge of a pushed-back dining table. As she smiled at him, he straightened up, crossed the space between them, clicked his booted heels together and bowed.
“Since your dancing partner is about seven-eighths dead, will I do?” he asked.
She glanced at Jake, who smiled and waved her off. “Go on, save yourself,” he called out, as she found herself in the arms of an unexpectedly good dancer.
Why he should make her shy, she couldn’t have told a tentfull of roommates, but shy she was, at least until she found the courage to look up at his face. She had never seen eyes so tired, but there he was, dancing with her anyway.
“Ram, you look worn out with half a foot in the grave,” she said, then realized she had given him a nickname. “I mean, Ramsay.”
“Ram will do. I like it,” he replied as he whirled her away. “Maybe I’ll call you Caroline, because I like that. No particular reason. And by golly, I am absolutely knackered.”
His obvious exhaustion didn’t stop him from finishing the waltz. Their dance ended in a quiet corner of the dining hall. He sat her down and collapsed in genteel fashion beside her.
“Where in the world did you learn to dance?” she asked.
“In Iowa first, then here and there. Some of those isolated garrisons in the Southwest, mainly, because we were bored,” he said. “My mother insisted on dancing classes, even though we barely had two pennies to rub together, when I was growing up.”
“Why?”
“She liked to dance too,” he said simply.
He closed his eyes for a moment that stretched into a longer moment. There was no ignoring his exhaustion, and she let him be, watching because there he was, and she liked the way he looked. Those wrinkles she thought at first that might be age lines, were probably wrinkles caused by scouring winds and sand or snow pellets. The West could do that to a person.
He hadn’t shaved, either, which surprised her, because her brief acquaintance with Sergeant Major Stiles had shone her a man fastidious about his grooming. Something was up, and she wanted to know. When he woke up, he would probably tell her.
He sat with his eyes closed for the better part of f
ive minutes, or enough time for a polka. She thought the livelier music and stamping feet might rouse him, but he was past that. When his head started to tip forward, she thought she had better wake him before he fell on the floor. She gently touched his arm and gave him a little shake.
“At least I’m not drooling,” he said, which made her laugh.
“What in the world is going on?” she asked, with no pointless commentary.
He seemed wide awake now. She wondered what he looked like in the morning when he woke up. She liked to face the day gradually, with a stretch and a sigh, and maybe a snuggle deep in the covers again, if it was cold out. Ramsay Stiles didn’t seem like that kind of sleeper. Just thinking about it made her blush, and wonder where her mind was wandering.
“I’ll tell you, Caroline. I need to borrow your services for five or six days.”
“Whatever for?” she asked, intrigued.
“Take a look at this letter.” He pulled out a letter from an inside pocket.
She stared, open-mouthed, at the words “White House,” read the letter, and read it again. “You stood in front of President Roosevelt and saved him from a dangerous man?”
“He was just a harmless drunk.”
“You didn’t know that,” she said.
“No, I didn’t. It’s nothing, Carrie.”
“Hardly.” She scanned the letter again. “And you’re the lucky escort.”
He sighed. “She’s a dragon in a designer gown. Her maid is too hysterical and fears being scalped if she leaves the train. Don’t laugh. Hysterics are ugly customers, Caroline.”
He suddenly looked contrite. “I probably should apologize to her someday, but what do I know about soothing rich widows? Mrs. LaMarque is determined to tour the park, and she insists on a maid. Mr. Wylie gave me permission to ask you. Please help me.”
He said it so simply. Carrie wanted to say yes immediately—he was that kind of a commander—but she had her doubts. “I’d love to, but I need every single nickel and dime I can scrape together here, if I’m going to get through one semester at college. Even a few days would set me back, and I have two semesters to worry about.”
“You don’t quite grasp the measure of my desperation, do you?” he asked. His expression held so much humor in it that it cut through every layer of exhaustion on his unshaved face. He reached in his pocket, pulled out a wad of bills, took her hand and slapped it in her palm.
She stared down at the money and felt the blood drain from her face. He must have noticed, because he reached behind her and started to push her head down.
“Breathe,” he commanded.
She leaned forward and breathed. He took his hand away, but draped it casually near her shoulder. “Where? How? What?” she asked.
“Cinnabar. A convincing argument. Fifty dollars,” he replied, which made her laugh.
“I am serious, Sergeant Major Stiles,” she said.
“So am I. I told the dragon I could get her a maid if she would pay your tuition at Montana Agricultural College. She asked me how much. I had no idea. I’m learning not to think small.”
Carrie stared at the money in her hand. “This is two semesters’ tuition, plus fees and maybe books. I’m not going to Vassar, just an ag school.” She couldn’t help the smile that threatened to break her whole face. “But she doesn’t know that.”
“It gets better,” he told her. “Are you prepared for this? I told her I wanted another fifty dollars for you when the whole excruciating experience was over. She agreed.”
She didn’t want to cry, but there wasn’t any way she could stop the tears that slid silently down her face. His loose grip tightened until it became a gentle caress. She turned her face into his uniform blouse, which wasn’t a good idea. He hadn’t shaved and also hadn’t been near a bath tub in recent days. To her surprise, she decided she didn’t care. For the first time since she was thirteen, she didn’t feel completely alone. Such a feeling could easily survive a man’s sweat.
“Will you do it? You’ll earn every dollar. She’s imperious and disagreeable and we’ve already butted heads.”
“Is my job also to sweeten her up?” she asked and blew her nose on the red bandanna he handed her.
“I believe you can,” he said. “Yes or no?”
“Yes, absolutely,” she told him. “My goodness. I won’t have to scrub lavatories and clean halls this year.”
That was a bit indelicate, she thought and sneaked a peek at the sergeant major’s face, ready to apologize for plain-speaking. His expression surprised her, because a man who had a remarkably soft heart was suddenly looking back at her, not the same man used to command and obedience. She doubted it was a face anyone had seen except her, and she felt the gentle mantel of privilege settle on her shoulders.
It took him a moment, but when he spoke, she heard big scoops and dollops of kindness. “You might even have more time to study, and have fun with friends.”
“I might,” she said. “Thank you, Ram.”
She sat back and looked up, startled to see everyone in the dining hall watching and trying to listen without appearing obvious. True to form, Millie Thorne was already whispering to the girl next to her, one of Carrie’s tentmates. Aghast, she looked down at the money in her hands, and knew what Millie was thinking.
Sergeant Major Stiles must have noticed Millie too. When he stood up, that warm-hearted man disappeared. He held up both hands for silence. Mrs. Wylie lifted her hands from the piano keys and put them in her lap, her eyes lively with interest.
“Before anyone looks at the money I just handed Miss McKay and starts gossiping, let me explain what’s going on.” He looked directly at Millie Thorne and picked up President Roosevelt’s letter from the table. “President Roosevelt has requested an escort through the park for a widow whose late husband advised President McKinley’s cabinet.” He handed the letter to the nearest savage. “Read it and pass it around.” He looked around the quiet room, his gaze stopping on Millie again. “The lady’s maid is afraid to enter the park because she somehow thinks Indians are going to scalp her.”
“We’re not called savages for nothing,” someone said. The resulting laughter broke the unspoken but plainly felt tension.
“I have to admit I laughed out loud when the maid said she was also afraid she would fall off the mountain if she left the railcar.”
More laughter. This time, Jake Trost spoke up as he handed on the letter. “Most of us engineering majors could talk to her about Newton and gravity.”
“I daresay you could. The lady insists on seeing the park, but her maid won’t budge.” He turned to Carrie. “I know Miss McKay, because she made me pie, the first pie since the Philippines. I can’t tell you what that meant to me. She’s close by here in Willow Park and I haven’t time to hunt around. I asked her, after getting Mr. Wylie’s permission, if she would fill in for the maid. She agreed. This is money up front from Mrs. Louise LaMarque.”
Gasps and exclamations came from more than one of the savages. “Louise LaMarque?” one of the girls asked, breathless.
“You’ve heard of her?” he asked, surprised.
“My word, yes,” someone else called out. “She was the highlight of the Broadway musical theatre for years and years!”
One of the girls started singing, “ ‘Sweetly, sweetly, my lover’s kiss, fills the moonlit air,’ ” while one of the men answered with, “Which makes no earthly sense, but it rhymes with sunlight fair.” Everyone laughed. Mrs. Wylie turned back to the piano and began playing while the girl, after looking daggers at the jokester, sang, “ ‘… which makes my happy heart bloom with sunlight fair.’ ” She shrugged. “You’re right, but what a melody. You should hear it on a Victrola.”
More laughter. Amazing how everyone grew quiet when the sergeant major held up his hand again. “I’m going to deprive you of your pie maker for probably six days.” He smiled when everyone groaned in unison. “I will return her! I just want you know what is going on, so there wo
n’t be any inclination to spread rumors about a lady who doesn’t deserve it. As you were, savages.”
The dancing resumed. Carrie watched as Millie Thorne left the room alone. The relief she felt was so enormous that it threatened to bring on more tears, which would never do, not when the sergeant major was expecting her to be mature about this. She blew her nose on the red bandanna again. If she washed it out tonight, she could return it tomorrow.
“Plain speaking, sir,” she said.
“I wanted to make this situation perfectly clear,” he said. “Millie’s eyes were on you like a hawk when I handed you that money.”
“Thank you,” Carrie said. She had never meant anything more in her life. “Do we leave for Gardiner in the morning?”
“We do. I was tempted to ask you to ride back tonight, but it’s dark and I am about to drop dead at your feet. Caroline, I’m too old for only six hours of sleep in the last three days.”
“You’d better sack out in Number Twenty, sir,” Jake Trost said.
“My thought precisely.” He was the efficient sergeant major again. “Pack whatever clothes you have that are civilian clothes, Caroline.”
“I only have two skirts and shirtwaists,” she said, hoping Louise LaMarque wasn’t looking for style in her impromptu maid. “We usually just wear, well, what you see.”
“You’ll do, Caroline,” he said, noticing Jake. “I mean Carrie. Leave at six o’clock?”
“All right.” She gave him a good, long look. She measured his exhaustion, but knew it wasn’t her place to comment. “I’ll meet you here in the morning. How’re we going? I’m no horsewoman.”
“Not sure then. I was hoping to borrow a docile nag here,” he said.
“There’s not much opportunity to learn to ride if you work in the Railroad Hotel kitchen,” she reminded him, hoping the whole scheme wouldn’t unravel because she couldn’t ride and didn’t have a riding skirt anyway.
Mrs. Wylie played a major chord, a minor one, and then a major chord again. “Problem solved. I came here in a buckboard to drop off some paperwork, and I’ll return in one tomorrow. At six o’clock, you say, sergeant major?”