by Carla Kelly
“You are a lifesaver,” Ram said. He nodded to them both and then left the dining hall.
“Go help him,” Mrs. Wylie said. “That man is really tired.”
Carrie nodded. She saw that Jake had already taken Ramsay in hand, so her help wasn’t needed. As she stood there, Ramsay looked back at her and gave a little nod. He must have heard Mrs. Wylie. She hurried to his other side, wanting to scold him for not taking better care of himself. She would have, except she understood the necessity of doing what had to be done. She wanted to tell him all that, but there was Jake, and besides, she didn’t have any business scolding anyone.
The three of them walked to the tent. Jake let go of Ramsay’s arm. “I think you’re good for the rest of the way, Sergeant Major,” he said. “I’m going back for the rest of that popcorn by the campfire. I love stale popcorn.”
Carrie let go of Ramsay too. She stepped back, shy, but determined to say what was in her heart. She cleared her throat and he looked at her with that same kind smile. If she had ever thought him intimidating, that silliness had flown away squawking like a magpie.
“Ram, thanks for thinking of me,” she said. “You have no idea what this money means.”
“You’re long overdue for a change of fortune.”
She couldn’t disagree, but what else he had done made the money seem almost paltry in comparison. She took a deep breath. “Thank you from the bottom of my heart for smoothing my way in there. I don’t think I would have been brave enough to speak as plainly as you did.”
“You’re brave enough,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning. Louise LaMarque is a dragon, and I mean it.”
Chapter Twenty
Daylight came at four o’clock, and Ramsay lay there wide awake, constitutionally unable to sleep once the first bit of daylight poked over the mountains. He pulled on his trousers and boots, rounded up Xerxes, and lit out casually and bareback for the Norris bathhouse.
He dunked himself first in the frigid Gibbon River, which brought him back to life. Trust those icy streams to either start your heart or stop it. A quick wash in hot water did the job. He hadn’t time to scrape away at his whiskers, but Caroline had already seen him scruffy. At least he didn’t smell so bad now.
Why on earth Caroline? He thought about that bit of impertinence for a moment, wondering why he needed a private name. He smiled inside. At least it was more discreet than Honey Bunch. Caroline in private, Carrie in public, he thought. Just because.
He put on the rest of his uniform for the return ride, arriving as Caroline came out of the kitchen, holding a bowl of oatmeal for him. It touched his heart to think for one tiny moment she had been watching for him.
“Jake said you weren’t in the tent, and I was afraid you had changed your mind,” she said as he dismounted. “It’s already sugared and creamed. Here’s a spoon.”
“Bail out? Not me. I can’t face that woman alone,” he said. “I rode to Norris where we have a world-renowned bathhouse.”
“That good? Do your soldiers ever loan it out?” she asked and then blushed. “Forget I said that.”
“Miss McKay, it could be arranged,” he said, then he had the good sense to shut up and eat.
By six o’clock they were on the road to Mammoth, the buckboard reins in Mrs. Wylie’s capable hands and Caroline sitting beside her. He rode ahead, looking back once or twice to make sure Caroline hadn’t turned tail and left him to face the dragon alone. He heard the women laughing and then singing together.
He gave his usual salute and shout, “Thank you, Lieutenant Kingman!” at the gateway to the cantilevered road. Both ladies clapped, so he bowed elaborately from the saddle. He was still smiling when they descended into Mammoth past the terraces.
The smile left his face and his stomach started to hurt as they rode directly through Mammoth and continued down the slippery slope to Gardiner, where he knew Mrs. LaMarque, along with her luggage of spite and umbrage, waited to pounce. He toyed with the idea of insisting that Caroline give him back the cash, which he would lob into the foyer of the Gardiner Hotel and then run. He could easily pay Caroline fifty dollars and call the whole thing a mistake on his part. Even fifty dollars would put her well ahead of her usual summer’s scrimping and saving.
Instinct told him the girl—no, woman—riding in the buckboard would never show the white feather, so he couldn’t. Five days, six days at most, equaled one hundred forty-four hours. Some of that time would be logically committed to sleeping. After too many long days in the Philippines, he knew he could manage six days in Wonderland. He looked down at his little Medal of Honor ribbon, which seemed to mock him. I am a coward, he thought. An overbearing woman brings out the worst in me.
The first order of business was to drop off Mrs. Wylie at the modest building the Wylies leased as the summer main office, even though both of them spent more time in the park. He helped Mrs. Wylie from the buckboard, thanked her for her assistance, and stood back while she hugged Carrie and wished her good luck.
Asking Carrie to wait, he tied Xerxes to the hotel hitching post next door and walked behind the building to see if Dave Lassiter was ready with the carriage. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see Dave gone, after he had been forced to drive the dragon and her luggage to Gardiner once Ramsay left in a hurry to fetch Caroline. But there he was, brave man, the carriage and team ready.
He made some comment to Dave that he forgot as soon as he uttered it, so unnerved was he to face Mrs. LaMarque again. There was nothing to do but return to the porch of the Gardiner Hotel where Carrie stood beside her carpetbag, a modest bit of luggage looking as though it had been passed down from many a traveler. She wore a simple straw hat with a narrow brim that Western girls favored. She had tucked her pretty hair into a bun in the back, which meant the hat tipped forward at a pleasing angle.
He joined her on the porch, ready to gird his loins and warn Carrie one more time. She stopped him. “Is Mrs. LaMarque by the front desk?” she whispered, as if the old trot could hear through walls.
He nodded. “That’s the lady of my nightmares,” he whispered back. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
To Ramsay’s ears, she sounded remarkably serene, which puzzled him. “I’ve been warning you, but you don’t seem too worried,” he said, still unwilling to move toward the front door.
“I’ve been observing her,” Carrie told him, coming closer so she could keep her voice low. “She isn’t too much taller than I am, but look how she carries herself.”
He looked, reluctant to see anything admirable in a battle-ax, but Carrie was right. He couldn’t deny the woman had a certain confidence, and she wore a handsome, wine-colored traveling suit. “Pretty elegant,” he had to admit.
“I should learn to do that,” Carrie whispered back.
“Do what?”
“Learn to carry myself with more dignity. Watch me. Is this right?”
He looked at Carrie, and saw her straighten her already pleasing posture into something a little grander. Her chin went up, but not out, creating an elegant line, even in a well-worn skirt and shirtwaist that had seen plenty of laundering.
“I would say so,” he admitted.
A man walked past them and went into the lobby. Carrie leaned closer. “See what she does when someone moves into her orbit.”
He watched and saw Mrs. LaMarque raise her shoulders slightly and seem to will herself taller. “I think it’s a learned reflex,” Carrie said. “We talked about this in one of my classes. My professor said it’s something women of a certain class do. Short ladies somehow know to stand taller when anyone looks their way.”
“The upper class?” he asked, interested.
“No. My class,” she said simply. “I imagine Mrs. LaMarque has had to learn to be impressive, to survive in her business. Life isn’t so kind to ladies who strike out on their own, Ram. I know this for a fact. She might be wealthy and accomplished now, but I doubt she started that way.”
Impressed with Carrie’s understanding of a woman only observed through the window, he couldn’t dispute her. He couldn’t help his own skepticism, but he saw no point in stifling someone who might be a superior judge of character.
“I hope she doesn’t yell at me,” Carrie said, sounding uncertain.
“I already told her not to,” he said. “I told her if she did, the deal was off and you wouldn’t be returning the money.”
Caroline smiled at him. For the smallest moment, he felt a little better, a little nobler, a little kinder. “Are you determined to be the best friend I ever had?” she asked.
That and more, he wanted to tell her, but this was neither the time nor the place. Where or when that would be, he didn’t know. “Why not?” he settled for. “You’re not that hard to help.”
She waved a hand at him, as if to ward off more inconsequential chatter. Good enough. He could live with that. Maybe he needed a friend too, someone who didn’t see a uniform and duty. That was probably all either of them had time for this summer anyway.
He took a deep breath, which made Carrie put her hand to her mouth so she wouldn’t laugh, and opened the door into the lobby.
Mrs. LaMarque saw them immediately. Ramsay watched her shoulders, and sure enough, she gave them a lift, as though steeling herself. It happened quickly, but Carrie was right. He glanced at the woman beside him and saw the same small gesture.
Mrs. LaMarque stayed where she was, but he expected that. What he didn’t expect was Carrie to move from his side and approach the battle-ax first, a smile on her face that looked genuine.
“Carrie McKay, let me introduce you to Mrs. LaMarque,” he said, and crossed his fingers behind his back.
He didn’t expect Mrs. LaMarque to extend her hand and she didn’t. He held his breath, hoping Carrie hadn’t put her hand out first, to be rebuffed. It calmed his soul to see Carrie had kept her hands at her side. She knew Mrs. LaMarque had no intention of shaking hands.
He glanced at the ogre and saw disappointment in her admittedly lovely eyes. He wondered if his own rudeness to her two days ago, his roughshod trampling of her dignity, had made her want to hurt Carrie. He knew he would never know the answer to that, but he resolved right then to hold his tongue and trust his friend.
Carrie waited for Mrs. LaMarque to speak, which was proper. Again Ramsay wondered if the socialite wasn’t still disappointed, hoping to catch Carrie in a gauche act and confirm her suspicions about Western lack of social graces. Heavens knows he must have confirmed a few. He watched both women, curious to know how this would play out, but not afraid, because Carrie was braver than he would ever be.
“I hope you know a few things about what someone like me expects in a servant,” Mrs. LaMarque said at last. “I’ll admit I am not hopeful.”
“I understand, ma’am,” Carrie replied, with nothing in her voice of subservience or irritation. “I’ve never worked as anyone’s maid before.” She smiled. “I’m usually in the kitchen. I do know this: I learn quickly, and I’m not afraid to ask questions.”
“Do you know anything about arranging hair?”
“Very little. I am not stylish, as you can plainly see,” Carrie told her. “We’ll have to make a lot of this up as we go.”
“What can you do?”
“Whatever you need, with clear instructions,” Carrie said. Her chin came up and she looked like the bravest human being on the planet to Ramsay. “I don’t like to be yelled at, I’m good at polishing shoes, and I make excellent cherry pie.”
“She does,” Ramsay said. “Best I ever ate.”
“Oh, really?” Mrs. LaMarque could not have sounded less interested. She raised her skirt an inch or two. “Are these shoes proper enough for the park?”
Carrie shook her head. “You need sturdy shoes.” She raised her skirt. “Something more like this, but if I were in Bozeman right now, I would probably kill for shoes like yours.”
Mrs. LaMarque laughed, a hearty, genuine sound that startled Ramsay. She must have noticed, because she pointed a finger at him.
“Carrie, he doesn’t think I know how to laugh.”
“He probably has no appreciation for absolutely beautiful shoes, either,” Carrie said serenely. “He’s a man.”
Ramsay stared at them and realized that Carrie McKay was not only the bravest woman he had ever met, but maybe the most clever. In one sentence, she and Mrs. LaMarque had become allies. He didn’t mind being the enemy.
“Pardon me, ma’am, but may I ask you something, or should I wait until I am spoken to?”
“Ask away, Carrie. Let’s not stand on ceremony,” Mrs. LaMarque said. “This rough and tumble area where you live is too rustic for much pomp, I suspect.”
“We are completely pompless in Montana, where I live most of the year. You’ll have to ask Sergeant Major Stiles about Wyoming,” Carrie said promptly. Ramsay turned his head and coughed, so he didn’t laugh. “I was wondering: I kept my last pair of shoes, because you never know when you might be desperate. If our feet are the same size, I’ll loan this pair to you because they’re newer. You’ll be more comfortable.”
Mrs. LaMarque frowned; maybe Carrie had gone too far. But no, she was raising her own skirt again and angling her foot next to Carrie’s. “You might be right,” she said. “Let’s go upstairs and find out. You can also advise me on what I should take along for the journey.”
Ramsay smiled at that. The journey. He had a vision of Lewis and Clark guided west by an Indian woman with a baby on her back, followed by a Washington, D.C., socialite with a walking stick and a fur boa, but in sensible shoes.
“What, pray tell, is so funny?”
Caught. He could lie or tell the truth. He chose the truth, since he wanted to remain Carrie’s friend. To his relief, Carrie laughed out loud and even Mrs. LaMarque awarded him a faint smile.
“We’ll show him, Mrs. LaMarque,” Carrie said. You can be comfortable and stylish.”
“Excellent!” Mrs. LaMarque said. She took her room key from her purse and started for the stairs, looking back at Ramsay. “You can summon the carriage. But wait. Will I need an evening dress and that fur boa you think is so amusing?” She narrowed her eyes and glared at him. “I did bring along a fur boa, just in case you’re wondering.”
Standing behind Mrs. LaMarque on the stairs, Carrie crossed her eyes and sucked in her cheeks. It took every ounce of US Army discipline not to double over with laughter. He couldn’t give her The Stare, because Mrs. LaMarque would think it was for her, and not the woman standing behind her.
“One evening dress,” he decided. “There are hotel dances. I’m taking the two of you to dinner tonight at Major Pitcher’s house at Fort Yellowstone.”
“What a relief,” Mrs. LaMarque said. “That means you will have to look a little better than a soldier just out of … of … the jungle.”
She could have said anything, but she said that. All he could do was nod and turn away.
“The nerve,” she said, but Carrie saved his life again, as she had probably been saving it since he met her peeking out of a privy.
“He’s had some recent experience with jungles, Mrs. LaMarque. I’ll tell you about it,” Carrie said, her voice low, but loud enough for him to hear. “Give us twenty minutes, Sergeant Major Stiles, and we’ll be ready for the journey.”
Chapter Twenty-One
He has some nerve!” Mrs. LaMarque said as she pounded up the stairs, Carrie right behind.
Between the two of these alley cats, I am going to earn every cent of this fifty dollars, Carrie thought, her mind on the matter ahead, but her heart on the wounded look in Ramsay’s eyes.
“Mrs. LaMarque, let me open the door for you,” Carrie said, as the woman fumbled with the key in the lock. “Hotel locks can be tricky.” The lady’s hand shook, and Carrie wondered if it was from anger or something else.
The lady put the key in Carrie’s hand and stood back, her eyes militant. “He is going to try me within an inch of my
life,” she declared. “How do you tolerate him?”
Carrie opened the door. The small room was nearly overwhelmed by a steamer trunk that looked almost as large as the room she and her mam had shared in the Railroad Hotel. This is going to take more than twenty minutes, she thought, dismayed. She had a larger concern, one she knew would be with her long after this imperious woman was on the train back to Bozeman and the ordeal finished. She set the key on the bureau.
“He didn’t mean to be rude by turning away,” she said, hoping for the right tone, somewhere between placating and informing. “You need to know something about the sergeant major. I also read it in the Avant Courier last winter.”
“The Avant Courier? That poor excuse of a newspaper I read over breakfast in Bozeman? I am impressed,” Mrs. LaMarque snapped. “I’ll have you know my late husband owned twenty percent of the Washington Post!”
“Please, ma’am.”
Mrs. LaMarque folded her arms across her chest, her eyes no less militant, but at least her mouth shut.
“Sergeant Major Stiles won a Medal of Honor in the jungle,” Carrie said. “After his lieutenant was beheaded with one swoop of a sword, Ramsay took over the patrol and fought his way into a cave full of insurrectionists. Into it! I’d have run so far and fast in the other direction. They routed out hundreds of rebels who were stopping travel on the only road. The jungle still bothers him. I know it does.”
Mrs. LaMarque looked down at her hands. She removed her kid gloves, tugging carefully at each finger until the tight gloves were off. “Should I apologize, do you think?” she asked, in a normal tone of voice.
Or it could have been a neutral tone, the kind where the issue could still go either way. Maybe Carrie had read her wrong from the wretched start.
“No. That would make him self-conscious,” she said, and plunged ahead, because matters probably couldn’t be worse. “Now that you know, be kind, please.”
“No one has asked me to be kind in a long time,” Mrs. LaMarque said.