by Regina Scott
“Take the camera,” she said.
She’d be the death of him. “I don’t care about the camera. I want you safe.”
“I care about the camera. Please.”
Thinking things he could not say aloud to a lady, he gripped the box and pulled it up beside him. Tempting to toss the thing into the canyon, but she needed it and so did he if they were to fulfill their commission. He set it carefully down on the shelf, then turned again and reached down.
This time her hands met his. He gripped them firmly and pulled. Rocks rattled as she scrambled up.
Everything in him demanded that he pull her close, never let go. He settled for holding one of her hands as they sat a moment on the rock. He wasn’t the only one breathing hard. Too bad Larson wasn’t near enough to hear them. He’d never mistake the sound again.
Ben closed his eyes, focused on the cool dry breeze that brushed his cheeks. She was alive.
Thank you, Lord.
“Well,” she said after a moment. “That was an adventure.”
“That was a gamble,” he disagreed, opening his eyes. “You could have been killed.”
She sent him a grin. “But wait until you see the shot. That picture alone could support me for a year.”
He shook his head, releasing her hand. “Money won’t mean much if you’re not around to enjoy it.”
“Spoken like a man on the government payroll.” She climbed to her feet and went to fetch her camera. “The Army may take good care of you, Captain Coleridge, but some of us have to work to pay our room and board.”
“Halloo?” Adams’s voice shook with uncertainty.
“Coming,” Meg called, cradling her camera as close as a newborn.
And Ben could only stand, pick up the tripod, and follow.
7
Meg thanked Corporal Adams for his concern before stowing her camera in the van.
“Captain?” he asked as Ben came up to her and offered her the tripod.
Something simmered in Ben’s river-colored eyes. She’d frustrated him, perhaps even frightened him. But he didn’t understand how important this work was to her. She accepted the tripod and packed it away. “I just need a few moments to protect the negative.”
He snapped a nod. “We’ll wait.”
The quiet darkness of the stuffy van was almost welcome. A shame her thoughts were not as quiet. As she washed the plate in salty hyposulphite to remove any impurities that might cause the picture to decompose, then varnished the glass with shellac to protect it, all she could think about was Ben. He’d been so determined to protect her. It was a side of him she didn’t remember from West Point. Then again, the Academy had been a safe place, for him. It had been more difficult for her, prompting her to break off their association.
She simply didn’t fit in his carefully constructed world.
It wasn’t just the regimented Army life. She understood the need for discipline and order, particularly having grown up with her fly-on-a-whim father. No, it had become apparent that Ben Coleridge had been born to a family of privilege, and some considered her a poor match.
Certainly that aura of elitism had been evident for most of the cadets and instructors she’d met at West Point. They considered themselves gentlemen of the highest caliber and ladies shy, retiring creatures who giggled behind fans and cooed over the uniforms on the cadets’ broad chests. Ben’s classmates had had no idea what to say to or how to approach a woman who stood on her own, who was determined to accomplish more in life than to marry well.
She could have fought against their narrow views. She’d never been one to bend to society’s dictates. But then she’d discovered the one person she could never gainsay.
Mrs. Colonel Coleridge.
That was how Ben’s mother preferred to style herself. That or simply the Colonel’s wife, as if only one colonel mattered, and she was blessed above all women to be married to him. As if she had no identity, no purpose of her own. With her brown hair worn in a coronet braid, big brown eyes, and ample figure swathed in the latest fashion, she’d seemed gracious and motherly to all.
Except Meg.
“I don’t recall a Pero in the regiment or at the Academy,” she’d said after Ben had introduced Meg to her at the home the Coleridges were renting in the town of Cornwall, south from West Point. The elegant house with its white wrought-iron edging on the wide porch and horsehair furnishings in the pristine parlor had instantly alerted her that Mrs. Colonel Coleridge was used to finer things.
“My father isn’t in the Army,” Meg had explained. “He’s a photographer here to take pictures of the cadets, faculty, and their families. But we’re used to following the drum. Papa photographed the War Between the States.”
Mrs. Colonel Coleridge’s smile would have frozen the water on the nearby Hudson River. “How interesting. He took pictures while my husband fought and his men died.”
“Not everyone wants to be a cavalryman, Mother,” Ben had reminded her, tucking Meg’s hand in his arm, his support warmer than the wool of the uniform that had brushed against her.
“Certainly not,” his mother had agreed. “Where would we be without sutlers and engineers?” She’d linked arms on his other side. “And you will make a fine engineer, so long as you focus on what is important.” Her fond look had left Meg out entirely.
She shouldn’t blame Ben’s mother for trying to protect her son. Plenty of women hung about the towns near the military academy, hoping to find a promising fellow to marry. Mrs. Colonel Coleridge wanted the best for Ben, and Meg clearly didn’t fit her definition. Perhaps if Papa had been a general or had perished on the field of battle, it would have been another matter. But then, perhaps Ben’s mother would have considered no woman good enough to marry into the Colonel’s family. When Ben had proposed, Meg had known there was only one answer. She refused to come between him and his career, much less his family.
There—the plate was dry, and she hadn’t sung a single line from “Amazing Grace.” So much for focusing on her work. She slipped the negative into its frame and packed it carefully away.
Ben was standing by his horse as she came down the steps. Corporal Adams glanced between the two of them as if unsure where his orders came from.
Ben had no such trouble. “Follow me back to camp, Corporal,” he said. “Miss Pero, do you need assistance to mount?”
She didn’t trust herself to speak, lest she say something she’d regret. She certainly didn’t trust herself in his arms. She glanced around and easily located a rock large enough to help her.
“No, thank you,” she told him.
With a nod, he swung himself up into the saddle and started back even as Corporal Adams went to take his place on the bench.
Meg sighed as she settled herself into the sidesaddle. She didn’t want to be miffed that Ben had come to check on her. He had made it easier to climb back up the cliff. He was only doing his duty, looking out for the expedition and all its members.
She eyed his back as she followed him through the trees, the van rattling along behind. His head was high, shoulders relaxed. He’d certainly grown into the swagger he’d shown at West Point. He’d become the man she’d always known he would—a leader like his father.
But she was no longer the photographer’s daughter. She would always be grateful for what her father had taught her, but she was her own person, a photographer in her own right. She could contribute as much as the next person on this expedition.
She tapped her heel against the horse’s side to urge the mare forward.
Ben nodded as she came abreast. “Something I should know, Miss Pero?”
“And how do you do and it’s a very fine evening to you too,” Meg said.
He kept his gaze forward, as if watchful for any movement among the trees. “Sorry. I didn’t think you rode up merely to chat.”
“I didn’t, actually. I wanted to clarify my role.”
He frowned. “You’re the photographer.”
“Oh
, good. Photographers generally choose their shots based on what the expedition commander wants documented. You told me to take that shot.”
He shook his head. “Take the shot, not risk your life.”
“Sometimes, I fear, they are the same thing.”
His jaw moved back and forth, as if he couldn’t decide which objection to state first. A day’s stubble, golden against the tan of his skin, glittered with the movement. His skin would probably feel prickly when she kissed him.
If she kissed him. No, no, she wasn’t going to kiss him!
“Perhaps we can come to a compromise,” he said. “I’ll tell you what we need documented, you choose the shot, and we agree on where you’ll set up your camera.”
Now it was her turn to hesitate before speaking. The restriction was like a rope chafing her ankle. But he’d said they’d agree, and she’d rarely had trouble being persuasive.
“All right,” she said. “But there’s one other matter to attend to. I saw something down on the slope.”
He glanced her way. “Oh? Something else we have to shoot?”
She refused to bristle. “No. It was more of a flash, like sunlight off metal or glass.”
He looked past her as if hoping to see it for himself. “You’re sure it wasn’t natural?”
She shrugged. “I suppose it could have been a reflection off water, perhaps near trees so the light would flicker as the branches moved. But it seemed too bright. Didn’t you say another expedition was in the canyon?”
“Powell’s. It’s his second trip, so he knows his way. But he’s on the river itself, and he should be much farther downstream by now. He set off in May.” He swiveled in the saddle to look back at Adams and the van. “Corporal! Double time.”
He broke into a canter, and Meg urged Stripe to follow, trying not to grimace at the cacophony behind her as the van picked up speed.
Ben only slowed when they approached the camp. Mr. Pike had located a flat space surrounded by trees with a stream cutting through a draw to the east. Once again, Dot had gathered rocks to surround the fire she’d built. The white canvas tents stood around the fire, the color, shape, and precise angles at odds with the sweep of trees and canyon around them.
Corporal Adams climbed down from the bench, and Private Meadows hurried to unharness the mules and lead them toward the picket line strung among the trees. Already the other horses had their heads in feed sacks while the mules grazed on the brush and grass. Meg dismounted and allowed Private Larson to see to Stripe and Ben’s horse as Ben dropped to the ground and moved into the firelight.
Dot looked up from where she was roasting a turkey over the fire. “Miss Meg looks alive and well. What’s the trouble, Captain?”
Her husband came out of the tent farther to the east and eyed Ben expectantly.
“Make setting up the theodolite your next priority,” Ben told him. “Miss Pero spotted something down below, and I want to know what it was.”
Mr. Pike appeared from behind another tent. “Shadows can play tricks on the eyes, particularly when the sun’s going down.”
“Shadows and I are old enemies,” Meg said, trying not to take offense that he’d doubt her. “This was a flash of light.”
Mr. Newcomb frowned. “Powell’s expedition on the river?”
“If it is, something’s wrong,” Ben said. “I mean to find out. If Miss Pero is right, we may have to turn this survey expedition into a rescue party.”
In the end, Hank couldn’t get the theodolite erected before the sun was nearly down. Ben paced back and forth along the rim, rocks skipping off his boots to disappear over the edge. He tried his field glass, aiming the small monocular down the cliff, but the resolution wasn’t sufficient to give him a good view, particularly in the fading light.
While Dot finished preparing supper, Hank worked patiently, leveling the six-inch-diameter instrument on the rocky ground, checking angles and inclinations. Meg alone seemed to appreciate Ben’s agitation, for she came to block his path.
“Maybe we should try calling,” she suggested. “If the other team is below and in trouble, they’ll know we’re here.”
Why hadn’t he thought of that? The moment she’d mentioned the light, his mind had seized on the idea and refused to let go. He couldn’t tell any of them he hoped to find someone besides Powell.
He moved to the very edge of the canyon, cupped his hands around his mouth. “You-halloo! Anyone down there?”
His voice echoed back to him, bouncing off the canyon walls like a ball.
“Halloo!” Meg tried, higher voice penetrating. “We’re friends. Identify yourself.”
The only reply was a collision of echoes.
He couldn’t give up hope. The air currents in the canyon would be fickle, snatching away one sound to carry another close. Perhaps their quarry hadn’t heard or couldn’t answer easily. He strode to the fire, took a stick, and thrust it into the blaze.
“Corporal, fetch a blanket,” he ordered.
Adams moved to comply.
Together, they stood in the twilight at the edge of the canyon. “Do you know Morse code?” Ben asked.
Adams nodded. “I took messages at my last post on occasion.”
“Good,” Ben said. “We’ll use the blanket to send flashes of light. Start with H.”
Adams raised and lowered the blanket quickly four times.
“E,” Ben instructed.
The corporal gave a quick flap.
“L.”
Fast, long, two fast.
“P.”
Fast, two longs, fast.
Ben continued calling letters until Adams had finished the message.
“Help is here,” the corporal said, lowering the blanket and blinking into the dark.
“Now let’s see if anyone takes us up on the offer,” Hank said.
The canyon below remained dark.
Ben wasn’t aware he’d stood still waiting so long until Meg put her hand on his arm. The touch was kind, supportive.
“If the other expedition is down there and needs help,” she said, “we’ll find them.”
Sitting near Dot, plate already loaded, Pike snorted. “In pieces, most likely.”
Ben shook himself. “That’s enough, Mr. Pike. The rest of you, get dinner.”
Adams moved off, Hank loping behind. Meg didn’t leave Ben’s side.
“Is there a reason to fear for Mr. Powell?” she asked.
He rested his hand over hers, unwilling to pull away from the touch. He wanted to borrow her hope.
“Reason enough,” he told her. “On his first attempt to traverse the canyon two years ago, he and most of his men barely reached the end of the canyon alive. Congress funded him on this second attempt in hopes of gaining maps.” He offered her a smile. “They even have a photographer.”
She smiled back. “And you’re here as well.”
“Our survey should have started in June,” Ben said. “We’re months behind them. Or at least we should be.”
“We’ll help them,” she insisted. “The flash I saw, it was very like what you did with Mr. Adams. It had a pattern.”
His shoulders tensed. “What did it say?”
She shrugged. “I have no idea. I never learned that—Morris code, I think you called it?”
“Morse,” he said. “It’s used on the telegraph, and the Army and Navy send messages that way sometimes. I understand even some of the wilderness scouts have learned it. It was required study at the Academy.”
The Colonel had been a big proponent, insisting that a member of the Signal Corps accompany his regiment during the war. His father could both read and transmit the code. Had that flash come from him? Who had he thought he was signaling? Why not answer now?
“Well, if it was a signal from Mr. Powell, he should have seen your answer,” she said. “That should give him great comfort.”
She was so certain. His spirit rose to meet her optimism. As if she sensed it, she batted her lashes at him. “
Care to escort me to dinner while we wait, Captain Coleridge?”
“It would be my pleasure, Miss Pero,” he said.
Together, they turned and strolled back toward the fire.
Dot had put together corn fritters and currants to go with the turkey. It was better food than Powell’s team likely had after months afloat. Or what his father had living off the land with only an Army pistol for company.
Meg must have thought he wasn’t eating fast enough, because she nudged his shoulder and nodded to the food on his plate.
Dot sat back from serving to glance sternly around at them all.
“Game will make itself scarce in a day or so,” she predicted, “once they all realize we’re a threat. I’d appreciate it if someone brought in a deer or a pronghorn before then.”
“I’ll do it,” Pike said with a nod.
“Good. I’ll see what can be done about gathering fruit. This time of year, I would expect raspberries, but I haven’t spotted a bush yet.”
“Miner’s lettuce and mint too,” Meg said before she dug into the food.
Pike was watching her. “Looks like someone’s not so worried about what’s in the canyon after all.”
Meg stuck her knife into the slice of turkey. “Whether I eat or not won’t change anything, Mr. Pike. Might as well eat.”
Ben’s mother had had a similar practical attitude when Ben was growing up. She had claimed never to worry when the Colonel was on campaign. She had had complete confidence he would serve well and return to her whole. Perhaps that’s why his disappearance had so shaken her.
“She stays up far too late at night,” his sister Diana had written him, “as if she could see him hundreds of miles away in the dark. She picks at her food. She’s trying to be brave for my sake, but I can tell she’s imagining the horrors to which he must be subjected. Please, Ben, bring him home.”
He’d promised Diana, himself, and the Army he would look into the matter. That was the secondary purpose of this expedition—to discover what had happened to the Colonel.