by Regina Scott
Now Ben’s smile pulled her in as surely as his tale. The Colonel had always been kind to her. From the moment he had appeared in the doorway of her father’s studio, even before Ben had introduced her to him, he’d gone out of his way to talk to her as if she were an equal. It was his wife who had insisted that Meg would never be the kind of woman suited to stand at Ben’s side.
“So, what do we do?” she asked now. “I take it you found no other clues by the fire?”
“None,” he confessed, voice sharp with frustration. “And I don’t understand why he wouldn’t have started back to the fort unless he was injured. And if he was injured and awaiting rescue, why not answer our hails?”
She shivered. Could anything less than violence or treachery have made a man like the Colonel relinquish a part of his spur?
“I don’t know, Ben,” she said. “But I’ll do whatever I can to help you discover the truth.”
He laid a hand on her arm. “Thank you.”
Two little words, one small touch. But they opened a flood of emotion. She wanted to throw her arms around him, promise him all would be well. She wanted to feel his arms come around her, sheltering, protecting. There was nothing quite so splendid as being held in Ben’s strong arms.
But she had no business being in his arms when she had turned down his proposal.
She stood, removing herself from his touch, and he glanced up at her.
“One thing, Meg. The others don’t know about the search for my father. I’m under orders, but I’m not at liberty to share them widely.”
That he would share them with her was more honor than she’d suspected. It seemed he was still willing to confide in her, even after the way they had parted and years of going their separate ways. The thought pleased her more than it should.
“I’ll keep the matter to myself,” she promised. “Will you need Mr. Newcomb on the theodolite tomorrow?”
He cocked his head as if surprised by her abrupt change in thought. “No. Why?”
“I want to scout for the best place to take a shot,” Meg said. “I imagine I’ll need to scan every inch of the canyons around here.”
His smile edged up. “I imagine you will.”
Meg nodded. “All right, then. I’ll report anything I discover, sir.” She snapped a salute as sharp as any Corporal Adams had given.
He laughed. “Why do I feel I ought to be saluting you instead? Sleep well, Meg, and thanks again. It’s good to have someone to confide in.”
To confide in. To share hopes, dreams. They’d had all that once, and she’d turned her back on it. Was it possible they could still be friends?
The thought persisted as she lay in her bedroll next to Dot’s, trying to find a comfortable spot on the narrow, Army-issued cot. When she and her father had been part of an expedition to explore the Columbia River Gorge, some of the men had cut brush to cushion their sleep. This area didn’t carry enough of that sort of springy plant. Besides, truth be told, it was her thoughts and not the unyielding wooden poles bracketing her that threatened her sleep more. In her mind, the scenery of West Point replaced the red rock of the canyon.
She’d tried to capture the Hudson River by dawn’s rosy light, and Ben had been allowed to rise early and help her with her equipment. She had been carrying her father’s equipment since she was eight, but she’d wanted an excuse to bring Ben along, so she hadn’t protested the offer. They walked in the murky morning light through trees turning crimson and gold with the coming fall, until she had a good perspective across the river to Garrison’s Landing.
“What’s special about this spot?” he’d asked, glancing around.
“Not much at the moment,” Meg said, adjusting the tripod. “But I’m told when the sun rises, it will set the Hudson on fire. That’s what I want to capture, the reflection in the river.”
He shook his head. “Your camera lens is so small, but you see more than most people.”
His praise warmed her. “It’s a focus more than anything, the ability to hone in on one thing in the entire picture and bring it to life.”
He propped his foot on a rock. “A shame I didn’t meet you sooner. I might have chosen a different path.”
Somehow, she doubted that. Confident, inquisitive, loyal, he was meant to be a leader. “The Colonel wouldn’t have been happy if you’d become a photographer.”
He chuckled. “He’s still not happy I decided to become an engineer instead of a cavalry officer.”
About to put her head under the hood, Meg had paused. “Why did you want to become an engineer? I can see you riding for glory.”
He’d grimaced. “Glory or death. Too many of my father’s friends and troops have been killed over the years. But that wasn’t the reason I shied away from the cavalry. I want to blaze trails, chart roads, build bridges. I want to give men chances I’ve taken for granted—homes, occupations, families.”
Even now, she heard the fervor in his voice. He wanted to make a difference. Finding a way across the canyon could help hundreds move into new territory, establish outposts, communication. Her photographs seemed rather small beside all that.
But she was up at dawn the next morning anyway.
As yesterday, Dot had risen ahead of her and already had coffee brewing. Her cast-iron bake oven was nestled deep in the coals with more heaped on the lid. The tangy scent of cinnamon drifted on the breeze.
“What are you making?” Meg asked, venturing closer even as Private Meadows paused on his way to water the mules and sniffed the air as if he hadn’t breathed in days.
“Cinnamon rolls,” Dot proclaimed, and the young private grinned.
So did Meg. “Good use of those cinnamon sticks of yours.”
Dot nodded. “I’ll put a pot of cornmeal mush on as well. That ought to stick to the ribs.” She glanced at the sky, which was heavy and tinted with the red of sunrise. “Looks to be coming on rain.”
“Or hail,” her husband said cheerfully, ducking out of his tent. He joined Dot and patted her back. “Morning, sweetheart.”
“Morning, darling.” Dot beamed as he sat beside her.
Meg turned away to give them a moment of privacy, or at least as much as the crowded camp allowed. If she hadn’t been along, very likely the couple would have shared a tent, but Dot took her chaperone duties seriously.
Private Larson was just as serious about his duties. He had a new grid laid out before the others finished eating, explaining the location and orientation between bites of Dot’s succulent rolls.
“Excellent work,” Ben told him, and Larson puffed out his chest.
Mr. Newcomb was also accommodating when Meg asked to use the theodolite.
“I’ll be manning the wheel today,” he told her, showing her the odometer and recording device mounted on an iron-rimmed wheel. She knew the instrument could be pulled by the mules or walked along by hand to measure distances.
“Where are you charting?” she asked.
“That craggy edge,” he said with a fond look toward the rim. “Happy hunting, Miss Pero.”
Meg started happily enough. The theodolite involved two round glass plates, each of which could be rotated or clamped in place, mounted inside a telescope-like device. Mr. Newcomb had already leveled and centered the instrument. All she had to do was rotate the upper plate, and she could see from one side of the canyon to the other. She turned it so that she was looking at the eastern edge, bringing the rugged cliffs with their eroding rock bases into sharp contrast. But though she moved the view slowly from east to west, she caught no sign of human occupation.
“Any luck?” Ben asked her privately after ordering the midday halt. Everyone else except Mr. Pike, who was out hunting, had gathered around the fire, where Dot was once more handing out cups, this time with coffee. The sun had yet to appear out of the clouds, the air felt cool and moist, and Meg thought she heard a distant rumble of thunder.
“No luck at all,” she told Ben. “But I’ll keep looking later.”
&
nbsp; Ben cocked his head toward the fire. “Come take a rest.”
With a nod, she rose from her place behind the theodolite, stretching tight shoulders, and followed.
Mr. Newcomb glanced up as Meg and Ben joined the others. “I know you had a plan for the afternoon, Captain, but it may have to wait. There’s a storm coming. You can feel it in the air.”
He was right. Meg’s skin was turning clammy, and her hair refused to stay confined to its pins. Across from her, Dot’s graying hair stuck out like a halo around her face.
Ben nodded. “I feel it too. Finish your coffee, then bring in the equipment and make sure the animals have shelter. First sign of rain, call to quarters.”
The team downed their drinks, then split up to obey.
Mr. Newcomb put the wheel away in the wagon, then came to take down the theodolite and stow it likewise. Meg helped Dot secure the food supplies in boxes and leather packs. The cook also piled some of the wood under the van.
“Might as well keep it as dry as we can,” she told Meg.
Her stereographic camera was already in the van, but she went to retrieve her other camera from the tripod. She’d have to use the plate soon or the chemicals would dry, leaving the picture blurry. She had just unscrewed the camera from its base when the first fat drops began plopping down around her, hitting the dry ground so hard they raised puffs of dust.
“Quarters!” Corporal Adams squeaked, and everyone began diving for the tents. To the west, the sky split with lightning.
Meg stared at it. Oh, for such a shot! But her camera would never capture that sudden flash, that jagged fork of light. Would it? She had a plate in the camera. Why not try?
Indecision made her hesitate. The wind rushed past, pushing her so hard she swayed on her feet. The rain followed, slicing across the clearing in a curtain of cold. Gasping, she seized her camera, but her wet fingers slipped on the wood.
Thunder shook the ground. Her camera started to fall. Meg lunged for it and managed to catch it, but now she was the one falling.
Strong arms caught her, pushed her upright.
“This way!” Ben shouted against the pounding rain.
Sheltered against him, she stumbled for the tent.
Dot’s eyes were wide as Meg burst in, Ben right behind.
“Looks like we got a gulley washer,” the cook said, shifting over to make room for them.
The canvas bounced with the rain, and the wind pressed against the fabric, causing the poles to tilt. Thunder rolled again, deep and hard. It was all Meg could do not to hide her head on Ben’s shoulder. She’d thought she’d seen nature at its most grand. This seemed like nature at its angriest. And she wasn’t entirely sure how they were to survive.
Ben made himself smile with complete confidence at the two women under his command. Dot grinned back. Was there anything that frightened her? He would have asked the same about Meg, except, at the moment, her face was white, and she clutched her camera close.
“Always an adventure,” he said. “Too bad cameras aren’t made for the rain, or you could have captured quite a shot.”
That took the edge off. Her shoulders came down, and her lips turned up just the slightest. “I know. I wish the exposure didn’t take so long. Can you imagine catching that flash of lightning over the canyon?”
“Nature at its finest,” Ben agreed.
Her lips trembled. “I was thinking nature at its angriest, actually.”
Dot nodded. “Let’s hope Pike had the good sense to find safe ground. Too high, and he could collide with one of those bolts. Too low, and he could be swept away in a flash flood.”
Meg’s color, which had just begun to return, fled once more. “Flash flood?”
“Usually down a draw,” Ben explained. “We saw no signs of past inundation in the survey yesterday. We should be safe here.”
“Good thing too,” Dot said. “This close to the rim, we could be washed right over.”
The day darkened around them as the storm moved closer. Meg was breathing hard, and all Ben wanted was to hold her. The best he could do was sit so his shoulder brushed hers.
“Little chance of that,” he assured them both. “The worst you’ll have to do is put up with me until the storm passes.”
The thunder crashed directly overhead. Meg jumped. Ben gave in to his instincts and slipped an arm about her waist. “I’m glad you were able to bring in both your cameras in time, Miss Pero. I didn’t damage that one when I grabbed you, did I?”
She sucked in a breath and bent to check, just as lightning brightened the tent and sent their shadows dancing wildly around them. Even Dot glanced about with a shiver.
The cook had mentioned a flood. Had the Colonel and his guide been caught in a draw with a storm coming in? Had they been swept over the edge into the canyon, their horses and equipment lost? Powell’s first survey had indicated towering walls in places along the canyon. Impossible to walk out. With no tools and likely few trees where his father and the guide might have fallen, they wouldn’t have been able to build a boat and float out either, much less make it through the roaring cataracts that had cost Powell so much.
Still, why not climb out after the flood was over, or, failing that, respond to calls from above now? How could a flood have deprived him of the star of his boot and nothing else? His thoughts just led him in a circle.
“Everything seems to be in working order,” Meg announced. “But the plate will have to be scraped and recoated before I feel comfortable shooting with it.”
Dot nodded. “That’s a shame, but at least it’s still usable. There’s sure to be lots more to see the next six weeks before we start back. What’s the plan from here, Captain?”
Was she trying to take his mind off the storm as well?
A sudden blast of wind bowed the tent, and he leaned against Meg to keep from hitting the wet canvas. Every touch would just pull water deeper into the fabric. A silky curl caressed his cheek. It was almost as if she were in his embrace. He couldn’t seem to move away.
“Why don’t you sit beside me, Captain?” Dot asked. “More room on my side of the tent.”
He glanced up, guilt tugging at him, to find Dot regarding him, amusement sparkling in her gray eyes. Bless the woman for her attention to duty. Ben shifted across the tent. As if she hadn’t noticed their proximity, or been affected by it, Meg busied herself pulling her bedroll away from the damp wall.
“I suspect you’ve weathered plenty of these storms,” she said, and he wasn’t sure whether she meant him or Dot.
Dot seemed to have no such trouble marshalling her thoughts. “Oh, sure,” she said. “I’ve always liked watching storms—those black clouds, the sudden rain, the roll of thunder. Hank and I were at Fort Arbuckle one year. Now, they have storms. Twisters, they call them. Big silos of swirling wind, picking up most anything in their path—dirt, bush, cow or two.”
Ben shook his head. “Cow, eh?”
“Yes, sir. Seen it myself. Very affecting. Now, that would have made a picture, Miss Meg.”
Meg finally smiled. He felt as if the sun had come out and caught him in its benevolent rays. “A very fine picture indeed. But I’m glad we don’t have that kind of storm around here.”
“Flash flood and cougar are bad enough,” Dot agreed. “Wouldn’t want to lose any of the animals.”
That set Meg to fiddling with the camera again. Ben racked his brain for a way to get Dot off calamities.
“How did you and Hank meet?” he tried.
Dot’s gray eyes turned misty. “My mother died when I was young. My father was a sergeant in the infantry. I’d followed him from one assignment to the next since I was a girl. I was already helping the cook at the fort where we were assigned. Your father served there at the time, Captain.”
Ben started. “I didn’t know you and Hank served with the Colonel before San Francisco. That must have been one of the times he left Mother behind.”
“When your little sister was born,” Dot agree
d. “Hank was visiting with a survey detail. He was eating with the commanding officer, and he said he wanted to thank the chef for the fine dinner. Chef.” She snorted.
“You,” Meg guessed.
Dot nodded. “I tried to send the real Army cook, but he was a kind fellow, and he wanted to see me praised. So out I went, saucy as you please. One look at Hank, and I knew. Hank said it wasn’t so much the look as my cooking. He always claims I can make most any miserable hunk of meat edible.”
One look. It had been that way for him. One look across the dance floor, and he’d known he had to learn more about the woman with the presence of royalty. One week in her company, and he’d wanted a year. A month of talks and walks, dances and photographs, and he’d wanted forever. He’d thought he’d put it all behind him, but one look across the tent, meeting that green gaze, and his heart was pounding as quickly as the first time he’d approached her.
But this time, it would take more than one look to compel him to trust his heart.
11
The storm passed as quickly as it had come. Meg’s agitation lingered a little. Something about the ferocity of the rain, the roar of the thunder, tightened her shoulders and quickened her breath. The canyon made her feel small; the storm made her feel vulnerable. But with Ben nearby and Dot chatting away as if nothing was truly wrong, she thought she had acquitted herself well. Still she didn’t take a deep breath until the sun broke through.
“Assemble!” Ben commanded as he exited the tent.
She stepped out among the steaming canvas with the others. Dot’s cooking tripod had fallen. So had the one for Meg’s camera. She hurried to right it and found it otherwise unharmed.
Private Meadows kept glancing at the sky as if he expected a lightning bolt aiming for him. But he, Private Larson, and Corporal Adams stood at attention as Ben moved closer.
“All survey documentation was protected, sir,” Corporal Adams reported.