A Distance Too Grand

by Regina Scott

  “Yes!” As if he didn’t trust she wouldn’t change her mind, he seized her hands and pulled her up and into his embrace. In his kiss, she felt all the love and hope she’d ever needed, an acceptance so deep and full she could never fail it, and she knew she’d made the right decision at last.

  Ben wanted to leap, to soar. His brave beauty had said yes. They had managed to bridge the distance between them. He was going to marry Meg Pero.

  Visionary.

  Artist.

  Love.

  He held her close, promised to encourage and protect her all the days of his life. For now, the vow was between him and God, but soon it would be before family and friends.

  He leaned back, peered into her face. Tears sparkled on her lashes. “I love you, Meg. Since the day we met.”

  She smiled. “I won’t argue with you this time. Just promise me you’ll still love me when I’m old and gray and not as beautiful as you saw me then.”

  He cupped her face, pressed a kiss against her lips. “You will always be the most beautiful woman in the world to me.”

  She wiped at her cheeks. “Ugh! Even if I become a watering pot?”

  “Even then,” he promised her. He released her to slip an arm about her waist. “We should tell Mother and Diana.”

  Meg glanced back at the house. Her friends hastily disappeared.

  “Diana knows,” Meg said. “So does Dot. She and Hank have been trying to bring us together for weeks. Oh, and we must tell Adams, Larson, and Meadows.”

  “I’m ready to tell the entire company, the fort, and the mules,” Ben declared. He raised his voice. “You hear that, world? I’m in love with Meg Pero, and she’s going to marry me!”

  “Well done, Captain!” someone shouted back.

  Meg laughed as he caught her close again. “I think the word is out.”

  “Then we better start planning. When?”

  “As soon as you want.”

  He liked the sound of that. “Where?”

  “At the fort? Everyone we care about is here.”

  “What about that aunt you mentioned?”

  Meg shuddered. “The mother of the man who sent me to jail? No, thank you, although I may write afterward to tell her. She always said I should marry. It just took me a while to see that the perfect man for me was only a camera shot away.”

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for choosing Meg and Ben’s story. Our national parks began in a time of exploration and wonder, much like Meg and Ben’s love, and I hope I’ve captured that in this book.

  The Grand Canyon was known to Native Americans and their forebears for centuries before the first white explorers ventured into the area. In 1858, Lieutenant Joseph Christmas Ives of the U.S. Army Corps of Topographical Engineers (as it was known at the time) attempted to take a steamboat up the Colorado. Though he reached partway into the Grand Canyon, he ultimately gave up the pursuit after losing his boat against the rocks. While he admired the scenery, he deemed the area “altogether valueless.”

  John Wesley Powell disagreed. His two trips through the Grand Canyon, one before my story is set and one concluding afterward, and his subsequent reports, books, and articles, opened the country’s eyes to the undeniable beauty and majesty of the area. Meg’s stereograph would only have helped. Still, the Grand Canyon wasn’t made a national park until 1919, one hundred years before the publication of this book.

  John Wesley Powell named many of the features in the area. He also discovered a little gold in Kanab Creek, west of Bright Angel Canyon, which sparked a short-lived gold rush. In the end, not enough gold was found to sustain more than a few weeks of work.

  Ben’s wagon road today forms part of Bright Angel Trail. However, there is still no way to cross the canyon itself except on foot. In late 1871, a ferry was set up to the east, outside the canyon itself, carrying riders and wagons across the mighty Colorado to new lands in the West.

  The Army had a bigger role to play in the history of the national parks, however. Turn the page for a sneak peek of my next book for Revell, set in Yellowstone, the world’s first national park, when the U.S. Cavalry was sent to take charge.

  YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK, SEPTEMBER 1886

  What was it about men and danger? Did they all want to die?

  Kate Tremaine leveled her rifle at the back of the stranger standing beside the rainbow-colored mud pots, a long, twisted branch in his hand. “Stop right there, mister. Drop the stick.”

  Broad shoulders stiffened in his navy cavalry coat. Normally she had the utmost respect for the military, especially after seeing how Captain Harris had worked to protect Yellowstone since arriving a month ago. But she’d caught more than one of the horse soldiers a mite too close to the boiling geysers. It wouldn’t do them or the park’s reputation any good if they were burned by the scalding water.

  He tossed the stick off the geyser field and turned slowly, lemon-yellow stripe on his light-blue trousers flashing in the sunlight. Rather determined face—strong cheekbones, straight nose pointing to the firm line of his lips, square jaw. The only thing soft about him was the beginnings of a warm brown beard and mustache, a shade darker than the hair at his temples under his floppy, wide-brimmed black hat with its crossed sabers in gold on the crown.

  The troops riding by her hotel every day were all looking scruffier. It couldn’t be easy living out of nothing better than a white canvas tent. It wasn’t easy keeping things clean and tidy in the hotel either. She and her staff were run ragged, and she still couldn’t find time to fix all the things that seemed to go wrong at the least provocation. At times she was tempted to hack off her thick black tresses rather than have to keep taming them back in the bun behind her head, perhaps dress in a buckskin coat and trousers, instead of poplin and wool bodices and skirts that bespoke a prosperous hotel owner. Even those small changes might give her more time.

  The man in front of her nodded toward her Winchester. “Do you know how to use that?”

  Why was it a hint of a Boston twang was enough to set memories beckoning? She’d left that life behind more than eight years ago now. She was a different woman. The daughter of a cobbler and a milliner hadn’t needed to know how to shoot a rifle, ride without a sidesaddle, or manage one of the busiest hotels in the park.

  She aimed the rifle at his chest. “I sure do. Now, move away from those paint pots—straight forward. Right or left, and you’ll boil those fancy boots right off your feet.”

  He glanced down at the ground. The knobby crust covered decades of mud bubbled up from the depths of the earth. Around them, spikes striped in lime, buttercup, rust, and rose smoked contentedly, the cough and murmur here and there telling of more mud spilling over. Her guests at the hotel found the things fascinating. She did too, but she had to be constantly on guard that no one strayed onto the softer ground. She gave everyone a welcome speech, insisted on accompanying some of the oldest and youngest visitors, and did a sweep every morning and afternoon, just to be safe.

  He picked his way forward, and she edged back until they both stood on the well-worn path to the hotel. The Geyser Gateway Inn sat among a stand of pine, clapboard sides a cheery yellow she had to repaint after every good storm. Toby had fallen in love with the place at first sight, and she hadn’t been far behind. If he hadn’t gone out that night a year ago, he might have been waiting on the porch even now.

  But he would never have confronted people with a rifle. For her late husband, life had been about boundless enthusiasm. She’d always been the practical one.

  Her quarry today relaxed his stance, watching her. Now that he was closer, she could see that his eyes were a clear greenish brown, like a reflection in a mountain lake. They narrowed at her.

  “What are you planning on doing?” he asked. “Arresting me or shooting me for dinner?”

  Toby would have accompanied the question with a good-natured grin. This man didn’t look as if he knew how to grin. Why did she have the urge to test that theory?


  Kate made a show of looking him up and down. “I doubt you’d make much of a meal for my guests. Too much grit. And I generally turn game your size back into the wild to grow up a bit.”

  He grimaced. “Should I thank you for that?”

  Despite herself, Kate smiled. “No need. All part of the service at the Geyser Gateway.”

  He nodded toward the hotel. “You must be Mrs. Tremaine.”

  Now, who would have told him about her? She’d had a single conversation with his superior, who had graciously allowed her to keep her concession, for now. She hadn’t been sure about Captain Harris when he’d ridden into the park at the head of Company M, but she’d applauded when he’d ousted D.W. Wear, the superintendent from Washington. Wear had all but washed his hands when it came to protecting the game of the park, claiming too few men and too little time. What did he know about time? Had he ever tried running a hotel?

  She lowered her rifle. “I’m Kate Tremaine. Who are you?”

  He took off his hat, showing short-cropped brown hair streaked with gold, and inclined his head. “Lieutenant Will Prescott. I’ve been ordered to patrol this part of the park with my men.”

  So that was how Harris was going to manage the vast acreage. Since his arrival, his men had been busy battling the wildfires raging over parts of the park. Wear claimed they had been set by his enemies. She knew better, and she’d been on her guard lest the same trouble start here. Having her own set of cavalrymen patrolling the natural wonders might be useful, so long as they didn’t blunder in where they shouldn’t.

  “Glad to have you,” Kate said. “Feel free to stop by for dinner. But mind your step in the future. Do you have any idea how hot that mud is?”

  “More than one hundred and fifty degrees,” he said with a glance at the nearest bubbling pot, which helpfully belched out another cloud of steam. “At least, that’s what the guidebook claimed.”

  Kate snorted. “Guidebook? Which one did they give you? Wylie isn’t too bad, though you have to watch his directions or you could end up going over the falls. Don’t get me started on Dabney. That man hasn’t moved off his sofa in thirty years, much less toured Yellowstone.”

  He knocked mud off the heel of his black boots. Most of the cavalry officers wore spurs, the silver or brass winking and rowels chiming as they walked. His boots were bare.

  “I’ve noticed,” he said. “It’s not easy to find your way around here.”

  So her guests claimed. She had no such trouble, but she’d lived here for more than five years now, ever since Toby had convinced her to use the money her parents had left her to purchase the concession license for the inn.

  “Think of the plateau as a big circle,” she advised him. She nodded toward the inn, where a group of her most recent guests had come out onto the wide front porch to gaze at the grandeur. “We sit in the lower part of a basin filled with geysers, some twenty miles south of Mammoth Hot Springs and your commanding officer’s tent city. South another five miles, and you’ll reach Old Faithful, one of the biggest geysers in the park and the most reliable for timing. Directly east of us across the plateau is Yellowstone Lake and beyond that the Absaroka Range. And all around you’ll find crystal clear creeks, roaring rivers, and thundering falls.”

  “And grizzlies, buffalo, and scalding water,” he added.

  She wouldn’t let him see the chill that went through her at the mention of the humpbacked bear. A stampeding herd of buffalo and the thermal dangers of the park could be avoided. No matter how carefully she moved, she was always aware a grizzly could be waiting around the bend. Danny might chafe under her restrictions, but she wasn’t about to lose her son too.

  “All that as well,” she agreed with the cavalryman. “And you fellows better start building cabins, because those canvas tents you brought will never see you through a Yellowstone winter.”

  Before he could answer, she felt it, the faintest of rumblings under her leather boots. She grabbed his arm with her free hand. “Move.”

  He frowned at her, more than six feet of muscle holding him in place. “Why?”

  The rumble shook her legs. Didn’t he feel it too? Kate tightened her grip and yanked. “Now!”

  He stumbled forward, catching her in his arms and forcing the rifle away from them both. For one moment, their gazes touched, held, and something whooshed through her, like the pressure building under the earth. His eyes widened as if he’d felt it more surely than the rumbling beneath them.

  Then Morning Geyser let loose.

  The spray shot into the air, double the height of her two-story hotel. Water pattered down a few feet beyond them, hard enough to splash fresh mud on his knee-high boots. She could hear the oohs and ahhs from her guests on the porch.

  The man holding her looked as awed. She thought she must too, but it wasn’t the geyser’s power that had shaken her. She’d been married for seven years, been a widow for one. Any romantic feelings had been buried with Toby’s mangled body. God understood she had work to do, a son to raise, a park to protect. Why did this man make her want more?

  Will Prescott watched as the woman with midnight black hair pulled out of his embrace and tightened her grip on her gun. Wasn’t there some myth about a goddess of the hunt, protecting the animals and forests? Even her practical fitted blue bodice and wide poplin skirts couldn’t quite erase the image from his mind. But more important was her ability to predict the geyser’s eruption. It was well known Old Faithful was reliable. He doubted this one was.

  “How did you know?” he asked.

  Her misty gray eyes looked as heated as the spray that had just erupted feet away from them. “You live in a place long enough, you learn things about it. But if you don’t stay away from the hot springs, you won’t live long enough to learn.”

  He couldn’t argue. He’d been part of the cavalry for more than ten years, all of them out on the frontier. He’d faced determined warriors, wily outlaws, and angered bears. Yellowstone was like nothing he’d ever seen, marvel after marvel. Small wonder the first trappers and explorers to tell of encountering the place hadn’t been believed.

  Much like Captain Harris hadn’t been believed when he’d asked for scouts.

  “We must protect thousands of acres,” he’d written to Washington. “I have three experienced guides ready to help. We can’t cover so much territory quickly without them.”

  The answer had been swift. “Pay is authorized for one guide. Your men must learn the country.”

  He’d been here a month, and he still got lost riding between the outposts. Captain Harris had stationed details at six locations, the most popular tourist spots like the lower geyser basin. If Will was to protect his portion of the park, much less his men, he had to do better.

  Of course, he’d been telling himself that for the last five years, ever since he’d made the gravest error of his life.

  He shook away the ugly memory. It had been a long, hard climb back to lieutenant from where he’d been justly demoted. He had a job to do now, and he intended to do it.

  “I wasn’t trying to steam myself into pudding,” he told Mrs. Tremaine as they headed for her hotel. It was a welcoming place with green shutters on the windows and a covered porch wrapping around three sides. With the nights growing colder, he envied her the building’s warmth. “I was riding by and saw someone throwing sticks into the pots.”

  She pulled up short. “Who?”

  He pitied the fellow if he met her and her rifle with that fiery look in her eyes. “I only caught a glimpse before he ran off. Tall man, top hat, black coat too fancy for out here.”

  “Ponsonby,” she said. “He’s staying at the hotel. Came with a group from New York the day before yesterday. I’ll speak to him.”

  He eyed the rifle cradled so casually against her. “Armed?”

  She grinned. “If necessary.”

  His mouth felt odd, and it was a moment before he realized why. The muscles of his face were rusty. How long had it been since he’d
smiled?

  He forced his gaze away from her to the hotel. His horse was tied to the hitching post in front, the sorrel mare unaffected by the other horses around her. Bess was a good cavalry horse—the sound of gunfire didn’t trouble her, those powerful legs could push her into a full run in a matter of seconds, and she could sustain that pace for nearly a half hour without tiring. Now her ears twitched as if she heard him coming.

  Or maybe she was as intrigued as he was by the woman at his side.

  Once more he pushed away his thoughts. He had much to atone for before he could be called a gentleman again. Sometimes he feared even God couldn’t forgive what he’d done. He was fortunate the Army had been willing to let him start over.

  Though it appeared as if Mrs. Tremaine might have to start over as well. Up close, it was clear the hotel needed work. A few of those jaunty shutters hung crookedly, as if bent by a strong wind, and the porch steps sagged as three gentlemen and their wives traipsed down them for the coaches that had just drawn up. It couldn’t be easy managing a busy hotel, especially for a widow.

  Bess raised her head as the front door banged open, and a towheaded youngster dashed out onto the porch.

  “Mama!”

  Correction: A widow with a child. The hotel owner drew up as the boy clambered down the steps. A slender lad about seven with wide eyes and a stub of a nose, he hitched up his short trousers as he skidded to a stop in front of Will and Mrs. Tremaine. “I was thinking about showing Mr. Ponsonby our special spot.”

  Mrs. Tremaine glanced at Will before gathering her skirts with her free hand and crouching before her son. “What did we agree on, Danny?”

  The boy shuffled his booted feet, gaze on the dusty golden soil. “Our special spot is just for us.” He spoke in a singsong voice, as if repeating what he’d heard many times before. “But he likes buffalo.”

  “Lots of people like buffalo,” his mother countered. “In stew, with their heads mounted on walls, with their hides spread out on floors. We don’t want any part of that.”