by Regina Scott
His sigh was heavy. “Yes. I helped Pansy empty the chamber pots, scrubbed the kitchen floor, and cleaned out the salon hearth.”
That was a lot of work for one morning, especially for a boy his size. His mother merely nodded. “Thank you. I expect Caleb could use some help chopping wood.”
He made a face. “Caleb always needs help chopping wood.”
The frustration in the boy’s voice pulled at Will. His mother too, for she sighed. “I know, Danny. There’s a lot of work to be done, but we have guests.”
He glanced up at Will. “Another one?”
He could almost see the weight on the child’s shoulders. He knew the feeling. He’d had to care for a mother grown weary from work after his father had died in the Civil War. How many times had he glanced out the window at other boys playing? He’d run off to join the military as soon as he was old enough. That wasn’t the last time he’d think only of himself. But not anymore.
He saluted the boy. “Lieutenant Prescott, reporting for duty, sir.”
The boy giggled. By the way Mrs. Tremaine smiled, she could do with hearing the sweet sound more often.
“I’m not a sir,” Danny said. “Ma is.”
He could well believe Mrs. Tremaine warranted a salute as well as she turned his way, face coloring. “I think your business here is done, Lieutenant.”
He ought to agree. He’d been riding by when he’d spotted Ponsonby out among the paint pots. The rest of his men were setting up their tents to the north, near the Fire Hole Hotel. He never liked it when he couldn’t see them, though this batch was handpicked and ought to be trustworthy. But an audacious idea had presented itself. He shouldn’t trust it either, but it might help him, his men, Mrs. Tremaine, and her son.
“I heard a rumor about the huckleberry pie at this establishment,” he said. “I’d be neglecting my duty if I didn’t try a slice.”
“Our cook Alberta makes good pie,” Danny agreed. He tugged on his mother’s arm. “We should give him a piece. He’s sort of a guest.”
Mrs. Tremaine readjusted the rifle under her arm. He’d have given a lot to know what was going on in her mind as she glanced from him to her son and back again.
“Go tell Alberta to cut a slice,” she finally told the boy.
His eyes lit. “A big slice?”
Her mouth turned up. “A big slice.”
“For me too?”
She laughed. “For you too. But you must save me a bite.”
“Deal.” He turned and ran for the hotel.
Kate Tremaine leveled her gaze on Will again, deadlier than the rifle she’d pointed at him earlier. “All right, Lieutenant. What do you want?”
He’d never been known for charm, but he had to try.
“You obviously care about this park,” he told her, “or you wouldn’t have come after me. If I’m to protect this part of Yellowstone, I need a guide.”
“Plenty of men will hire on for that,” she allowed. “I could recommend some.”
“I’m not authorized to hire anyone,” Will explained. “I need a volunteer.”
She shook her head. “With winter coming soon? No one has time to work for free.”
“What about pay in kind?” he pressed. “I do a favor for them, they do a favor for me.”
She wiggled her lips a moment. “Most men out here don’t much approve of favors. That’s why they came West—for the independence.”
Most men, but maybe not one woman. “But you have a hotel that must need work,” he replied. “As you said, winter’s coming.”
She bristled. He held her gaze, willing her to realize the truth of his statement. If she let him help, her son could be a boy again, and Will might find a little peace. The good Lord knew he needed that.
He stuck out his hand. “Deal?”
She stared at it, mouth once more working. He could almost feel the pride, distrust, and need colliding inside her. Finally, she took his hand, and her touch ricocheted up his arm to his heart.
“Deal,” she said.
And Will could only wonder what he’d just gotten himself into.
2
What had she gotten herself into?
Kate glanced at Lieutenant Prescott as they followed Danny into the hotel. His hat was tucked under one arm, his head slightly bowed, but he still walked across the plank floor with the command of a military officer. Would he take her direction about what needed to be fixed at the hotel? Since Toby’s passing, she had been in charge of the Geyser Gateway. She’d managed most of the work even when Toby had been alive, truth be told. But to enlist the aid of a stranger?
She shook herself. He was a means to an end. She, Alberta, the three maids, and young Caleb, who kept the animals and grounds, were worn enough as it was. And she wasn’t making enough of a profit to hire the work done, if she could find someone willing to come into the park this late in the year to work. She could only hope those shoulders were as strong as they looked.
And his offer was as honest as it sounded.
She caught him glancing around, slight frown gathering. What did he see to cause concern? The Geyser Gateway salon had high ceilings with massive wood beams holding an oil lamp chandelier. She’d recently lowered, cleaned, and refilled the lamps herself, so they glowed with a golden light. The fireplace was of stones gathered from the Firehole River, the grays, rusts, and tans complementing the wood of the walls. The burgundy upholstery on the two curved-back sofas flanking the hearth had been brushed, the blue-and-burgundy-patterned rug on the floor beaten. Through a wide archway directly ahead, the six tables—four big enough to seat eight guests apiece—were draped in smooth white linen Pansy had ironed only yesterday, and most of the ladderback chairs stood ready to receive their guests for dinner.
Alberta Guthrie had Danny at one of the smaller dining tables with a generous slice of pie in front of him. The cook had been working at the Geyser Gateway when Kate and Toby had taken over management of the property, and Kate had never regretted keeping her on. There was something warm and welcoming about Alberta, from her ample figure swathed in calico and a voluminous apron to her flyaway silver hair. She aimed a broad smile at the cavalryman, deepening the wrinkles around her mouth and bronze-colored eyes, as he and Kate approached.
“Why, Danny, you never said how handsome the lieutenant was,” she said, fluttering her lashes.
Danny looked up from his pie, fork in the golden crust. “Is he?”
Alberta’s gaze darted to Kate’s as if the cook was urging her to confirm the fact.
“Lieutenant Prescott has offered us help around the inn,” Kate said instead.
Alberta yanked out one of the chairs. “Well, that’s an answer to a prayer. You just sit right here, Lieutenant, and I’ll bring you the best pie you ever ate.”
Lips quirking as if he wasn’t sure how to respond to her welcome, he sat. Alberta bustled for the kitchen.
“Interior looks good,” he ventured as Danny dug into his pie.
Only because of the work she, Alberta, and the inn’s maids—Pansy, Sarah, and Ida—put in each day. There were always beds to air, linens to launder, dishes to wash, and floors to sweep. The white chalky dust from the geysers got into everything.
“We try,” Kate allowed, “but there are loose boards upstairs, and some of the mortar around the hearths needs replacing.”
“Make me a list,” he said.
He had no idea what he was offering.
Alberta returned and slipped a red-rimmed china plate down in front of him with one hand, extending a silver-plated fork with the other. “You take a bite and tell me if I’m a liar.”
He took the fork so cautiously it might have been a rattler. Alberta puffed out her chest as if she was holding her breath as he inserted the utensil into the flaky crust and brought the piece to his mouth, huckleberry juice dribbling a purple path across the plate.
He chewed a moment, then cocked his head. “You’re no liar.”
Alberta beamed at him.
Kate cleared her throat.
Alberta collected herself. “And one for you, Mrs. Tremaine. Right away.” The kitchen door swung shut behind her.
“No wonder your hotel is so busy,” Lieutenant Prescott said before forking up another mouthful.
Danny was halfway through his slice. “Really busy.”
“And aren’t we thankful for that?” Kate reminded him.
“Yes,” he said dutifully, but the word held considerable doubt.
“How long have you had the concession?” the lieutenant asked.
“This is our fourth season,” Kate confessed. “But we invested in the property before it was built. Captain Harris let us keep our lease until spring.”
Her annoyance at the decision must have sounded in her voice, for his fork paused as he hurried to assure her. “He’s reassessing every lease. He’ll decide come spring which to renew for ten years.”
“Ten years!” Oh, what stability. Kate leaned closer. “What’s his criteria?”
He shrugged, fork digging into the pie again. “Lack of complaints, compliance with the rules.”
Kate straightened. “We have always complied with the rules and more. And no superintendent ever heard a complaint about the service or quality of the Geyser Gateway. I mean to keep it that way.”
The cavalryman regarded her. “Did you approve of the previous superintendents?”
“Some,” Kate admitted. “Times have changed. Poachers, hunters, and vandals all moved in on the last two superintendents’ watch.”
“They’ll move out on ours,” he predicted.
She wanted to believe him, but she’d heard too many idealists claim what they’d do to help Yellowstone. Many left frustrated they couldn’t manage so vast a wilderness.
“We should agree on this deal,” she said as Alberta returned with her pie. Not quite as large as what she’d given to Danny or the cavalryman, Kate noticed as she sat.
As if Alberta had read her look, she tugged at one strap on the apron covering her broad chest. “We need to conserve if there’s to be enough for supper. We have thirty guests tonight, according to the book.”
The guest book on the front table listed everyone who had ever stayed at the Geyser Gateway. It held names of famous statesmen, artists, and natural philosophers. Kate’s favorites were the scrawled names of the children who came, eyes wide with wonder.
“Thirty guests plus the staff,” Kate confirmed.
With a nod, Alberta headed back to her domain. Lieutenant Prescott finished another bite of pie.
“I’ll make your list as soon as I can,” Kate told him. “What kind of help do you need from me?”
“I need to confirm the main places of interest in this area and the trails used to access them.”
It could take her days to ride around and show him all that. “I’ll draw you a map,” Kate said. “How many hours can you give me a day to work on the inn?”
His gaze went to Danny, who was scraping the last crumbs off the thick white china. “When I’m not on patrol, two or three.”
When was a cavalryman not on patrol? Was he trying to back out already? “How often will you be on patrol?”
“Four days out of every week, until the tourist season ends.”
“Early October, then.” Kate calculated in her head. “So, at least two dozen hours.”
“He could chop wood,” Danny said, glancing up at her, eyes bright.
How he tugged at her heart. And how easy it would be to let him do as he liked each day. But his future depended on him learning this business. And surviving.
“With you helping Caleb by stacking, I think we have a sufficient number of people working in that area at present,” she told him. “But six more cords should arrive in the next few weeks.”
Danny made a face and leaned closer to the cavalry officer. “And then we have to bring it in.”
A bit at a time to burn in the big stone fireplace. But that wood would stave off the chill of a Yellowstone winter, just as the coal in the coal shed fed Alberta’s big stove.
“So what do you have in mind for me?” Lieutenant Prescott asked her.
Was that a challenge she heard in his gravelly voice? That air of power might work on the privates under his command. She couldn’t be bothered. Already a dozen jobs cried out for her attention. She could set him to repairing the steps, straightening the shutters, replacing the cracked shakes on the roof. The kitchen chimney was smoking overly much, two of the guest room doors were sticking, and the barn could use a good cleaning before the last hay arrived to keep the horses and cows fed for the winter.
That was enough to fill a sizeable portion of the hours he’d offered, and she hadn’t even completed her list. Best to prioritize. Who knew how long he would be here or when he would decide he’d had enough of the work? The Army’s control of the park was only temporary, until the Department of the Interior and Congress decided on the next superintendent. She should take advantage of Lieutenant Prescott’s goodwill while she had it.
“I’ll let you know tomorrow,” Kate said, “when you return for your map.”
A map, she said. Will shook his head as he descended the veranda steps. Could any map possibly do justice to this wild place? The ones in the guidebook he’d been given were woefully inadequate. He could only hope Mrs. Tremaine’s would be better.
Bess nickered a welcome as he slipped his hat onto his head and came to untie her. Some of the high-ranking officers had horses with commanding names like Admiral and Emperor. He wouldn’t have traded his Bess for them. She was too reliable, too patient. She waited now as he swung up into the saddle. Then he set her at a trot toward the circuit road beyond the hotel.
When his commanding officer, Captain Harris, had assigned him to this portion of the park, he’d suggested finding a campsite closer to the Fire Hole Hotel. Now that Will had seen the Geyser Gateway, he could understand why. Mrs. Tremaine’s establishment was compact and tidy, and it likely appealed to the more genteel travelers. He didn’t foresee much trouble there.
The two-story Fire Hole Hotel and its flanking cottages, on the other hand, were part of a sprawling complex with a blacksmith shop and multiple stables and corrals. Between the stagecoaches coming and going and the camping companies and their parties moving through, the place had plenty of people who might cause trouble.
He could only hope his men wouldn’t be part of the problem.
The five privates assigned to him had the four tents set up at the edge of a meadow just south of the complex and hidden from it by a stand of pine. Captain Harris had divided his fifty men into seven roughly even groups, keeping one for himself at Mammoth Hot Springs, where Troop M of the First Cavalry was headquartered in the park. He’d sent the others out with a noncommissioned officer to patrol the most popular areas.
Will was the only commissioned officer who had been given the rough duty. He was the most junior officer after all, not counting his previous rank and years of service. Still, being out in the field gave him more opportunities to advance after his previous lapse in judgment.
At least Captain Harris had allowed him his pick of the men. Cavalrymen were, by and large, a motley crew. Frontier work was difficult, deadly. Those who joined as privates generally had something to prove or something to hide.
His men scrambled to attention as he reined in, then Waxworth broke rank to come hold Bess. The oldest of his men, the sharp-nosed private with dirty blond hair seemed to think the more he toadied up to Will, the greater his chances of making corporal at last. He’d volunteered to serve as cook, though Will doubted he could do much with the supplies the Army had sent with them.
“Everything as you ordered, sir,” Waxworth said as Will swung down.
“Jah, ve have a camp,” Lercher added from his place at the end of the line. The big, square-jawed German still mixed his v’s and w’s on occasion. At Lercher’s heavy-browed scowl, Waxworth hurried to the picket line with Bess.
Will gl
anced around the camp. Sitting at the north end of a meadow, the A-framed white canvas tents stood straight and true around a firepit recently dug, edged with rocks, and already heating a massive iron pot. A pile of dirt to the south spoke of a privy in progress. So did the muddy spades lying not far from Franklin, his most engineering-minded private, and O’Reilly, his most vocal. The horses were lined up along the picket, heads already in feed sacks as if lulled by the splash of the Firehole River just beyond. The saturnine Smith, the last of his privates, was watching them as if wondering how far he could ride before Will assigned him another task.
“Very good, Privates,” Will said. “When is dinner?”
“Half past five, sir,” Waxworth supplied, dashing back to the fire.
O’Reilly narrowed his green eyes. “And it’s sure to be pork and beans.” The Irishman spit on the ground as if not looking forward to the meal.
After that huckleberry pie, Will wasn’t much looking forward to it either. “Detachment dismissed until then, but remain in camp.”
They relaxed and went about their business. Waxworth bent over the fire and stirred the pot while O’Reilly and Franklin stowed their shovels. Lercher roamed the edge of the camp, picking up downed limbs for firewood. And Smith . . .
Heavier-than-regulation dark brown beard and mustache bristling, the lean cavalryman was pacing along the pines, rifle at the ready. Will hadn’t ordered a guard, but he didn’t call the man in. Smith tended to keep to himself at the best of times, and there were those in the park who resented the Army’s presence. It didn’t hurt to be watchful.
He’d been given a folding campaign table and canvas-backed chair, which someone had erected in front of his tent. He ignored both to sit with his men on the ground around the fire. The Army considered distance between officers and enlisted men important, a way to keep order. He wasn’t about to abandon his men, even by a few feet, not for long.
Dinner was hot and salty, and the memory of that huckleberry pie intruded again. Maybe he’d have a chance to eat more of the cook’s excellent handiwork when he was helping the Widow Tremaine. Nothing better than to eat good food with a beautiful, intelligent woman.