by Regina Scott
“When I’m finished,” he snapped. He turned for the formation, where the first three letters of his last name had been etched in the hard-baked mud.
Could her temper climb any higher? “Do you know how many years it will take to cover that?”
“Decades, one would hope,” he replied, intent on chiseling the next letter.
Oh, for her rifle! But then, perhaps she shouldn’t have a gun in her grip when she was already tempted to strangle him with her bare hands!
“That’s enough, mister.”
The gravelly voice behind him made her guest turn. Lieutenant Prescott stepped up beside her, but his gaze was on the vandal.
“I am not under your command, sir,” Sir Winston said with a curl of his lip.
“No,” Lieutenant Prescott allowed, “but an Act of Congress gives the Army jurisdiction over this park. I hereby arrest you for defacing government property.”
Kate wanted to shout, to cheer, to wrap her arms around him and hug him close.
Well, maybe not that.
She allowed herself only a grin as he collared the still-protesting Sir Winston and forcibly marched him off the field.
“This is an outrage,” her guest sputtered. “I am a British citizen. Your laws hold no power over me.”
“I don’t think your queen would see it that way,” Lieutenant Prescott told him as they approached the hotel. Elijah, loading trunks onto the stagecoach, raised a brow as they passed, and Caleb, holding the horses, stared outright.
“Are you going to lock him up, Lieutenant Prescott?” Danny asked from the porch.
Sir Winston shrugged out of his grip. “He is not. I refuse to be manhandled.”
“Too late,” Kate said, unable to stifle her glee. “I’ll send your regrets to England.” She turned to the lieutenant. “I know you haven’t had time to build a jail yet, but you can use the laundry or the root cellar to hold him if you like.”
Sir Winston took a step back. “Root cellar?”
Lieutenant Prescott inclined his head, face firm but the faintest light brightening his moss-colored eyes. “You are too kind, Mrs. Tremaine, but I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you or your staff. It will have to be one of our tents, though the accommodations are sadly lacking compared to your fine establishment. I’m not sure we can spare a bed, but since Sir Winston is so fond of the formations, he likely won’t mind sleeping on the ground.”
“Oh, I say,” Sir Winston protested.
Lord and Lady Cavell and their daughter must have heard something of the ruckus, for they came out onto the veranda, their servants right behind. Her ladyship and her daughter gasped, hands pressed to the fine muslin over their chests.
His lordship stepped forward. “See here. What is this all about?”
Lieutenant Prescott kept his gaze on his quarry. “This fellow decided to carve his name into government property. There’s a penalty for that.”
Sir Winston threw his hands in the air. “It was only a mud pot!”
Lord Cavell snorted. “What can it possibly matter if he carves his name on that?”
Kate glared up at him. “The park is set to claim more than four thousand visitors this season. How do you think those formations would look with four thousand names carved on them?”
“Well, I . . .” He glanced from Kate to the lieutenant, then squared his shoulders. “I see your point. Be a good chap, Winston, and apologize.”
Sir Winston looked to the man he obviously hoped might be his father-in-law one day and swallowed. “Yes, of course. A terrible mistake. It won’t happen again.”
Kate wasn’t sure she believed him, but she looked to Lieutenant Prescott. His impassive face gave away none of his thoughts.
“As housing you would inconvenience my men,” he said, “I’m inclined to let you off with a warning. But if I hear one more complaint about your behavior—from Mrs. Tremaine, her staff, or any other occupant of the park—I will see that a formal reprimand is sent to your queen. Understand?”
Sir Winston nodded so quickly he might have dizzied himself. “Certainly. I’ll just get on the coach now.” He hurried to suit word to action.
Danny applauded. So did Miss Cavell and her mother.
Lieutenant Prescott’s brows rose in obvious surprise, but Kate didn’t have a chance to see the rest of his face before she wrapped her arms around him and hugged.
Heat rushed up Will, and not just because of the applause from the hotel guests and Danny. Kate Tremaine was hugging him as if he’d done something tremendous, as if he was worthy of her admiration.
Gently, he pulled back. “Thank you, ma’am. But I was only doing my duty.”
The glow in her gray eyes said otherwise. “And nicely done at that. Yellowstone has its own knight in shining armor.”
She wouldn’t say that if she knew the truth about him.
Miss Cavell and her mother came down the steps, Lord Cavell right behind and the servants trailing after. The ladies simpered at him as if he was a great hero. The manservant offered him a nod of approval.
“Valiantly done, sir,” Miss Cavell said, going so far as to lay a hand on his arm.
“Don’t be late for your coach, dear,” Mrs. Tremaine said.
Miss Cavell’s smile faded, but she suffered herself to continue with her mother.
“Lieutenant,” her father said as he passed.
Will watched as Elijah helped them all into the stagecoach. The things were designed so that the windows held no glass or shutters. They could seat six to eight tightly packed inside, while others could ride on the roof. He’d seen as many as ten crowded together. That wouldn’t be the case with the Cavell party, of course. They had sufficient funds to tour in style. Miss Cavell took out her handkerchief and waved it at him as Elijah drove them out of the yard. Caleb sent him a shy smile before heading back to the barn.
Will turned his attention to Mrs. Tremaine, whose eyes were narrowed on the coach as if she could will it out of the park.
“Let me know if you have any further trouble,” he told her.
Face clearing, she looked up at him. “Oh, I will. And please remember my invitation. You are welcome to dine with us anytime.”
“I appreciate the offer.” But perhaps it would be best if he refused from now on. He excused himself and went to see to Bess. The mare eyed him as if she understood full well he was running away.
“At least you know me,” he muttered to his mount.
And whose fault was it that his closest confidante was his horse?
Will sighed as he rode back toward his camp. Even now, the vast lands of the park seemed to settle around him. The elk had gone; the dusty road was empty to the north. No hawk called overhead. It was all too easy to feel alone.
But being alone was a decision in the Army. Despite Captain Harris’s admonitions, Will chose to spend more time among his men than the typical cavalry officer would. He’d learned a number of things about them. Lercher had a fondness for cinnamon. Franklin still wasn’t easy in the saddle. O’Reilly had a sweetheart who wrote to him at least once a week. They each had reasons for being in the Army. Lercher and Waxworth wanted promotion, O’Reilly a way to distinguish himself, Franklin the opportunity to move into the engineering corps, and Smith, if Will was right, the chance to begin a new life. As their superior, he could help them reach those goals.
Unfortunately, he knew more about them than any of them knew about him. Becoming close, to anyone, held challenges. Captain Harris had reviewed his service record, but Will’s men were in ignorance, as far as he could tell. At least no one had asked why a second lieutenant had made rank without earning his spurs, something even new recruits strived to do in their first few months. He could not confess how he’d earned them and lost them. His men had joined the regiment since that fateful day eight years ago, and most of the remaining parties involved had moved on. No one was left to tell the ignoble tale, unless he opened his mouth. So he didn’t open it any more than necessary.
> A shame that didn’t stop him from remembering.
6
Will Prescott did not come to dinner. Kate wasn’t the only one who noticed.
“I thought Lieutenant Prescott was joining us,” Alberta said as she ladled some stew in a bowl for Danny.
“He has work to do, same as us,” Kate said, filling a cloth-lined basket with more of Alberta’s buttermilk biscuits for the guests in the dining room beyond.
“I saw him ride by,” Danny offered, perched on the chair at the worktable and foot swinging. “He didn’t stop.”
His disappointment echoed inside Kate. “He probably noticed there were no visitors on the geyser field. No reason to stop.”
Alberta humphed. “A man needs to eat. My Joe always remembered that. Mr. Tremaine as well, God rest their souls.”
Kate offered her a smile. Alberta had lost husband and son to the War Between the States. She’d been serving as a cook at a boardinghouse in her native Ohio when she’d seen an ad about a position in Yellowstone. Kate had asked her once why she’d taken such a chance, moved so far from everything she’d ever known.
“Too much darkness in my life back then,” she’d said. “I wanted to spend the rest of my days surrounded by beauty.”
She couldn’t have chosen a better place, to Kate’s mind.
Her latest visitors seemed to agree. Elijah had driven the Cavells and Sir Winston out of the park and would likely stay at least a day or so with his wife and son near Cinnabar. But the Wakefield and Hoffman stage driver had brought another eight visitors. They’d hurried out of the coach, chatting eagerly. From what they’d written in the guest book, they intended to stay only a night.
That was the way of the tourist trade in Yellowstone. Visitors came by rail to either Monida or Cinnabar, then traveled by coach, wagon, or pack train through the park for a week to ten days. Some camped. Most stayed in hotels. The stage companies escorted their groups from the rail station, through the park, and back. Some visitors who came on their own wrote ahead to secure a room. Others simply showed up at her door, expecting hospitality. Toward the end of the season, like now, she could more likely accommodate them.
As well as the circuit rider, Mr. Yates, who rode in just as the sun was setting that evening.
Mr. Yates was one of several ministers who traveled through the park each season. Kate was a little surprised someone hadn’t built a permanent chapel yet. Most of the circuit riders stopped at Mammoth Hot Springs and Old Faithful, but Mr. Yates had shown up at her door in June, and she’d given him permission to use the salon for services. He took his place before the stone hearth that morning, dark frock coat at odds with the natural colors of the stones. Her guests settled on the dining chairs, which Pansy and the other maids had lined up in front of him. Alberta and the rest of her staff slipped into the back row with Danny.
Kate stood in the doorway to the kitchen, drying dishes and only half listening as the minister opened in prayer and his makeshift congregation all bowed their heads. Beyond them, Will Prescott was coming in the front door. She thought he might join them, but he pulled up short, then gingerly backed out as if determined not to disturb the service.
A few moments later, the back door creaked as it opened, and she turned to find him edging inside.
“Didn’t want to bother your guests,” he said quietly.
She nodded, but she drew a deep breath, as if the warm kitchen was filled with the heady scent of roses rather than the familiar smell of Alberta’s oatmeal. Odd that having him here made her feel more comfortable in her own kitchen.
He moved cautiously toward her around the big worktable, and she closed the door as Mr. Yates began reading from the Psalms. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
She smiled against the tug of the words. She and Danny did not want for shelter or food, and she was grateful. But both were predicated on keeping the inn running smoothly.
“I can finish drying if you’d like to be out there,” Lieutenant Prescott said.
Kate chuckled. “I’m not about to waste your help on something Danny and I can manage on our own. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To offer your time?”
Something crossed behind his eyes. “Of course.”
Now, why did that disappoint her? What other reason could he have for appearing in her kitchen?
Kate focused on her list. “Next is the chimney here in the kitchen. Alberta says it’s not drawing properly. Can you fix it? Unless you want to attend services yourself.”
“No, thank you.” He began unbuttoning his coat. “But excuse me while I shuck this off. I need to keep my uniform clean of soot. Not much opportunity for laundry.”
“Have one of your men come use ours,” Kate offered, trying not to notice the play of muscle as he pulled the coat off his shoulders. “Saturdays and Tuesdays we generally have less.”
“Thanks. I guess that means we’ll owe you more hours.”
Kate grinned. “I guess it does.”
As he draped his coat on a chair, she put the dish away and picked up another from the towels in the center of the table. Mr. Yates’s sermon was no more than a buzz beyond the door.
Lieutenant Prescott approached the massive stone hearth on the outside wall and twisted to put his head inside and look up. The low fire below him lit his profile and reflected pink on his cotton shirt.
“Something’s partially blocking it higher up,” he said, voice echoing. “Hand me a broom.”
Kate went to the corner cupboard, where the brooms and mops were stored, and brought him back a long-handled broom. Clutching the corn at the base, he shoved the stick up into the flue—once, twice.
The buzzing grew louder, and it was a moment before she realized Mr. Yates wasn’t shouting at her guests. Like black smoke, wasps poured from the opening.
Kate grabbed Will’s arm and tugged him back, then ran to the rear door of the kitchen and threw it open. “Get out!” she shouted at the swarm. “Go on!”
The wasps circled the kitchen, an angry cloud of frustration, and she seized one of the other brooms to defend herself. But they arrowed for the door and disappeared into a cloudy sky.
Kate lowered the broom and drew in a breath. Will was eying the fallen remains of a wasps’ nest, the papery shell flaming in the fire. A few stragglers crawled out to take off up the chimney.
“I didn’t mean to kill them.”
His tone was stricken, raising an answering ache inside her. Setting the broom aside, she closed the distance. “Were you stung?”
His face was pale, his eyes unfocused. Alarmed, she touched his arm. “Lieutenant Prescott? Will? Are you all right?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Fine.”
Gently, Kate turned him to face her. He looked past her, as if he couldn’t meet her gaze.
“It’s all right,” she said. “I know I scolded your men for even thinking about harming the wildlife, but this was an accident.”
“They’re still dead.” So was his voice, his aspect.
“No, they aren’t,” she protested. “Most went out the door. They’ll make another nest before winter. No harm done.”
His breath came in a gulp. “No harm done,” he repeated, as if desperate to believe the statement. “If that will be all, Mrs. Tremaine, I should go.”
He turned away from her before she could protest that he’d given her less than a quarter hour. Then she caught sight of the swelling red welt on his neck.
“Hold on there, Soldier,” she ordered. “You’ve been injured.”
He frowned, and she pointed to his neck. “One of your foes left a mark. Sit over there. I have baking soda.”
For a moment, she thought he might refuse, but he went to perch on the chair that held his coat, and she was pleased to see color returning to his cheeks.
She went to grab the container. After shaking a bit in a bowl, she added enough water to make a paste and returned to him. As she pulled away the neck of his shirt, he tilted
his head to one side. The column of his neck was so smooth, so strong. A flutter faster than wasp wings started in her chest.
Silly. She’d tended Danny’s scrapes and stings, Toby’s bruises, the minor injuries of her guests. The work had never left her feeling warm and slightly dizzy. Perhaps the baking soda had gone bad. She sniffed the bowl and shook her head.
“Something wrong?” he asked as if he’d noticed her reaction.
“No,” she assured him, dipping up some of the paste to dab it on the welt. “Just feeling thankful. Considering how many there were and their agitation, it’s a miracle we weren’t stung more.”
“Well, it is Sunday,” he said. “Good day for miracles, if you believe in that sort of thing.”
She eyed him as she wiped her fingers off on the edge of the bowl. “You don’t believe in miracles?”
His gaze met hers at last, deep, dark, troubled. “Do you?”
She went to take the bowl to the big porcelain sink. “Maybe. This whole place is a miracle if you ask me—the colors, the geysers, the bison.”
“So why not attend services?” he asked.
Why not?
The question poked at her, demanded an answer. She turned, putting her hands behind her on the cool rim of the sink. He was watching her, head still cocked, shoulders slumped as if he’d ridden long and hard.
“I don’t know,” Kate admitted. “Toby, my husband, always went whenever a preacher came within riding distance. Now there’s one on the other side of that door, and I can’t seem to walk through.”
He straightened and dropped his gaze toward his black boots. “Easy to think you don’t belong.”
That wasn’t it. This was her home, her place. If she belonged anywhere, it was here. She knew some wondered whether she blamed God for Toby’s death. She didn’t. Toby had brought his death on himself. She still wished he’d listened to her that night, but Toby had always done what Toby wanted to do.
“We belong,” she told Will. “We just put other duty first. I don’t think God minds.”
We, she said, as if her conscience could possibly be as stained as his. He had a long way to go before he felt comfortable bringing his thoughts or his presence before God, even in a church as informal as the salon of the Geyser Gateway.