by Janet Fox
Graybull snapped the reins and brought me out of my reverie. “Not too far now to the range.” The horse picked up its pace.
The range was primitive and barren. While I had a good eye for the target, I found the rifle heavy and tiring to hold. But Graybull grew increasingly animated as I grew more restless and exhausted. He especially enjoyed steadying my arm. At one point, I couldn’t help thinking about Tom standing that close to me and the warmth that flooded me caused me to miss the target altogether.
After a while, clouds masked the sun and the temperature dropped. Rain threatened as a low rumble of thunder echoed through the mountains. I protested that I was growing bruised from the rifle butt in my shoulder and was relieved when Graybull finally took the hint. On the way back to the hotel, he waxed enthusiastic about my “native ability with the gun.”
I tried not to laugh. It wasn’t as if I’d ever shoot anything. “You enjoy the out-of-doors? Of course you must. Why we get along so famously, I expect. We shall have to explore more together. Skeet shooting is a fine sport. Have you any favorite activities?”
I thought about Ghost. I sighed, missing him. “I love to ride.”
“Riding. Very civilized. How many horses do you have?”
“None, at the moment.” I didn’t try to hide my bitterness, and loss filled me as I looked over this landscape. Ghost would like this place. It would be beautiful to ride here, beneath those dark blue mountains with their snowcaps, to weave among the pines, the forest silent and expectant.
“Perhaps that will change. In the west and all that.” He glanced at me sideways, but I turned my head away from him.
Graybull insisted upon buying lunch. Papa joined us, much to my relief, and was talkative, having moved our belongings into our permanent lodgings. It was the perfect excuse to leave Graybull at last—to go unpack my things.
The little frame house we’d moved into was solid and plain. Behind the small parlor to the left of the door Papa had commandeered the dining room. His papers were spread over the table, a crate of books lay in the middle of the floor, and rolled blueprints were stacked in the corners.
I recalled the golden light that played across his drafting table at home in Newport, the papers strewn across the two broad, oak assistants’ desks, the bustle that attended important projects. The parlor there was large enough for our fancy-dress party at Christmas, and for my sixteenth birthday party only last year. I could still see the Tiffany lamps, Stickley chairs, and the cozy niche near the fireplace where I’d lie on green velvet while Mama read to me.
All of that was gone—the velvet, the oak, the bustle, Mama. Replaced by bare walls and tiny rooms and the absence that was the largest hole in my life and my greatest longing. Sometimes this past year, back in Newport, I’d wake up in the earliest dawn and in my half sleep I had forgotten that she was gone; my eyes would catch the familiar room, my wardrobe, my window, and I’d think she was still there with me. Here in this stick house in the wilderness, there would be no dreaming.
These small dreary rooms were outfitted with dark mahogany. My bedroom, upstairs, was tiny, with one window looking out at the parade grounds. And with Papa’s work spread out through the dining room, we’d have to eat in the kitchen. At least with no servants or cook, no one would be in our way.
I stood in the doorway and sighed, leaning my head against the frame, sagging against it. We were setting roots in Yellowstone.
Oh, Mama. I miss you so. If you hadn’t left me, we’d be in the midst of planning the second-biggest event of my life. I wouldn’t be tolerating a George Graybull or a tacky house. I wouldn’t be subject to a father who’d lied to me. I wouldn’t be stranded out here, friendless . . .
I stopped myself. Not friendless. I had Tom. My heart skipped a little beat. Yes, there was Tom.
Chapter SEVENTEEN
July 3, 1904
Can I say of her face—altered as I have reason to remember it, perished as I know it is—that it is gone, when here it comes before me at this instant as distinct as any face that I may choose to look on in a crowded street?
—David Copperfield, Charles Dickens, 1850
“THERE’RE TO BE FIREWORKS, AND A DINNER, AND A BALL with an orchestra from Bozeman!” Gretchen Mills was breathless after her recitation.
Ten days had passed since we’d moved into the cottage. I unpacked trunks and set about placing our tiny house in order, and got to know Gretchen, who lived with her officer husband and their girls in the adjoining apartments. Now Gretchen and I sat in the Millses’ parlor, watching her daughters play with their dolls and discussing plans for the next evening, the fourth of July.
There was a sense of camaraderie among these inmates on Officers’ Row. They packed a busy social life into the short summer. I liked Gretchen. She was sweet, if a little sheltered, wrapped up in the life she made for her family, and she was the first woman other than Mrs. Gale to really befriend me here.
Gretchen chattered on. “I ordered a new dress from the Elite catalogue. It arrived the other day. Would you like to see it?”
I smiled and nodded. It was nice to talk of fashion and put aside my worries for the moment. Left alone with the two children while Gretchen fetched the dress, I watched as they buttoned tiny waists and laced miniature shoes, pretending to be little mothers. I had a doll—Sara Jane—with a bisque head and auburn hair and a wardrobe full of handmade clothes. She had her own bentwood cradle, painted black, all curls and arches, and a place of honor in my room.
I swallowed hard. She was gone with all the rest of my things. I felt weary with loss.
Gretchen returned with a summery, embroidered, white lawn dress with a pale blue satin girdle at the waist.
I fingered the satin. “It’s lovely.” I sighed. I would have liked something new. We’d packed so quickly for this trip. Many of my gowns were—where? Had Papa sold my clothes with everything else? By all rights, I should have an entire new wardrobe, ordered especially for my season; instead I had things that were beginning to show wear. I wasn’t very handy with needle and thread. I’d never had to master those skills. I wondered what I would wear to the ball the next evening. I supposed I could wear the green silk again. Especially since Graybull, who had already seen me in it, was off on his hunting trip, to my immense pleasure.
“All the young officers will be at the ball tomorrow,” Gretchen said. “Including several unmarried men.” She giggled. “I met my husband at a ball in Washington.”
Oh, heavens. I smiled at her expense; the last thing I wanted to do was marry an officer. The thought was appalling. There were no military families in our crowd at home. I hoped she took my smile for encouragement.
She did, nattering on about possible suitors for me. None of which were realistic, of course. I allowed myself to daydream about what I thought of my prospects. I’d only just begun to realize the great divide between wealth and passion. I could marry for one or marry for the other, but I realized it was rare to marry for both. That love who stood next to me on a high cliff, he was what I wanted, wasn’t he? Practical Kitty might have said, fine, but money is an excellent cushion if you should fall.
Edward? I’d written him twice during the journey out here, before Papa revealed that we were staying here permanently. He hadn’t responded. I suspected he had heard news of my situation from Kitty by now. The kiss last summer seemed like a distant dream.
Graybull. As Papa said, he had the status and money. He could return me to the proper circles. I watched Gretchen as she talked; watched her girls. I saw in my mind’s eye Graybull and the way his tongue pushed into the gap in his teeth, the steely way he held his shoulders, the way his hand grasped my arm as if I were something to be steered and controlled, like an unruly horse. I shuddered and rubbed my forearms.
Tom. He couldn’t possibly be a suitor. He didn’t have two nickels to rub together. He teased me incessantly and thought me a snob. There was no future there for me. But still. Tom. I could not avoid thinking of him.
His eyes, like the sea. When he looked at me, I felt as if our souls met. That funny lock of hair that wouldn’t stay put, that I kept wanting to touch, to brush aside. That lanky stride, and his hands that could cup both of mine . . .
“Oh, Maggie, how you blush!” Gretchen giggled. “I assure you, these officers are gentlemen, though they do love to dance.”
I smiled back. I wasn’t thinking about dancing.
The nanny bustled in to fetch the girls for a nap and I felt a twinge of jealousy. The senior officers were provided with help. Papa and I were managing alone, and I’d never been in a home without servants, let alone managed one. Cook would have laughed herself silly at some of my dreadful attempts in the kitchen. And cleaning . . . Gretchen was only an officer’s wife and she had a nanny and a maid.
Gretchen leaned over and patted my hand. “I’m so happy you’re here. Most of the wives are older—it’s exciting to have someone new and almost my age. You’ll have coffee, won’t you? My maid’s just come back from one of her protracted vacations—honestly, you’d think she’d appreciate the position, and not dash off at a moment’s notice! Kula!” Gretchen called. “Where is that girl? She’s always disappearing when I need her. Kula!”
Someone stirred at the door, and I met the eyes of a girl only a little younger than me. I knew her at once, though I’d only seen her at a distance. Both the coal-black braid and her bearing were unmistakable. She was the girl from Mammoth, that first day, and then again from the Wylie tent camps. Her skin was the color of tea-stained cloth and her eyes were dark, almost black. Clearly, Gretchen was right; she had no thought for her station and wore her pride, which bordered on insolence, like a badge.
“Fetch the coffee, girl, for pity’s sake!” said Gretchen, and the girl swept from the room. “I don’t know what to do with her. Her manners are appalling. She takes off for days at a time, never mind her responsibilities. I’m going to ask Timothy if he can find her other employment in the Park.”
The girl came back with the coffee and dropped the tray on the table so that the cream slopped and the cups clattered. I leaned back quickly as the cream splashed across the table.
“Careful, Kula!” Gretchen chided. “Honestly!”
The girl stood erect and stared boldly at Gretchen. She was haughty; it was obvious she resented her position. I tried to catch her eye, but she glared at me and flipped her long braid over her shoulder and left. There was something about her movements that joggled my memory.
“Who is she?”
“Kula? Just some girl who works for people here. Indian.” I heard my grandmother’s voice in Gretchen’s comment and the disdain that she, too, would have expressed. I shifted, uncomfortable. Tom’s words echoed through me: “white man’s way.”
Kula. “She seems young.”
“Perhaps. I really have no idea. It would explain her careless ways. Still, she’d better learn to mind her business.”
For the rest of the visit, my mind drifted to Kula. I no longer listened to Gretchen; but she didn’t seem to mind, wanting nothing more than an audience.
I compared myself with Kula, imagining myself in her shoes. Kula would have no season; it never would have been a possibility. Her clothes were handmade, but not by a dressmaker. Her finest fabrics were calicos, not silks. She wouldn’t live in a grand house unless she served there. She had no expectation of privilege. And when she married, she’d marry for love alone.
I looked down at my crisp, taffeta skirt, touched Mama’s cameo, pushed my fingers up into my hair that was tucked into fat, ivory combs. Why was I needled by guilt? Or for that matter, checked by fear? I could avoid the hard landing if I fell. I had options—Kula did not.
I twisted my hands in my lap and looked at the white dress on the chair next to Gretchen, and leaned over to fondle the blue silk ribbon. I’d always expected to have beautiful things in my life. I’d been brought up expecting to be surrounded by expensive things. I’d never thought of myself as a beautiful and expensive thing, but seeing Kula had cast a distorted reflection my way. I was like Ghost, pampered and spoiled and able to be bought and sold to the highest bidder. In Newport, I thought I knew my track, that I had a say in how my life would be, but I was deceiving myself. I never had a choice. Here, all was laid bare. Marry well and live as expected or . . . Or what?
For the remainder of the afternoon I couldn’t shake these troublesome thoughts.
Chapter EIGHTEEN
July 4, 1904
Our music was the finest . . . On one occasion we had the ladies’ orchestra from Butte, Mont. . . . Our officers at different times added to the enjoyment of the occasion by appearing with their wives.
—“Bath’s Soldier Boy,” W. H. Walsh, in Bath (ME) Independent, 1895
THE INDEPENDENCE DAY DINNER AND DANCE WAS HELD in the National Hotel. The event was open to anyone with a dollar fifty to spend, and I could tell by the number of carriages out front that it was popular with the Wylie sagebrushers.
I looked for Tom but was disappointed not to see him in the crowd. Despite that, I felt lighthearted for the first time in Yellowstone. With Graybull off on his trip, at least I wouldn’t feel like his personal trophy, bought and paid for.
The cooks had prepared “a traditional American picnic,” with barbecued chicken and pork ribs, potato salad and biscuits, and apple cobbler for desert. Red, white, and blue bunting was strung through the chandeliers and along the front porch and the tables were set with red carnations. It might not have been the extravaganza of Mary’s ball with its millions of tiny electrics and handsome favors, but it was most festive and happy.
After dinner, the tables were removed as the orchestra set up at one end of the dining room. The weather was perfect and the windows were thrown open so that those on the porch could hear the music. There were enough giggly young women to capture the officers’ attentions. I danced, but could also sit out and watch. After one strenuous waltz, I retreated to the porch with my shawl loose about my shoulders.
“Evening, miss.” The voice I heard from behind slipped up my spine in the nicest possible way.
“Tom!” I spun around. I was so pleased to see him that I almost became a giggly young woman myself. “Have you been here all evening?”
“We’ve been working up near Gardiner the past week. Just got back.” He was dressed in clean, pressed pants, a starched shirt, and polished boots. Even his hair was slicked back from his face, the cowlick held firmly in place. I smiled and bit the inside of my lip to keep from grinning outright. He’d dressed up. I wondered if it was because of what I’d said. He looked handsome and dashing. “Have you been on the Tour yet?”
“Not yet.” I couldn’t stop looking at him.
“You’ll be astounded.” His smile was dazzling.
We stood on the porch together and I found it hard to believe that anything could be nicer than this moment. I had to turn away and look into the distance to keep from sinking into his eyes.
The last light of the day graced the peaks, on fire with red sunset. The sky above the mountains melted upward into deeper blue, like velvet. Steam from the springs curled up and vanished into the night air. A small herd of elk emerged from the hills behind the hotel and took up position for the night on the parade ground opposite.
I watched the sky darken above the hot springs and the stately elk grazing and thought about Mama’s paintings. Being here, seeing this, I saw the paintings differently now, in my mind’s eye. I recalled them as being close and accurate, not hellish. The amount of detail she had included—the color and texture of every rock, every leaf—I could feel her longing for this place. I understood why she was captivated by Yellowstone. It had a magic beauty.
Tom’s arm brushed my shoulder and my stomach turned somersaults and all those other thoughts vanished. Only inches between us, charged with energy, and I let my shawl slip a little so that I might feel that electricity through the silk of my sleeve.
The orchestra played a slow waltz and the la
ughter of revelers washed out through the windows and into the night. I wondered whether Tom would ask me to dance. I wished he would. I glanced at him and caught him watching me. We both blushed and looked away.
“They’ll have fireworks soon,” Tom said.
“I guess that’ll send the elk flying.” I laughed.
Tom stepped away, feigning shock. “She laughs!”
I couldn’t erase the silly grin from my face.
“You have a nice laugh. You should try it more often.”
“I haven’t had much reason to laugh lately.” I looked at him. Tom made me feel like laughing; Tom made me happy.
“I’m glad to see that’s changing.” He looked at me, serious, with those sea-gray eyes. I felt the warmth in my cheeks rise and turned to watch the soldiers begin to set up the fireworks display.
“There won’t be any bears at the backdoor tonight,” Tom said. “No matter what scraps they’ve tossed, the fireworks will scare all the wildlife away.”
No bears. Good. I drew my shawl up over my shoulders. “I wish people wouldn’t do that. Feed the bears.” I shuddered as I recalled the grizzly’s flat but mesmerizing eyes.
Tom turned and faced me, his eyebrows raised. “You listened to me. I appreciate that.”
I wasn’t motivated by the naturalist instinct, as he imagined, but by my fear. I wouldn’t let him know that. It felt wonderful to have his approval. “You’re a good teacher.” We exchanged a long look in which time seemed to stop before I had to drop my gaze. He did not look away, but lifted his hand toward mine.
“Would you like to dance?”
At last! I raised my head to agree just as the music stopped. Disappointment flooded me as he dropped his hand. I gave a small shrug. “Next time, I guess.” Next time, if we danced, I feared I’d become lost in his arms.
