by Carla Kelly
“I needed that,” she said, her voice soft.
She turned back to the table, leaned on it, and started to sag. He helped her onto the stool he had vacated and she sat there, head bowed. Ramsay looked over his shoulder at Mrs. Boone. The cook motioned to him and he came to the prep table where she was rolling up sticky buns.
“Stay with her. The pies can wait,” the cook said.
“Am I doing the right thing?” he asked.
“Yes, if you do something about Millie Thorne.”
“What … what has Miss Thorne been saying?”
“That Carrie works on that second floor and spend her summers in the park trolling for a rich husband.” She slammed the unsuspecting buns, then stared in surprise at what she had done. “May have to do that section over,” she muttered. “What she could say keeps Carrie frightened.”
“What is it?”
“She’ll tell you.” Mrs. Boone turned back to her flattened sticky buns and shook her head. “Could be I have to give these to you, since I daren’t feed them to visitors.”
“I’ll never turn down a sticky bun, flattened or not,” he said, and returned to the pie table, where Carrie was doggedly rolling out pie dough again. He lifted the rolling pin from her fingers, took her hand and led her into the empty dining room, where he sat her down.
“I need to …” She started to rise.
“Mrs. Boone said the pies can wait. Finish your story and I’ll see what I can do to help you.”
She gave him a doubtful look, which he countered with a benign version of what his men called Sarge’s Stare. Apparently it worked on ladies too.
“There was blood everywhere, on the floor, on him, on me.” She shuddered. “I toed him just to make sure he was alive, and he grabbed my ankle. I’ve never been so frightened!”
Fifteen and no one to help you, he thought. He felt a great rage building inside him, but he knew better than to show it.
“I hit his hand with … something … and he let go,” she said, her breath coming faster. “I ran upstairs, yanked the pillowcase off my bed, stuffed everything I owned in it and ran outside. I ran like a crazy person.”
“You don’t have to run too far to run out of Bozeman,” he said.
Carrie smiled at that. “No! When I calmed down, I remembered something Mam told me the morning of the day she died.”
He waited, certain Carrie would speak when she was ready.
“She must have known something like this might happen. She told me that when things couldn’t get any worse, I was to go to the First Presbyterian Church on Babcock Street. I was to sit there and cry until someone helped me.”
She gave him a little-girl look that touched the deepest place in his heart. For a tiny second, she was a child again, and not the capable woman he was coming to know and already admired.
“You went there?”
“I couldn’t right then. It was only Saturday. I found a safe place in an alley between two ash cans and stayed there.” He watched her resolution return. “Had to convince a dog that I needed the spot worse than he did, and the scraps.” Her look softened. “Another dog, a big yellow one, came along and scared that one off. He curled up beside me and I stayed warm.”
He turned away then, trying hard not to cry. My word, he hadn’t cried in years. Carrie reached out and touched his arm lightly. “I’m sorry it’s such a grim story,” she said, apologizing to him.
“Please tell me it gets better soon,” he said.
“Not right away,” she admitted. “On Sunday morning I started for Babcock Street and the Thorne brothers found me.” Her breath came fast again. “They took me by my arms and dragged me into a warehouse. They sat me down hard into a chair, shouted so loud right in my face …” She sobbed out loud. “… and said if I ever breathed a word of what happened they would summon the magistrate and charge me with assault. They promised I would go to prison where worse would be done to me. Ramsay, I was fifteen!”
“That’s the limit!” Ramsay shouted and regretted his too-loud words immediately, because Carrie sank back against the table and put her hands over her ears.
“Never shout at me,” she said when she could talk. “Never shout or I will never speak to you again.”
“I won’t,” he said, dismayed to see how white in the face she was. “Never again.”
She looked toward the kitchen as if yearning to escape into pie dough and filling, a world she could control. Ramsay understood her longing, thinking of the mornings after that dark, endless age in the cave, killing and fighting to stay alive and keep his men alive too, wounded himself, blood everywhere.
“I had an awful time once when all I could do was count tiles in the hospital ceiling,” he told her. “I’m not proud of it, but I finally quit counting and went back to work.” He stood up. “Carrie, I won’t keep you here if you want to finish those pies. Accept my profoundest apology for frightening you.”
She gave him a patient glance, one he knew belonged exclusively in the domain of women. He had seen it at Wounded Knee and in the Philippines. “The pies can wait.” She patted the spot on the bench he had vacated. “Sit down, Sergeant Major.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, you!” she said and he heard her humor. It didn’t last long. “They terrified me and threatened me, but let me go. I ran to the Presbyterian Church, sat in the back row as the parishioners filed in, and cried every tear I had not cried since the first time my father beat me.” She spoke calmly. “Mr. Wylie and his wife took me home with them. It’s no wonder I admire that man.”
“I often think the acting superintendents see the Wylie Camping Company as a nuisance,” he said. “The Northern Pacific Railroad and the Yellowstone Park Association are powerful and would like to see him squashed. Funny, isn’t it? People with power always want more. Mr. Wylie is a good man, though.”
“I know. Then tell me why it is that so many people who can afford to stay in those fancy hotels like to camp with us?” she asked, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes cheerful again.
“Because that’s where the adventure in Wonderland lies,” he said promptly. “Mr. Wylie understands and more power to him.”
They gazed at each other with real charity. Somewhere in the back of his brain was Duty with a capital D, tugging on his sleeve and leaping about to get his attention. Ramsay looked at his timepiece.
“There’s more to your story, but you have pies to make and I have to see the manager of the Fountain Hotel about a bear that keeps staring in the first floor windows and sending old ladies into spasms.”
Carrie laughed and stood up. “I’d rather make pies! Yes, there’s more to my story, but it’s easier.” Her expressive eyes turned wistful. “I just wish Millie Thorne didn’t need to tell the world that I work on the second floor of the Railroad Hotel, because it’s a lie.”
“Is that one way the Thornes still try to keep you afraid?” he asked.
“It works.” She looked down at her shoe tops, but he could see that her face had gone rosy. “Rumor is that her awful cousin left Bozeman quietly because he was accused of … of interfering with young girls like me.” She looked up and Ramsay saw the quiet resolution on her face. “I was lucky.”
“It’s time you got luckier, Carrie,” he said. “You can’t always depend on a handy frying pan. I’ll see what I can do about Millie.”
He stood quiet and straight while she removed his Medal of Honor ribbon from her collar, hesitated a moment, then pinned it on his uniform.
“Thanks for the loan,” she said quietly. “I needed it.”
Chapter Fifteen
Carrie went back to rolling pie dough and Ramsay hung around until Bonnie Boone’s assistant took the oatmeal pan from the oven and cut him a square. He took out a nickel, but Bonnie glowered at him. She also gave him her version of The Stare when he tried to pay for the flattened sticky buns she handed him, securely bound into a pasteboard box.
“Give these to that motley crew of wo
rthless men at Norris soldier station,” she said gruffly, daring him to do anything about her philanthropy.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said and snapped off a salute worthy of a sergeant to a colonel, which made her giggle. Carrie laughed out loud back at the prep table, where she was pouring in apple pie filling now.
He stood there to watch her work and smiled when Mrs. Boone gave him a little shove against the small of his back, and sent him in the direction of the prep table.
“Nothing’s cooked yet,” she said, “but you know that.”
Carrie gave him her clear-eyed honest look, the one that made him wish he were the competent, capable, and thoughtful man she seemed to think he was. Who was he to tell her how he was floundering about his promotion, that stupid medal, a problem with wolves he knew was coming, and his own feelings at this very moment? Should he be the sergeant major, or maybe the friend he knew he was becoming? The push in Carrie’s direction that Bonnie gave him seemed to indicate he was wasting time.
He chose something between the two and held out his hand. Carrie wiped the flour off her fingers and shook his hand, a firm pressure that told him this was not a frivolous woman, if he ever had any doubts.
“Thanks for listening to me,” she said and looked away because her face was blushing. “I don’t usually spill the beans like that. Maybe it was the campfire.”
“That was it,” he said but then realized what a cowardly comment he had just made. “Nope. It was more than that. I pried into your life because I want to know you better, Miss Carrie McKay.”
“Did you find anything salvageable?”
What does a man say to that? Ramsay knew there wasn’t anything in that confounded etiquette book to answer her. Mentally he dumped the book into the Gardner River, watched it bob away and said, “Without question. See you around.” Before he lost his nerve, he kissed her cheek.
Her eyes opened wide in surprise, then grew small as her smile increased. “Was that scarier than taking the cave in the Philippines?”
He opened his mouth to assure her it wasn’t but changed his mind. “Yes. I only took that cave once. Have a good day, Carrie. I’ll see what I can do about Millie Thorne.”
He left the kitchen walking about a foot off the ground. Luckily, no one noticed. Xerxes might have had an opinion, but the big gelding declined any comment. Ramsay balanced the pasteboard box of slightly flattened sticky buns in one hand and managed to mount his horse with something close to skill. Too bad no one was watching. He started through the Willow Park meadow toward the Grand Loop road when he heard, “Wait up, Sergeant Major,” behind him.
He turned in the saddle to see Mr. Wylie himself riding toward him. He had watched the camping company impresario on the trail before, and admired the way he sat a horse. He knew Mr. Wylie had acquired a ranch in the Gallatin Valley and was no stranger to the saddle. Ramsay hoped he could still ride that elegantly when he was on the shady side of fifty.
“I trust you slept well enough last night, Sergeant Major,” Mr. Wylie said as his horse fell in step with Xerxes, who never minded company.
“I did, indeed, sir. You heading my way?” Ramsay asked.
“I’m going to the camp at Lake. I make my own circuit during the season.”
“I’ll keep you company to Norris station. I have to go on to Fountain after I visit with the men. Apparently there is a bear playing Peeping Tom in the windows of the hotel. Major Pitcher thinks convincing the bear to stop is a good use of my time.”
Mr. Wylie nodded. “You must admit that soldiering in Yellowstone probably bears—excuse that—bears no resemblance to life in another garrison.”
“No doubt,” Ramsay agreed. “Some of the men like it, some can’t stand it, but the park suits me. Well enough, anyway,” he added, thinking of winter and wolves that someone in the Department of the Interior thought needed to be killed. “No assignment is perfect.”
“I noticed you chatting with Carrie McKay last night,” Mr. Wylie said after two magpies stopped their harsh chatter and flew into the nearest lodgepole pine. “She’s a hard-working employee and I value her.” He sighed. “I’m at a bit of a loss to know what to do about Millie Thorne.”
Then it wasn’t Ramsay’s imagination or Carrie’s disquiet. “She seems to enjoy ruining reputations. Can’t you fire her?”
“Wish I could,” Mr. Wylie admitted. “Let me tell you what I think is going on.”
I was hoping someone would, Ramsay thought. “Be my guest,” he said, and slowed Xerxes.
“She told you how we found her?” Mr. Wylie asked.
“Said her mother told her to go to the Presbyterian Church and cry until someone helped her.”
“What a jolt that was,” Mr. Wylie said, slowing his horse even more. “There she was, covered in blood, hair wild, eyes terrified, shivering in the cold because she had snatched up a few possessions and run from the Railroad Hotel. Maybe she didn’t even own a coat.”
Ramsay thought of the tidy and self-possessed lady who had sat beside him at the campfire. As well as he claimed to have slept, he saw that fear as the last thing that crossed his mind before he slept, and the first thing in the morning.
“Mary Ann and I took her home immediately,” Mr. Wylie said. “My wife helped her clean up, gave her something to eat—she was a polite child, but she fell on that food. She slept around the clock, when she wasn’t covering her ears and crying out.”
“Oof. That’s an image,” Ramsay said, startled even though Carrie had shared her story. “She said the Thorne brothers found her, bullied her, and threatened her if she breathed a word of anything about what happened.”
“A more worthless young man never lived than George Thorne,” Mr. Wylie said. He reined in his horse. “Here we are at Apollinaris Springs. How about a drink?”
“It won’t be stiff enough,” Ramsay said as he dismounted and walked Xerxes to the spring. The men sat together on a log, sharing the tin cup chained to a spigot.
“Carrie said he was Millie’s cousin. Had he done this sort of thing before?” Ramsay asked.
“That’s the rumor,” Mr. Wylie said, drinking the last of the fizzy water. “John Thorne, who owns the Railroad Hotel, probably paid off the local constabulary to say nothing when women complained.” He shrugged. “George Thorne—what a useless waste of space! He mostly preyed on those second floor women, and who ever listens to them?”
“Even when they have an honest complaint,” Ramsay said, making it a statement and not a question. “Please tell me he’s in prison now.”
“Wish I could. As near as Mary Ann and I could find out, and believe me, we kept our inquiries discreet, he’s back East, doing what I don’t know, but I could probably speculate.”
“No justice for Carrie. Why is Millie Thorne even involved in this?” Ramsay asked. “For that matter, why didn’t anyone speak out?”
“John Thorne runs a business that, however shady, brings good revenue into Bozeman,” Mr. Wylie explained. “Millie’s father Alfred Thorne is a banker with considerable holdings in the Northern Pacific Railroad, which has its tentacles in the Yellowstone Park Association.”
Ramsay understood. “Everyone with a complaint would have to do battle with the man who holds the valley’s purse strings.”
“I am numbered among that cowardly roster,” Mr. Wylie said. “We all keep quiet because we need the goodwill of our banker. Who would believe anything Carrie has to say? I can only assume that Millie’s father sent her to keep an eye on Carrie, tell some lies, and make certain no one believes Carrie, if she decides to talk.”
“That’s a mean supper,” Ramsay said.
“It is,” Mr. Wylie agreed. “Carrie goes about her business with rumors hanging over her head.” He smiled, but there was no overlooking his wistful expression. “I can tell you that by the end of the summer, my employees who are paying any attention at all have no grounds to accuse Carrie of anything. Still, in Bozeman she’s a second floor woman, and that’s the Thornes’s
doing.”
“Why hasn’t Carrie bailed out of Bozeman?” Ramsay commented as they continued their leisurely trip down the Grand Loop.
“Probably my doing. I also believe she likes living here and is too stubborn to be run off by rumors,” Mr. Wylie said.
“I call that courage more than stubbornness,” Ramsay said, and touched his medal of honor ribbon. “What do you mean, ‘my doing’?”
“Mary Ann and I could quickly see how much Carrie wanted to go to school, to read something …”
“… besides the Police Gazette?” Ramsay asked with a laugh.
“She told you that story?” Mr. Wylie said. “Carrie McKay has spunk and brains enough for three people. Without even asking, she started cooking for us and cleaning. My younger daughter Mary Grace was a freshman at Montana Ag the year Carrie came to live with us. You should have seen Carrie’s eyes follow Gracie out the door and down the street as she walked to college. I doubt she’d have said anything. I know Carrie was grateful to have a safe place to live …” His voice trailed off. “I came here from Iowa to become the county’s superintendent of schools.”
“You’re an educationist. You couldn’t ignore that look, could you, sir?”
“Not with a Christian conscience. Mary Ann and Gracie brought Carrie up to snuff with her reading, taught her how to write better, and coached her on numbers.”
“I’ll wager she was a quick study.”
“Indeed. When she was eighteen, I took her to Montana Agricultural College to enroll her in the high school prep course. It’s a three-year course for students Carrie’s age and younger who don’t have opportunities for schooling, living on remote ranches. Or in Carrie’s case, working too hard since she was nine years old.”
