by Regina Scott
“That ought to take a while,” Meg commented as Larson paced off the spaces.
“A few days at least,” Ben said, watching him.
“What do you want me to photograph?” Meg asked. “You’re not studying a square this time. It’s a triangle.”
“North, south, east, and west,” Ben said. “And any major formations in the area. Take Pike with you.”
Meg grimaced. “Must I?”
Ben turned to eye her. “No one works alone, particularly after last night.”
It was a logical approach, but he was already deviating from it. Meg nodded to where the cartographer was setting up the theodolite. “Hank does. Unless Corporal Adams or I am helping, of course.”
“That’s different. Hank is an old hand at this. He can take care of himself.”
Meg drew herself up. “I can take care of myself, Captain Coleridge. The only reason I screamed last night was to alert the rest of you. I thought you’d want to catch anyone breaking into the camp.”
That jaw was firming again. She could see it through the stubble.
“You’re right,” he said, and the admission eased some of the tension in her shoulders. “I want to know everything that happens on this survey. It’s my goal that everyone returns to the fort, safe and healthy.”
Unlike his father. She decided not to say the words aloud. But she began to understand his stance. He’d already lost one person he cared about. He wasn’t going to lose another.
“I won’t stray far, I promise,” she said.
“I’d prefer you not stray at all. And I must insist you have a partner.”
Those eyes were implacable. Better not to argue the point, not while everyone was so on edge. “Fine,” Meg said. “I’ll take Private Meadows.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Can’t spare him.”
She gritted her teeth. “Hank, then.”
“I need him on the theodolite.”
“Dot,” she bit out.
“Will be washing today since we have ample water.”
“Corporal Adams.”
The clerk must have caught his name, for he clutched his notebook closer and turned away from them.
“Indisposed,” Ben said.
Meg blew out a breath. “Then it will have to be you.”
He recoiled. “Me?”
“Yes. Mr. Pike has no appreciation for my work. I can’t trust him to protect the camera. He might even stumble into the shot. I have too few plates as it is. I won’t risk wasting them. I’ll go prepare a few now. If you want any work done today, Captain, you’ll join me.”
Ben shook his head. He couldn’t spend the morning staring at the glory of the canyon. The grid was almost established. Larson and Meadows could note the flora and fauna, but they wouldn’t recognize the difference between slate and basalt. Minerals were his specialty. He knew the weights, the colors, the properties and best uses.
The Colonel had only been moderately amused at his skills. “Well,” he’d said after hearing Ben had taken top marks in the subject at West Point, “at least you’ll be able to spot fool’s gold.”
That had been important to the Colonel. He’d served near San Francisco during the Gold Rush and had seen too many men desert for the hope of striking it rich. He realized the folly of pinning his future on something that wasn’t real. So did Ben.
Pike was the logical choice to accompany her. He knew the area better than any of them, he was a good shot, and he could be spared from other duty. Indeed, the big man seemed restless. He’d already spoken quietly to Dot twice, with the second conversation ending with Dot ordering him in no uncertain terms to find her meat or face her wrath. He’d been out on the survey grid too, advising Larson as if the private had never attempted a grid before when Pike was clearly the novice. He’d even breathed down Adams’s back as if reviewing the journal notes for grammar and punctuation like a schoolmarm.
No way around it. Pike was a difficult fellow to get along with, and Meg didn’t need him distracting her from her work any more than the others did.
But Ben couldn’t have Meg working alone, and, truth be told, he preferred to be at her side. The realization was enough to make him think twice.
But ultimately agree.
“Prepare your equipment,” he told her. “I’ll join you shortly.”
She nodded and hurried off, skirts flapping about her boots.
He went to find Pike.
It appeared to be Hank’s turn for a dose of the guide’s advice, for Pike was standing at the cartographer’s shoulder, frowning at the theodolite.
“Heard those things aren’t reliable,” he was saying as Ben approached. “Had a map to Prescott once—led me straight down a box canyon.”
Hank’s eye twitched before he applied it to the telescope. “Maybe it wasn’t the map but the person reading it that was at fault.”
Pike bristled, but Ben stepped between them. “Mr. Pike, I believe Mrs. Newcomb asked you to hunt. We need meat, and you’re the best one to bring it down.”
The deserved praise didn’t move the guide. “I can go out later. After last night, I figured I should stick closer to camp.”
And continue pestering the rest of the team? “That’s an order, Mr. Pike.”
The guide eyed him a moment, then turned and stomped toward the picket line.
“Thanks,” Hank said. “One more piece of helpful wisdom and he might have been wearing this theodolite.”
“I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Newcomb,” Ben said, and the cartographer swallowed his smile. “I’d think you’d have more respect for government property.”
Hank grinned.
Ben turned for Adams, who was still working by the fire. Beyond him, he saw Pike riding out to the north.
Adams’s thinning hair had already darkened under the brim of his hat as the day warmed, and he was beginning to sport a beard.
“I’ll be helping Miss Pero with the photography,” Ben informed him. “I’ll have Larson and Meadows bring over anything of interest. Note it in the journal for my attention later. If you find a mineral specimen you can’t identify, bring it to me.”
Adams’s brown eyes were guileless. “Yes, sir. I am delighted to be of assistance to you and the lady.”
Feeling as if the clerk saw right through him, Ben went to find Meg.
She must have finished preparing her plates, because she was pacing off the ground looking south into the canyon, tripod leaning against a tree and camera balanced on a flat-topped rock. She stopped suddenly and pointed. “Look, you can see the river.”
He edged closer, and a pebble tumbled over the rim to bounce its way down the slope. Golden scarps jutted out to the right, straight ahead, and left, and the rugged cliffs seemed to go on and on into the distance. Far below, a ribbon of blue flashed in the light. “What do you know?”
She bustled past him to retrieve her tripod. “Step aside if you please.”
A step or two in either direction would have sent him plummeting. Ben eased back beside her. “Maybe we should set the tripod on more solid ground.”
She planted it where he had been standing. “Two of the three legs are on rock,” she informed him, swiveling the top plank and her slender form this way and that as if trying to find the perfect angle.
“You’re not,” Ben said, making a grab for her as her foot reached the edge.
Her eyes widened, and she hung for a moment in the air. Ben hauled her back.
Right into his arms.
She stared at him. Her eyes were greener than the pines, offering rest more surely. Golden lashes fluttered. Petal-pink lips parted. Her breath brushed his cheek.
“Are you going to let me finish setting up?” she asked.
Setting up. The picture. Right. That was why she was in his arms. He released her.
“Only if you promise to be careful,” he said.
“I’ll promise if you will.” She picked up the camera and attached it to the tripod. Then she dove und
er her hood.
With most of her out of sight, he could breathe again.
“I’m careful,” he said. “I plan every part of the survey.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” she asked, swiveling toward the edge again.
Ben put himself between her and the rim. Her hip brushed his.
“You’re in my way,” she complained.
“You’re out of rock. Even you can’t take a picture in midair.”
“Oh!” She pulled out from under the hood, hair wild with static. “Ben! What an inspired idea. Just think of the view!” She glanced around, then pointed again. “There, that tree. If you could just give me a boost . . .”
Ben stared at the pine perched precariously over the precipice. “No.”
“Please? You’ll be famous. I’ll be famous. They’ll name this Coleridge Point after you.”
“No,” Ben repeated. “You said you only have so many plates. I won’t risk one, the camera, and my photographer.”
She slumped, lower lip out in a pout. “Fine. We’ll just take a boring, everyday photograph no one but the Army will care about.”
“You never took a boring, everyday photograph in your life,” Ben said. “With nature as your canvas, your picture will be nothing short of spectacular, even if you took it blindfolded. And no,” he hurried to add, “I will not blindfold you either.”
“Spoilsport.” She gave her skirt a twitch before diving back under the cloth.
Over the course of the next two hours, she shot south, east, and west. Adams brought him two samples that he easily recognized as limestone. The sun was high when Ben called for the midday break.
He carried the camera and tripod back to camp for her, but she continued past the fire to stop at the northern edge, gazing into the trees, hands on her hips.
“No,” she declared. “I won’t shoot north. You’d get nothing but trunks.”
Ben nodded as he accepted a cup of water from Dot. “Agreed. You can help Hank this afternoon.”
Hank brightened, and Adams frowned.
Dot scowled. “I need Meg to help with dinner. I can’t wash and cook at the same time.”
“Since when?” Hank asked.
Dot aimed a kick at the pile of shirts and unmentionables the team had brought out earlier to be washed. “Since you all got so dirty, ya big galoot. I’ll finish the washing. Meg can start dinner.”
Meg took a step back as if to distance herself from the fight.
“Someone else can help with dinner,” Hank said. “Meg knows how to record the terrain better than anyone I’ve met.”
Dot’s look darkened further. Adams turned away and marched for the van.
Ben had had enough. “Meadows,” he called, and the private came over. “Help Mrs. Newcomb with dinner.”
His private swallowed, but he saluted. “Yes, sir.” The gesture appeared to be aimed more at Dot than Ben. With a look of commiseration to Ben and Meadows, Meg went to help Hank.
Ben thought that would settle the matter, but his cook muttered to herself as she slung a shirt into the hot water and used a spoon to slosh it around. Perhaps she would have preferred the talkative Larson as assistant, but Ben needed the more experienced soldier on the survey.
Dot’s attitude wasn’t improved when Pike returned to report he’d had no luck.
“Took a shot at a deer,” he said, “but she got away. Guess it’s salt pork again tonight.”
“I wouldn’t sound so pleased about it,” Dot told him.
Meadows roused himself to speak. “Chuck in bacon like Miss Pero said.”
Dot rounded on him. “I know my business, Private. See you mind yours.”
Meadows ducked his head.
Ben was never so glad for sundown. The salt pork might be briny, but anything Dot cooked was at least palatable. Conversation was sporadic. He caught sight of Meg’s chin heading for her chest more than once. His feet dragged too as he moved toward his bed. Hank had offered to take the first watch with Larson, and Ben had gratefully accepted. He paused at the tent flap to glance back at the camp.
Dot and Hank were in deep conversation near the rim. The cook stuck her finger twice into her husband’s chest before shoving back the flap on her tent and disappearing inside. Hank shook his head and started on his rounds.
Now what was wrong? He had a strong feeling that nature and their midnight visitor were about to be the least of his worries.
15
Meg stood on the very edge of the point the next morning, fascinated by the play of light and shadow across the canyon. Every movement of the sun, every passing cloud, changed the view and brought new aspects into clarity.
“How’s the journal coming?” Hank asked.
The cartographer had requested her help again that day. Since she’d already taken the three photographs she and Ben had agreed upon, she had time enough. She stepped back to where the leather-bound journal rested on a rock, the breeze fingering through the pages. “Sorry. I was about to describe the far field.”
Noting something on his own pad, Hank nodded.
Meg picked up the journal with one hand and arranged her skirts with the other as she sat on the sun-warmed rock. Though she’d tried to dust off her riding habit each morning, the dun-colored material was beginning to show its wear. Iodine contributed rusty specks on the sleeves. The gray spot below her waist showed where bromide had sloshed as a plate went into the bath. The hem had darkened to brown from contact with the soil. She was just glad Dot had washed her other camisole yesterday. The clean cotton felt cool against her skin.
Pencil in hand now, she stared across the river at the red and gold cliffs rising beyond. Their camp was high enough here that she could see the farther plateau, which appeared to be more of a prairie. At the very least, she couldn’t spot many trees. She duly noted that in the journal.
“You and the captain would make a good match.”
The pencil bit into the paper, and Meg hastily raised it. “Match? What are you talking about?”
Hank glanced her way with a frown as if confused by her response. “He’s an officer of fine character; you’re a young lady of considerable talent. Why wouldn’t you hit it off?”
Meg forced herself to bend back over the journal. “Too many reasons to enumerate.” She set about describing the texture and color of the far cliffs.
“He’s a good man,” Hank said when she raised her head again. Had he been watching her? His usual good-natured grin gave nothing away. “Look how well he treats his men. Most officers I’ve worked under were a lot more demanding.”
She could imagine. Some of the men who had hired her father had been unreasonable, expecting far more work far too quickly and for far too little money.
“I find no fault in his leadership,” Meg said, “except for the fact that he sometimes refuses my requests.”
“Can’t have everything,” Hank allowed, fiddling with his theodolite.
Meg grinned at him. “Why not?”
He chuckled.
Behind them, a pot clanged.
Hank winced. “Something’s got Dot’s back up.”
Meg glanced in that direction. The cook was shoving her gear about, jaw working as if she was talking to herself. She’d finished the washing yesterday. A few shirts still hung here and there from the trees, flapping like flags. She had plenty of wood stacked nearby.
“I noticed,” Meg said. “Do you think it’s because Mr. Pike hasn’t gone hunting yet?”
Hank glanced to where the guide was sitting a little way from the cook, whittling at a stick with his big knife. For some reason, Pike had shown a preference for Dot’s company the last couple days. Maybe, like Meadows, he hoped to be able to scrape some sugar off the cone.
“Could be,” Hank allowed. “She can do a lot more with a turkey, goose, or pronghorn than salt pork.”
“Maybe we should send Meadows out instead,” Meg said. “He looks bored.”
The private was standing at one side of the
grid, scratching at his back, while Ben and Larson bent over a plant as if arguing about its species, and Corporal Adams cast Hank and Meg sour looks.
“Do you think he can even shoot?” Hank asked.
“Can’t most boys his age shoot?” Meg asked, gaze going out over the canyon again.
Hank laughed. “Don’t let him hear you call him a boy. He can’t be much younger than you.”
She glanced at Meadows again. His beard was coming in, much more slowly and patchy than Larson’s or Adams’s, and with a few streaks of brown among the gold. “Maybe he just seems younger. Now, I really should concentrate.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Hank said with a salute.
They continued at their tasks in companionable silence the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, until Ben called the midafternoon break. As had become the habit, everyone gathered around the fire. Dot had dried apples soaking in a pot of water. She kept poking at them with her spoon, shoving them deeper.
“What have you for us today, Dot?” Ben asked cheerily.
Dot didn’t meet his gaze. “Working on dried apple pie. Might take a bit.”
“How about some water now?” Pike asked.
Dot skewered him with her gaze, then jerked her head to the west. “Spring’s over there. Help yourself.”
Adams picked up a tin cup and stalked off. Larson and Meadows exchanged glances, then took a cup each and followed. Muttering to himself, Pike trudged in their wake.
“Something I can help with, sweetheart?” Hank asked.
“Nope,” Dot said, gaze once more on her bobbing brown apples. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d all just let me be.”
Ben nodded to the east, and Meg and Hank rose and joined him closer to the tents. “Anyone have any idea what’s troubling our cook?”
Hank shrugged.
“Could we have offended her in some way?” Meg asked the cartographer.
“She gets this way sometimes,” Hank said. “Has ever since we were married. Never can get her to tell me why. She’ll settle down on her own. She always does. Best we do as she says and leave her be.”
Meg wanted to believe that. But she felt as if she and Dot were becoming friends. Surely she should do something to help.
