by Regina Scott
Larson let out a guffaw.
Meg knew how the woman had felt. She didn’t know whether to draw closer to Ben or run as fast as she could in the opposite direction.
“Well, I’m not rooting for that cat,” Pike said, eyes on the trees and finger on the trigger of his gun. “Can’t track it, much less hunt it, in the dark.”
Ben leaned forward, and the firelight highlighted his cheekbones. “We don’t need to hunt it. The important thing tonight is to keep the cat out of camp and away from the horses and mules. Dot, commandeer whoever you need to assist you on kitchen duty. I want this place spotless—nothing to draw it in.”
Dot nodded. “Count on me, Captain. That cat will get no meal on my watch.”
“Or mine,” Pike said, and the other men nodded.
“If you think I can sleep, you’re all mad,” Meg said.
Ben smiled. “Then we’ll keep each other company. We’ll sleep out in the open tonight, two or three on each side of the picket line, one awake while his companions sleep. For now, Dot, you have the command.”
Dot had already been heating water on the edge of the fire. Now she set Pike to washing and Larson to drying. She and Meg bundled all the food into sacks and confined it in boxes to minimize the scent. Meadows dug a hole and buried the remains of dinner deep. Then Dot swept a flaming branch over the area as if hoping to mask any remaining odor.
“It won’t be so bad sleeping out,” the cook said as she and Meg carried their bedrolls closer to the picket line a short while later. “Nice night for it.”
In all the hubbub, Meg hadn’t noticed. Now she looked up. Thousands of lights clustered above her, glittering against the black of the sky.
“That’s a shot,” Ben said, stopping beside her to look up as well.
“Someday we’ll have a camera to capture it,” Meg said, feeling as if the sky were tugging her closer. “Color too. Just think of the pictures we can create.”
“You already create beauty,” he said.
Meg smiled. “No. I just re-create it, and I know I never completely do it justice.”
They positioned themselves around the picket area, close enough that the horses and mules could see them but far enough back to avoid most of the flies. The horse soldiers had confined the animals in a rope triangle anchored to trees. Pike, Hank, and Adams faced southwest, the direction from which the cat had come.
“I see the strategy of Mr. Pike and Hank,” Meg told Ben. “But Adams?”
Ben glanced at the scrawny corporal. “You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but he’s a crack shot, according to Colonel Yearling.”
Meadows and Larson took the northeast, and Meg, Dot, and Ben faced the camp and rim. Meg didn’t have to ask why she was stationed at the least likely advance. She certainly wasn’t a crack shot, except behind the lens of a camera.
She started to spread her bedroll next to Dot’s, but the cook promptly repositioned hers between Meg and Ben.
“Keeping watch for a cougar doesn’t offer much opportunity to compromise my reputation,” Meg pointed out.
“Just doing my duty,” Dot said with a satisfied nod. She climbed into her bedroll. “Wake me when it’s my turn to watch.”
With Ben sitting up, Meg might have gone to sleep as well, but she couldn’t be easy. The horses and mules couldn’t seem to relax either. They remained on their feet, shifting this way and that, grunting and snorting, as if keeping watch from all directions. The ropes picketing them had never seemed so fragile.
Meg edged around Dot to sit next to Ben, and he nodded as if glad for her company. The brass on the rifle lying across his knees flashed in the starlight as he shifted. Behind him, Stripe lowered her head over the picket line and blew softly against Meg’s hair.
Meg reached up and stroked the velvety muzzle. “Isn’t there anything we can do to ease their fears?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The answer was from Larson on her left. “They like it when you sing to them.”
The derisive snort was likely Pike’s. His gruff voice confirmed it. “I’m not singing to a bunch of mules.”
“I have heard it done and done well.” That precise protest had to be Adams.
“I tell you we can do it,” Larson insisted. She heard a murmur as he must have spoken to Meadows. When the song began, she was surprised to hear Meadows’s soft tenor.
Oh, Shenandoah, I hear you calling,
Away, you rolling river.
Yes, far away
I hear you calling.
Away, I’m bound away
Cross the wide Missouri.
“Might as well say the deep Colorado,” Pike called.
His teasing didn’t stop the young private. The horses and mules stilled, and Meg felt as if even the stars dipped closer to listen.
My girl, she’s gone down the river,
Away, you rolling river.
And I ain’t going to see her never.
Away, I’m bound away
Cross the wide Missouri.
The private had lost his family to the war. He’d left whatever lay behind to join the Army and head West. Was there a girl gazing across the Missouri, waiting for his return?
In the dark, something caressed her hand. She turned her palm to meet Ben’s. Her skin cooled as the breeze brushed the tears from her cheeks like tender fingers.
“Never is a long time,” he murmured. “It doesn’t have to be that way with us.”
Sitting here, with God’s canopy spread above her, Ben’s hand holding hers, she could almost believe that. But there was another world out there, wide as the mighty Missouri. And she wasn’t certain she was willing to cross it, even knowing Ben was waiting on the other side.
Ben blinked as the sky began to pale in the east. He’d spent the night sitting up, letting Dot and Meg sleep. He’d dozed off once or twice but kept waking to make sure Meg was all right. Seven people and more than two dozen mules and horses relied on him, and she remained at the top of his mind.
She’d fallen asleep next to him, curled on one side. He watched as the rosy light inched past her chin, less determined-looking in sleep, to her soft lips and the golden fringe of her lashes. They fluttered, opened, to reveal eyes like jade glowing up at him.
Ben looked away.
“We made it through the night,” she marveled, sitting up.
On the other side of her, Dot stirred, then sat, frowning as she glanced from where Meg should have been sleeping to where she was lying now.
“Let’s confirm everyone’s fine,” Ben said. Raising his voice, he called out. “Pike, Adams, Meadows, Larson, Newcomb, report!”
“Here,” came Pike’s voice, sounding more annoyed than usual.
“Here,” Larson shouted with a less forceful echo from Meadows.
“Here, sir,” the corporal offered.
“Here,” Hank called.
Ben climbed to his feet. “Soldiers, see to our mounts and the mules. Pike, let’s discover where our feline friend went. Hank, Meg, help Dot start breakfast.”
“Sir,” his men chorused.
Meg yawned before she waved her hand in agreement.
The hand he’d cradled until she fell asleep.
Had she heard his whisper in the dark? Was her silence his answer?
Pike approached around the corner of the picket line. Though he’d likely slept as little as Ben, he looked no scruffier than usual, black hair and beard unkempt. With a last glance at Meg, Ben hoisted his rifle, and he and the guide set out.
The dry golden soil made it difficult to track the cat, but they found a few prints too close to the camp for comfort.
Standing from examining the clearest impression, Pike looked away from the rising sun. “Headed west along the canyon by the look of it. We’ll be following it if we continue the way you wanted. We must have strayed into its territory. Best we move inland for a while, circle back a few miles on.”
Ben shook his head. “Our task is to search along the rim for ways to cross. We
already detoured once for water. Take Hank with you this morning and scout ahead for the next camp, as close to the rim as possible.”
“I can move faster alone,” Pike offered.
“Hank can keep up, and two make a less likely target.”
Ben turned and started back, and Pike fell in beside him.
They broke camp that morning. Adams, Larson, Meadows, Dot, and Meg all pitched in to return the photography boxes to the van, righting the metal canister that had fallen in their wild ride yesterday. They struck the tents and loaded the supplies and equipment on the mules and into the wagon and van. Hank and Pike had already set out. Ben intended to meet them returning with the news of the next site.
He left his gear to the last. Meg and Dot had already packed his tent. The saddlebag with his personal belongings stood waiting. Crouching, he opened it to reach for his gauntlets.
A wildflower lay on top, the red of the paintbrush bright against the blue of his spare uniform.
Ben glanced up. Meadows and Larson were busy with the mules. Adams was checking the harness on his. Dot was sprinkling water over the last of the coals to cool them before leaving. Meg was down by the spring, filling the canteens. Was that pink in her cheeks, or the shadow from her hat?
Had she noticed his attempt to bring her flowers the other day after all? He’d thought it lost in the greater urgency to replace her shot. Was this flower her response?
Never had a single bloom held such hope. He picked it up, snapped off the short stem, and tucked the plume into the band on his hat. If she was bent on encouraging him, he’d return the favor.
19
The ride to the next camp seemed endless. Meg tried not to think about the cougar, but any movement among the trees caused her muscles to stiffen. At least the mules had calmed. They walked with no more than an occasional twitch of their long ears or swish of their long tails. The horses remained skittish, shying away from bushes close to their path, the sudden appearance of a chipmunk scurrying away. Meg patted and cooed to Stripe, who was carrying her plate. At least the mare proved sensible when the rain started once more.
This shower was less powerful than the storm that had rolled through earlier. The two young cavalrymen had time to don their rubberized canvas ponchos. They looked like crows with slick black feathers riding among the mules. Ben cantered back and offered his poncho to Meg.
“Mighty gallant, Captain,” Dot said where she sheltered under the canvas vault of the wagon.
“Thank you,” Meg said, accepting the oblong material. She pulled it over her head, ducked through the central opening, and put her hat back on. His smile made her feel as if she were wearing the most fashionable gown at the ball.
The squall was over a few minutes later, leaving the sky looking newly washed. Once more steam rose from foliage and rocks, until she and the others moved through a silver mist.
Perhaps the greatest source of calm was Ben himself. He rode along, head high, one gauntleted hand resting on his thigh, as if he was on his way to a dress parade instead of another wilderness camp. Somewhere he’d picked up a red flower, long and tufty, which he wore like a crimson feather in his hat. Every time Meg looked at it, bedraggled now from the rain, she found herself smiling.
Or maybe it was the man wearing the flower that made her smile. She tried not to think of that too often.
They followed the canyon where they could, each turn bringing new perspectives, vaster prospects. In places, the steep and rugged terrain forced them inland, among stands of pine and spruce dotted with aspen, the leaves fluttering in the breeze. As the day warmed, the tang of pine resin filled the air. Meg took off Ben’s poncho and draped it over her saddle.
Deeper fissures caused more detours. Ben dismounted and studied each, but none seemed suitable for a wagon road up from the river. She was glad when they reached an open plain between stands of trees.
“Such a purposeful fellow, that Captain Coleridge,” Dot said from where she drove the wagon beside Meg and Stripe. “Always working.”
“He is that,” Meg said, tipping her chin to see the latest view. So many of them would have made fine shots, but she could not delay Ben, not today.
“Nice that he picked you flowers,” Dot said.
Meg turned to her with a frown. “When did he pick me flowers?”
Dot blinked as if the sun had reached under her wide-brimmed straw hat. “Two days ago. Saw him myself as he was coming back toward camp, fist full of posies. I doubt he gave them to Larson.”
So did she. And she couldn’t help remembering the stems she’d crushed after finding her plate destroyed. Had Ben intended to present her with a bouquet?
“He never gave them to me either,” she told Dot.
Dot eyed her. “Funny. Wouldn’t have been like him to turn tail. He strikes me as a fellow who knows what he’s about when he’s courting.”
Meg focused her gaze forward. “He was probably just being thoughtful.”
“Thoughtful?” Dot slapped her hand down on her skirts with a crack that set the mules to stepping higher. “A lad bringing daisies for his mother is thoughtful. A man bringing flowers to his sweetheart is much more.”
Inside her, something reached for the hope in Dot’s words. She shoved it down.
“Captain Coleridge and I are not sweethearts,” Meg informed her, meeting her gaze.
“You could be,” Dot said with a wiggle of her brows. “Likely he’s thinking that direction, especially after finding that pretty red flower.”
Meg gasped. “Did you leave it for him?”
Dot glanced skyward. “Well, I’m not saying I did, and I’m not saying I didn’t. If I had to guess, I’d say he thinks it came from someone who dotes on him.”
Very likely he did. Meg drew in a breath to slow her temper. “But it didn’t. Stop trying to play matchmaker.”
Dot’s eyes widened. “Me? I don’t have a romantic bone in my whole body. Hank, now . . .” She glanced ahead to where her husband rode with Ben and sighed happily. “Hank knows how to touch a lady’s heart.”
It was impossible to stay mad at her friend. Dot just looked so happy. “I’m glad you two made up,” Meg said.
Dot sighed again. “That grin, a few charming words, and I melt.”
“I suspect the mint didn’t hurt,” Meg said.
Dot laughed. “No, ma’am, it did not. He knows what touches my heart. And he knows how to calm my odd humors. That’s the sort of man you want in your life—someone who challenges you to be the best you can be.”
Ben certainly believed in her abilities with a camera. But she knew her ability and willingness to fit into good society.
“That lets Captain Coleridge out,” Meg said.
Dot urged her team to keep moving. “Why would you say that? He encourages everyone.”
“He does,” Meg agreed. “His family is different.”
Dot nodded. “When Hank and I were with the Colonel in California, he didn’t take Hank’s refusal to sign another contract well. Hank wanted to pan for gold. Too many of the Colonel’s men ran off and did the same. Much good it did me and Hank. He ended up surveying for the territorial government while I cooked in a mining camp, just to make ends meet. Still, the Colonel recommended Hank for survey work after all the fighting was over, so the man didn’t hold a grudge. A shame he’s gone.”
A great shame. Yet Ben held on to hope. Meg had a feeling he wasn’t just looking at the terrain down those side canyons. He wanted to catch any sign his father had traveled the same path.
“Colonel Coleridge was a strict disciplinarian,” Meg acknowledged. “He had high expectations too. But he’s nothing to his wife.”
Dot glanced her way. “You met her? She was at the Presidio in San Francisco, but she wasn’t likely to say good day to folks like me and Hank.”
Perhaps it was time Dot knew more about Meg’s past. If she understood the gulf between Meg and Ben, she might stop trying to match them up.
“She didn’t l
ike saying good day to me either,” she told her friend. “My father ran the photography studio at West Point when Captain Coleridge was a cadet there. I met him socially a number of times.”
“Met him socially,” Dot repeated. “What does that mean?”
“Oh, you know,” Meg said with a wave of her hand. “Dances, church services, picnics.”
Dot smiled. “He was courting you.”
“It started out a courtship,” Meg said. “But I realized I wasn’t looking to marry.”
Dot’s smile faded. “Why not?”
This was harder than she would have thought. She glanced ahead, made sure Ben and Hank were far enough away that they might not overhear. “I like taking pictures, Dot. A husband might not approve.”
Dot shook her head. “Not the captain. He admires what you do.”
“He might. His mother didn’t.”
“Well,” Dot said, squaring her shoulders, “it’s a good thing you’re marrying the captain and not his mother, then.”
Despite herself, Meg laughed. “I am not marrying Captain Coleridge. He’s like his father, determined to make the Army his career. I would never fit in his circle.”
“I don’t see why not,” Dot insisted. “I’ve been attached to the Army my whole life. I’m nothing special.”
“You and I are never going to agree on that,” Meg told her. “I find you quite special indeed. But don’t you feel the least uncomfortable next to some of the officers’ wives?”
“’Course I do,” Dot said with a hitch of her shoulders, as if she could feel the proud beauties staring at her all the way out here. “But I love Hank too much to let him go.”
“Then perhaps,” Meg said, “I don’t care for Captain Coleridge enough, because it wasn’t all that hard to let him go.”
Dot frowned as if she couldn’t believe that. Even Meg heard the false note to the statement. But words had to be true. She wasn’t made for marriage to an Army officer. Ben’s mother had understood that all too well. Meg could still see the uplift of her nose, the gaze that went past Meg as if seeking someone of greater worth. Meg had to fight for her right to ply her trade everywhere else. She wasn’t about to fight with a husband and his family over it.
