“This way, Lieutenant,” Danny sang out, already on the run.
“Meet you in the kitchen shortly.” He headed after Danny.
Someone, most likely Miss Cavell, puffed out a sigh.
Kate climbed the steps and smiled at her guests. “Enjoy the scenery while you can. Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.” She sailed into the hotel.
The maids had the tables set and were adding steaming tureens of beef and barley soup and baskets of plump, crusty rolls.
“But no more than eight pats of butter per table,” Pansy was reminding them. “Mrs. Guthrie says we must economize, as the cows stop producing for the winter.”
That was true enough. Good thing Captain Harris had been persuaded to be reasonable when he had declared there would be no grazing of domestic livestock in the park. If the Yellowstone Park Association could keep sheep on the mountain meadows to feed their guests, she was surely allowed her two cows and four horses.
Still, she put four of the little squares Alberta cut from the creamy butter in front of Danny and Lieutenant Prescott when they sat at the big worktable in the middle of the kitchen to eat.
He must have done what he’d promised, for now all of his head was wet and the collar of his military jacket looked damp, as if the water had dripped on it. He shoveled down Alberta’s soup so quickly he might have thought Kate intended to steal it from him.
Of course, Danny copied him.
“Easy,” Kate said, ruffling her son’s hair, so unlike hers in color and texture. “You can have more, you know.”
Danny nodded, soup running down his chin. “And apple pie for dessert. We’ll have pumpkin tomorrow. Alberta said so.”
“Now, there’s a feast,” Lieutenant Prescott said, spoon pausing.
“I helped,” Danny bragged. “I scooped out all that stringy stuff. The pumpkin seeds too. Alberta salted and toasted them. She’s going to put them in the oatmeal tomorrow for breakfast.”
“Makes me sad I won’t be here for breakfast,” Lieutenant Prescott said.
“You could be,” Kate offered. “I’ll have Alberta make extra. My guests should be done by eight. Bring your men at half past, and they can eat right before I show you around the geysers.”
Now, that was an offer too good to refuse. So, at a quarter past eight the next morning, his men mounted up.
All except Smith. Someone had to stay behind to guard the camp from scavengers, four-footed and two. To Will’s surprise, the cavalryman had volunteered.
“I have never been overly fond of oatmeal,” he’d said by way of an excuse.
Will couldn’t imagine anyone liking hardtack better, but they’d left the fellow making coffee and headed out.
The weather had been fine since they’d ridden into Yellowstone in mid-August. Today was no different. Sunlight seemed to want to linger like any other tourist. The sky was an endless blue over the spikes of pine as they rode into the yard of the hotel, steam from the geysers and pools rising to form their own clouds.
“All clear?” Will asked as Mrs. Tremaine and Danny came out onto the porch to greet them. The boy was as eager as always, a cowlick sticking up in his pale hair like a flag as if he’d already been out running. His mother looked more like she’d joined the Army—navy jacket over a navy skirt so long on one side she’d had to button it up on her hip.
“All my guests have breakfasted,” she reported. “Elijah will be taking the Cavell party north shortly. And the Wakefield and Hoffman stage came through for their group and carried away my other guests. The hotel is yours.” She spread her hand toward the door and stepped aside.
His men didn’t need another invitation. They hitched their mounts to the post and hurried up the stairs into the hotel. He caught Lercher gazing up at the beams in the salon and Franklin studying the layout with an appreciative eye. Waxworth and O’Reilly beat them to the tables, where the cook had bowls and spoons waiting.
“My, what fine gentlemen we have visiting today,” she said, lashes fluttering as she started ladling thick oatmeal into the bowls.
Someone giggled. Will glanced toward the door to the kitchen, where two young ladies and an older woman were peeking out at them. Waxworth and Franklin sat a little taller.
“Will you say the grace, Lieutenant?” Kate asked.
Hand on the silver spoon, he paused. His men were all watching him, spoons anywhere from stuck in the oatmeal to steaming in front of their open mouths. He looked to Waxworth.
“Private Waxworth, do the honors.”
The spoon plunked back into the bowl as Waxworth clasped his boney fingers together and aimed his pointed nose and gaze skyward.
“Heavenly Lord,” he said so loudly he might have thought God needed an ear trumpet, “thank you for this glorious meal, for the kind hands that prepared it, and the good soil that grew it. May it be a blessing to our bodies. Amen.”
An answering amen rumbled around the table, and spoons commenced flying.
Like everything else he’d consumed at the Geyser Gateway, the oatmeal was filling and tasty. Besides pumpkin seeds, the cook, who insisted they all call her Alberta, had thrown in walnuts and raisins and served it with heaping bowls of sugar. Lercher piled on eight spoonfuls alone. And he’d never seen his men drink so much coffee.
“I could make it this good,” Waxworth said, eying the china cup, “if I had a stove at my disposal.”
Somehow, Will doubted that.
Still, even with the number of bowls of oatmeal put away, he and his men were out front by nine with Mrs. Tremaine.
She had led a horse from the barn to join theirs, sidesaddle conspicuous on its back. “May I trouble one of you gentlemen for help?” she asked as she reached the porch.
Waxworth leapt into action, barely edging out O’Reilly to her side. He took the reins with one hand and swept her a bow with the other. Smirking at his comrade, the Irishman cupped his hands and
