“That’s Jelly Geyser. It’s a frequent squirter, so watch for it. Farther out, that pale white hole with the crusty sides is Jet Geyser. It will shoot almost as high as my hotel. Over there is Spasm Geyser. It’s more of a bubbler. That one with the yellow center and the green front is Clepsydra. She should go off . . . now.”
As if the geyser obeyed her least command, water shot up from multiple vents, sending steam into the air. Except for Bess and Mrs. Tremaine’s horse, the other horses shifted, balked, and it took a moment for his men to get them under control.
“Every three minutes,” she explained. “You’ll get used to it. But the biggest show around here is Fountain Geyser.”
She nodded to the large, still, blue pool they were approaching.
“Doesn’t look so bad,” Waxworth said.
“You wait,” Kate said. “It will shoot twice the height of my hotel and last for more than a quarter hour. The only one bigger in this area is Morning Geyser beyond it and closest to the hotel. But it’s rarer.”
“Who named such things?”
That bewildered tone was Lercher’s. Mrs. Tremaine must have realized it, for she turned her head to give him a look. “Some were named by explorers, but many were named by the US Geological Survey. This way, gentlemen, and try to keep up.”
Will bit back a smile as they rode past the hotel again. His men were looking more concerned by the moment, picking their way along and giving every colored patch of earth wide berth. Danny waved from the porch. Franklin waved back.
She pointed out Twig Geyser, a creamy pool that could shoot water up a few feet for as long as an hour; the Leather Pool, which was as brown and rough as its name; and a patch of gray ground that hissed like a pot on the boil. Suddenly, she reined in. His men followed suit, jerking on their reins and glancing around as if expecting a geyser to go off on either side.
Instead, she pointed across the geyser field to the circuit road beyond.
On the other side of the dusty road, a small clearing was nestled among the pines, sage dotting the pale soil, its gray-green leaves holding the golden yellow of the fall bloom. Among them, shoulders dark and humps tawny, a dozen elk browsed. Will caught his breath.
“Oh, for one shot,” Waxworth said with a groan.
She swiveled in the sidesaddle to glare at him. “For shame, Private. Look at that power, that majesty, and your first thought is to kill it?”
Waxworth flamed. “No, ma’am, my first thought is how many hungry cavalrymen one of those would feed.”
“I’ll keep you fed, Private,” she promised. “You just make sure those beauties go on living to inspire others.”
“Remember the rules, Private,” Will added. “No hunting on park lands.”
Waxworth deflated with a sigh.
But his other men were nodding. How extraordinary. They were surrounded by animals and geology meant to inspire, and the greatest source of inspiration, for him and his men, was Kate Tremaine.
5
Once again, the men seemed all too eager to rush toward danger. A bull elk could weigh as much as seven hundred pounds. Those horns could puncture a lung or spleen, and one kick could break bones. When a herd made an appearance near the hotel, she had to be constantly on guard with her guests to prevent close encounters.
She glanced over at Lieutenant Prescott. His rugged face held a look of awe, the sort of respect these great creatures warranted. The only problem was that he wasn’t looking at the elk.
He was looking at her.
She hastily gathered her reins and turned her horse to face theirs again. She was here for a purpose, not to gaze at the scenery.
“Lieutenant Prescott, how far south are you patrolling along the circuit road?” she asked.
“We haven’t set a boundary,” he admitted, shifting on his saddle. “There’s another detachment at Old Faithful. They’ll patrol partway up the road to the north. I’ll have to check with them at some point to confirm we’re covering everything.”
She nodded. “If you’re coming up the road from the south, it might look easy to cross straight through the geyser field for the inn. Resist that urge. The terrain is deceptive. We had a grown man and a young boy die by falling into the paint pots two years ago.”
“It’s no wonder you’re being so cautious then, ma’am,” O’Reilly ventured.
Kate glanced his way, and his round cheeks turned a shade darker than his strawberry-blond hair. “They were not guests at my hotel, Private O’Reilly. They came from Marshall’s, the hotel now called the Fire Hole, not far from your camp, I understand. Unfortunately, I cannot watch over every visitor who wanders by. But you can.”
Lieutenant Prescott’s mouth quirked, but he said nothing. Could he hear the determination in her voice? She had always tried to protect her guests while showing them the wonders of Yellowstone. Toby’s death had only steeled her resolve.
She led them back toward the hotel, pointing out other hazards along the way.
“Don’t pick mushrooms,” she advised when she saw Waxworth eying a clump near the base of the pines. “Several species in the park are deadly. And watch out for water hemlock—it can look like wild parsnips or carrots, but you won’t survive until morning if you eat a sizeable amount.”
“There goes Waxworth’s stew,” someone muttered.
“If you find a warm pool, don’t go bathing,” Kate continued. “It might be warm now, but heated water can push up from the bottom and boil you alive. Don’t use the pools for laundry—you’ll clog the geyser and end up shooting your clothing all over creation, and I can promise you it will be in no shape to wear again. And, whatever you do, don’t feed
