A few moments later, the back door creaked as it opened, and she turned to find him edging inside.
“Didn’t want to bother your guests,” he said quietly.
She nodded, but she drew a deep breath, as if the warm kitchen was filled with the heady scent of roses rather than the familiar smell of Alberta’s oatmeal. Odd that having him here made her feel more comfortable in her own kitchen.
He moved cautiously toward her around the big worktable, and she closed the door as Mr. Yates began reading from the Psalms. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.
She smiled against the tug of the words. She and Danny did not want for shelter or food, and she was grateful. But both were predicated on keeping the inn running smoothly.
“I can finish drying if you’d like to be out there,” Lieutenant Prescott said.
Kate chuckled. “I’m not about to waste your help on something Danny and I can manage on our own. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To offer your time?”
Something crossed behind his eyes. “Of course.”
Now, why did that disappoint her? What other reason could he have for appearing in her kitchen?
Kate focused on her list. “Next is the chimney here in the kitchen. Alberta says it’s not drawing properly. Can you fix it? Unless you want to attend services yourself.”
“No, thank you.” He began unbuttoning his coat. “But excuse me while I shuck this off. I need to keep my uniform clean of soot. Not much opportunity for laundry.”
“Have one of your men come use ours,” Kate offered, trying not to notice the play of muscle as he pulled the coat off his shoulders. “Saturdays and Tuesdays we generally have less.”
“Thanks. I guess that means we’ll owe you more hours.”
Kate grinned. “I guess it does.”
As he draped his coat on a chair, she put the dish away and picked up another from the towels in the center of the table. Mr. Yates’s sermon was no more than a buzz beyond the door.
Lieutenant Prescott approached the massive stone hearth on the outside wall and twisted to put his head inside and look up. The low fire below him lit his profile and reflected pink on his cotton shirt.
“Something’s partially blocking it higher up,” he said, voice echoing. “Hand me a broom.”
Kate went to the corner cupboard, where the brooms and mops were stored, and brought him back a long-handled broom. Clutching the corn at the base, he shoved the stick up into the flue—once, twice.
The buzzing grew louder, and it was a moment before she realized Mr. Yates wasn’t shouting at her guests. Like black smoke, wasps poured from the opening.
Kate grabbed Will’s arm and tugged him back, then ran to the rear door of the kitchen and threw it open. “Get out!” she shouted at the swarm. “Go on!”
The wasps circled the kitchen, an angry cloud of frustration, and she seized one of the other brooms to defend herself. But they arrowed for the door and disappeared into a cloudy sky.
Kate lowered the broom and drew in a breath. Will was eying the fallen remains of a wasps’ nest, the papery shell flaming in the fire. A few stragglers crawled out to take off up the chimney.
“I didn’t mean to kill them.”
His tone was stricken, raising an answering ache inside her. Setting the broom aside, she closed the distance. “Were you stung?”
His face was pale, his eyes unfocused. Alarmed, she touched his arm. “Lieutenant Prescott? Will? Are you all right?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Fine.”
Gently, Kate turned him to face her. He looked past her, as if he couldn’t meet her gaze.
“It’s all right,” she said. “I know I scolded your men for even thinking about harming the wildlife, but this was an accident.”
“They’re still dead.” So was his voice, his aspect.
“No, they aren’t,” she protested. “Most went out the door. They’ll make another nest before winter. No harm done.”
His breath came in a gulp. “No harm done,” he repeated, as if desperate to believe the statement. “If that will be all, Mrs. Tremaine, I should go.”
He turned away from her before she could protest that he’d given her less than a quarter hour. Then she caught sight of the swelling red welt on his neck.
“Hold on there, Soldier,” she ordered. “You’ve been injured.”
He frowned, and she pointed to his neck. “One of your foes left a mark. Sit over there. I have baking soda.”
For a moment, she thought he might refuse, but he went to perch on the chair that held his coat, and she was pleased to see color returning to his cheeks.
She went to grab the container. After shaking a bit in a bowl, she added enough water to make a paste and returned to him. As she pulled away the neck of his shirt, he tilted his head to one side. The column of his neck was so smooth, so strong. A flutter faster than wasp wings started in her chest.
Silly. She’d tended Danny’s scrapes and stings, Toby’s bruises, the minor injuries of her guests. The work had never left her feeling warm and slightly dizzy. Perhaps the baking soda had gone bad. She sniffed the bowl and shook her head.
“Something wrong?” he asked as if he’d noticed her reaction.
“No,” she assured him, dipping up some of the paste to dab it on the welt. “Just feeling thankful. Considering how many there were and their agitation, it’s a miracle we weren’t stung more.”
“Well, it is Sunday,” he said. “Good day for miracles, if you believe in that sort of thing.”
She eyed him as she wiped her fingers off on the edge of the bowl. “You don’t believe in miracles?”
His gaze met hers at last, deep, dark, troubled. “Do you?”
She went to take the bowl to the big porcelain sink. “Maybe. This whole place is a miracle if you ask me—the colors, the geysers, the bison.”
“So why not attend services?”
