Why not?
The question poked at her, demanded an answer. She turned, putting her hands behind her on the cool rim of the sink. He was watching her, head still cocked, shoulders slumped as if he’d ridden long and hard.
“I don’t know,” Kate admitted. “Toby, my husband, always went whenever a preacher came within riding distance. Now there’s one on the other side of that door, and I can’t seem to walk through.”
He straightened and dropped his gaze toward his black boots. “Easy to think you don’t belong.”
That wasn’t it. This was her home, her place. If she belonged anywhere, it was here. She knew some wondered whether she blamed God for Toby’s death. She didn’t. Toby had brought his death on himself. She still wished he’d listened to her that night, but Toby had always done what Toby wanted to do.
“We belong,” she told Will. “We just put other duty first. I don’t think God minds.”
We, she said, as if her conscience could possibly be as stained as his. He had a long way to go before he felt comfortable bringing his thoughts or his presence before God, even in a church as informal as the salon of the Geyser Gateway.
His reaction to the wasps proved as much. For one moment, as flames licked up the nest and its inhabitants struggled to escape, he’d remembered other bodies lying on the soil, belongings scattered as if they’d tried to run. And that time, none had lived.
“I gave up trying to think like God,” he said, rising. “But I agree we have a duty. I should get to mine.”
Her brows went up. “After less than a half hour?”
A half hour and eight years, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell her that. “Sorry. Best I can do at the moment. And at least you crossed something off your list.”
She smiled. “There is that.”
“I’ll be busy the next few days,” he said, edging for the door and feeling like a coward again, “but I’ll check in when I have time to offer.”
She nodded, and he left, her curious gaze following him from the hotel.
He tried to push back the thoughts of his past as he worked that day and into the next week. They weathered a storm that sent lightning and thunder across the basin, the bright jagged forks plunging into the surrounding hills. He followed his men on patrol, made sure they were heeding her advice on where to ride and what to consider, especially Smith, who had remained in camp during her instruction. He ordered his standoffish private to introduce himself to Kate and her staff.
“I took the liberty,” Smith had assured him. “Interesting woman. I can see why she fascinates you.”
The others had glanced up from their dinner at his comment.
“My only fascination,” Will had told them all, “is the Geyser Gateway and its ability to comfortably house those who come to Yellowstone.”
They had seemed to accept that, though Smith continued to eye him, brow raised.
The only trouble came from a party at the Fire Hole Hotel on Monday. The six men were determined that they had a right to hunt. Only drawn weapons had convinced them otherwise, thankfully before any elk, deer, or antelope were killed.
“Not like when Roy Jessup roamed these parts,” one of them complained as Lercher confiscated their guns and ammunition.
“Mr. Jessup has been escorted from Yellowstone,” Will told him. “He will not be returning.”
The big-boned man had sneered at him. “That’s what you think.”
“If you have information about a poacher in the park, you better start talking,” Waxworth had threatened.
The hunter had shaken his head. “Doesn’t matter. You won’t catch him this time. He’s too savvy. But you better watch your backs.”
“That’s enough from you,” Waxworth had said. “Or we’ll be watching your backs, all the way out of the park.”
They’d left the hunters, and the management of the Fire Hole Hotel, with a warning. He could only hope they would heed it.
Tuesday morning, as Will was overseeing the collection of laundry to be taken to the Geyser Gateway, a teamster drove into camp with supplies from Camp Sheridan at Mammoth Hot Springs, including a load of lumber to begin building a more permanent structure for their station.
“Enough lumber and nails for about ten-foot by ten-foot square,” Franklin reported to Will after the other supplies had been stowed and the building materials inventoried. The private had worked with a contractor before joining the military.
“Sure’n that will be making for close quarters,” O’Reilly said, studying the pile.
“Vill they send vindows too?” Lercher asked with a frown.
“Glass panes are too difficult to transport,” Will told him. “Private Franklin, you are in charge of the building. Smith will take your place on patrol. As for windows, leave holes on each side and cover them with internal shutters.”
None of his men looked thrilled by the prospect. Will was just glad to know they’d have a roof over their heads before winter, even if that roof would have to be made of sod.
Then again, sod was a lot easier to deal with than Kate’s cedar shakes.
That was her next task for him when he reported for duty on Wednesday—repairing the inn’s roof where a windstorm had displaced some of the cedar.
“I have a box of shakes from the lumber mill at Bozeman,” she said, pointing him toward the barn, “a mallet, and a ladder. Tap any loose shingles back into line, and replace any that have been cracked or lost.”
He studied the sharply slanted roof two stories above him. “You don’t have a mountain goat you could ask?”
“Alas, they’re busy with the laundry,” she said.
“Eagle?” he tried.
“At a ball at Mammoth Hot Springs. It will have to be the cavalry.”
He saluted her. “Ma’am.”
With an encouraging smile, she returned to the inn.
Her son came out onto the veranda as Will was positioning the ladder. His blue eyes brightened. “Can I come up too?”
“Officers only,” Will said, trying to think how to carry the shakes and a mallet up
