Will Prescott watched as the woman with midnight black hair pulled out of his embrace and tightened her grip on her gun. Wasn’t there some myth about a goddess of the hunt, protecting the animals and forests? Even her practical fitted blue bodice and wide skirts couldn’t quite erase the image from his mind. But more important was her ability to predict the geyser’s eruption. It was well known Old Faithful was reliable. He doubted this one was.
“How did you know?” he asked.
Her misty gray eyes looked as heated as the spray that had just erupted feet away from them. “You live in a place long enough, you learn things about it. But if you don’t stay away from the hot springs, you won’t live long enough to learn.”
He couldn’t argue. He’d been part of the cavalry for more than ten years, most of them out in Indian Territory. Yellowstone was like nothing he’d ever seen, marvel after marvel. Small wonder the first trappers and explorers to tell of encountering the place hadn’t been believed.
Much like Captain Harris hadn’t been believed when he’d asked for scouts.
“We must protect millions of acres,” he’d written to Washington. “I have three experienced guides ready to help. We can’t cover so much territory quickly without them.”
The answer had been swift. “Pay is authorized for one guide. Your men must learn the country.”
Will had been here more than a fortnight, and he still got lost riding between the outposts. Captain Harris had stationed details at six locations, the most popular tourist stops like the Lower Geyser Basin. If Will was to protect his portion of the park, much less his men, he had to do better.
Of course, he’d been telling himself that for the last eight years, ever since he’d made the gravest error of his life.
He shook away the ugly memory. It had been a long, hard climb back to lieutenant from where he’d been justly demoted. He had a job to do now, and he intended to do it.
“I wasn’t trying to steam myself into pudding,” he told Mrs. Tremaine as they headed for her hotel. It was a welcoming place with green shutters on the windows and a covered porch wrapping around three sides. With the nights growing colder, he envied her the building’s warmth. “I was riding by and saw someone throwing sticks into the paint pots.”
She pulled up short. “Who?”
He pitied the fellow if he met her and her rifle with that fiery look in her eyes. “I only caught a glimpse before he ran off. Tall man, top hat, black coat too fancy for out here.”
“Ponsonby,” she said. “He’s staying at the hotel. Came with a group from New York yesterday. I’ll speak to him.”
He eyed the rifle cradled so casually against her. “Armed?”
She grinned. “If necessary.”
His mouth felt odd, and it was a moment before he realized why. The muscles of his face were rusty. How long had it been since he’d smiled?
He forced his gaze away from her to the hotel. His horse was tied to the hitching post in front, the sorrel mare unaffected by the other horses around her. Bess was a good cavalry horse—the sound of gunfire didn’t trouble her, those powerful legs could push her into a full run in a matter of seconds, and she could sustain that pace for nearly a half hour without tiring. Now her ears twitched as if she heard him coming.
Or maybe she was as intrigued by the woman at his side as he was.
Once more, he pushed away his thoughts. He had much to atone for before he could be called a gentleman again. Sometimes he feared even God couldn’t forgive what he’d done. He was fortunate the Army had been willing to let him start over.
Though it appeared as if Mrs. Tremaine might have to start over as well. Up close, he could see that the hotel needed work. A few of those jaunty shutters hung crookedly, as if bent by a strong wind, and the porch steps were sagging as three gentlemen and their ladies traipsed down them. It couldn’t be easy managing a busy hotel, especially for a widow.
Bess raised her head as the front door banged open, and a towheaded youngster dashed out onto the porch.
“Ma!”
Correction: a widow with child. The hotel owner drew up as the boy clambered down the steps. A slender lad about seven with wide eyes and a stub of a nose, he hitched up his short trousers as he skidded to a stop in front of Will and Mrs. Tremaine. “Can I show Mr. Ponsonby our special spot?”
Mrs. Tremaine glanced at Will before gathering her skirts with her free hand and crouching before her son. “What did we agree on, Danny?”
The boy shuffled his feet, gaze on the dusty soil. “Our special spot is just for us.” He spoke in a singsong voice as if repeating what he’d heard many times before. “But he likes buffalo.”
“Lots of people like buffalo,” his mother countered. “In stew, with their heads mounted on walls, with their hides spread on floors.”
Her son’s eyes grew wider, his face paler, with each word. “Mr. Ponsonby isn’t like that.”
A man who threw sticks into mud pots, just to see what might happen, probably wasn’t the sort to protect other parts of nature. Mrs. Tremaine must have thought the same, for she rose and patted her son’s shoulder. “You leave Mr. Ponsonby to me. Have you finished your chores?”
His sigh was heavy. “Yes. I helped Pansy empty the chamber pots, scrubbed the kitchen floor, and cleaned out the salon hearth.”
That was a lot of work for one morning, especially for a boy his size. His mother merely nodded. “Thank you. I expect Caleb could use some help chopping wood.”
He made a face. “Caleb always needs help chopping wood.”
The frustration in the boy’s voice pulled at
