Lake of Fire (53 page)

A quarter mile away, on the west side of the valley, the terraces of Mammoth Hot Springs shone white in the shadow of the mountain. Streaks of orange and rust algae marked the pale stone.

Below the terraced hillside and directly across from the parade ground stood the five-story National Hotel, built of dark wood with a shingled roof. On the verandah, Laura saw rows of rocking chairs filled with people whiling away the last of the day.

Feddors turned his horse onto the Fort Yellowstone parade ground, and Stafford followed.

A troop of mounted cavalry drilled, hooves thudding on the packed earth. The horses had been brushed until they looked burnished, and the soldiers’ polished black boots and crossed swords on their forage caps reflected the glow of the setting sun. Women stood with their children in front of Officers’ Row, watching the spectacle and waiting for the men to be freed for the evening.

The laughter and applause suddenly stilled, and a murmur rose at the sight of their commanding officers’ filthy uniforms, the tattered remains of Laura’s dress, and Cord, soot-blackened, in handcuffs.

A cannon boomed from atop the rounded contours of Capitol Hill overlooking the fort, while the clarion call of “Taps” sounded. Captain Feddors rose in his stirrups to salute the lowering of the colors.

Once the last notes faded, he dismounted. Laura slid off before he could help her.

He gestured at Cord, who looked as though at any moment he would fall down. “Take this man to the stockade.”

Laura’s gut churned.

“The woman, as well.”

Lieutenant Stafford intervened once more. “I’ll take her to my home. Katharine will see to her.”

Feddors bristled. “She’s an accessory to Sutton’s crimes …”

“There’s no evidence of that …”

Laura cut off Stafford’s mild reply. “There’s no evidence against Cord, either.”

And nothing in his favor, unless Danny Falls lived and was willing to tell the truth.

The home of Lieutenant John Stafford and his wife was one of the big tin-roofed duplexes facing the parade ground.

Katharine Stafford, a rotund woman who smelled of baking bread, had a dusting of flour on the front of her black serge skirt. Kind blue eyes took in Laura’s ruined dress, her scratches and insect bites, and the dirty rags on her feet. Though Lieutenant Stafford had seen to it her feet were bathed and bandaged the night before last, there had been no other chance to clean up.

Laura was grateful the dutiful officer’s wife asked no questions except whether she would prefer to eat or bathe first. Her skin crawled, and she felt even worse than the evening she’d washed in the hot pool at Witch Creek. Moreover, she felt sure she’d not be able to get a mouthful past the lump in her throat.

While Katharine boiled water and prepared a tub in a front bedroom, Laura looked out the window between sheer lace curtains. The pale monument of Mammoth Hot Springs stood out against the gathering night. Smoke rose lazily from a fumarole in the middle of the parade ground. Tourists wandered from the springs down to the hotel.

Katharine drew the rolled shade over the window. “You have soap,” she itemized, passing chore-reddened hands over a transparent glycerine bar that smelled of roses, “and a towel.”

A thick, but rough-looking cloth lay folded on a stool beside the tin tub of steaming water. An oil lamp sat beside it with a box of matches, mute testimony to the fact that Fort Yellowstone did not have electricity.

“Mercy me,” Katharine mused. She ignored
Laura’s inability to hold up her end of the conversation. “What am I going to get you to wear? You’d go swimming in my clothes.”

She snapped her fingers. “There’s a little ole gal, just about your size, who got here this afternoon. She’s staying next door in the vacant superintendent’s house with her brother.”

When the door finally closed, Laura stripped off her filthy rags and lowered herself gingerly into the hot water.

Her injured arm throbbed. Her flayed feet and the torn palms of her hands stung when the soap touched them. The burns on the back of her calves felt hot, and the red welts of insect bites itched wildly.

As she began to soap herself, surrounded by the delicate aroma of roses, a wave of anger rolled over her. It wasn’t fair that she enjoy this luxury while Cord was imprisoned.

Too late, she wished they’d made love in the cavern, but at the time, it had been impossible. Neither she nor Cord had been able to do more than mourn the life they’d imagined together.

Since their capture, Cord hadn’t asked her to do anything to help him, probably fearing Feddors would thwart whatever he asked. But she believed he would want her to contact his father in Salt Lake City.

Before she could rise from the tub, a knock sounded on the door.

Streaming water onto the rag rug covering the plank floor, Laura reached for her towel. Wrapping
herself hastily, she went to the door. Surely Captain Feddors would have more couth than to interrupt her while she was bathing.

“Who is it?” she asked carefully.

A female voice answered, sounding younger and more delicate than Katharine Stafford. “You needed something to wear?”

Laura opened the door a scant inch and peered through.

Alexandra Falls, her golden hair perfectly coiffed, stepped up to the doorway. She wore a white voile dress embroidered with tiny violets and carried the deep purple dress Laura had seen her wear at the Lake

Hotel.

Clutching her towel with one hand, Laura swung the door wider.

Alexandra studied Laura with violet eyes. “They phoned the Lake Soldier Station yesterday that they had found Danny … Hank and I came at once.”

“He’s not …”

“Alive … barely.”

Though Laura had wanted Danny to live because of Cord, she hadn’t realized how relieved she’d be to learn she hadn’t killed a man.

Alexandra walked in and dumped her dress over the arm of a mohair divan decorated with lace doilies. “I came for Danny, but … I believe Hank came after you.”

Laura’s heart sank. He was probably already in Captain Feddors’s office asking him to string Cord up.

“He knows about you and Cord, but once he’s out
of the way, Hank’s sure you’ll get over it.”

The twilight filtering through the white window shade had a sudden nightmarish quality. Hank wanted Cord dead and he thought she would “get over it”?

Alexandra turned her head and a small pendant swung free of the neckline of her dress. Hanging from a braided gold chain, a woman’s sharp white profile was drawn finely against black onyx.

Laura almost gasped aloud. Yet, why should she be surprised? Danny Falls would have given Violet Fielding’s cameo to the little sister he loved.

Like Cord with his obsidian, like the cameo had been to Laura before she lost it, Alexandra clearly viewed it as a charm that might save her favorite brother.

Though she wanted to rip it off her neck, Laura decided to bide her time.

Shutting Alexandra out of her room at the Stafford’s, Laura lit the lamp and dressed in haste.

As she’d hoped, when she came out of the bedroom, lamp in hand, Alexandra was nowhere in sight. Thankfully, in front of the door sat a bottle of witch hazel to clean her wounded feet and hands, Epsom salts and a foot pan for soaking, and fresh linen for bandages. Beside the first-aid supplies sat a well-worn pair of black felt slippers that looked too wide but would work with her feet wrapped.

When she once more left the bedroom, muted
voices came from the kitchen, along with the aroma of meat, onions, and a warm smell of baking potatoes. The light from that room was stronger.

Though Aunt Fanny had taught Laura a lady did not eavesdrop—what had she and Constance been doing in the Lake Hotel lobby?—Laura set the lamp on a walnut drop-leaf table and moved closer.

“We brought in a man accused of arson and attempted murder.” John Stafford’s voice was low and controlled. “You wouldn’t notice, but apparently he’s of Nez Perce blood and Feddors has dredged up …” He paused. “Feddors shot at him to stop him getting away.”

“If he were fleeing … ?” Katharine’s tone suggested he must be guilty. “The woman?”

Laura waited for her to want her out of the house.

After a moment of silence, broken by the sizzling of meat in a skillet, she heard Katharine. “She cares for him?”

“From what I’ve seen, yes.”

Laura stepped closer. In the light of a kerosene chandelier, Stafford took down a blue-and-white enameled cup from a shelf beside the polished black woodstove. He poured coffee from a matching pot set toward the stove’s rear.

“You said he was accused …” Katharine dumped the beefsteak onto a white china platter.

“Feddors thinks he’s guilty.”

“You don’t.”

Laura moved into the doorway. “Cord’s not guilty,
Lieutenant,” she declared, looking up into Stafford’s intent gray eyes.

“Call me John.” He pulled down another cup and filled it for her.

She took the coffee. “I told you Danny bragged about trying to kill Edgar Young.”

“But why?” John stirred in sugar from a china bowl decorated with pink roses. “He and Edgar were meeting together in the old cabin as though they had a common interest.”

“They did. Having Cord buy the hotel out from under Hank was one more skirmish in the war between brothers.” She held the hot cup by the handle and blew on the liquid. “Only when Cord turned out to be ‘unqualified,’ it backfired. Danny went into a rage at Edgar’s apparent incompetence.”

“Time for supper.” Katharine brought plates to the table along with a loaf of fresh-baked bread. John snagged the meat platter, while she opened the stove door and pulled ashy baked potatoes from the coals. He brought over knives and forks, and pulled cloth napkins from a drawer. Last, he got down a syrup pitcher, decorated with the roses that must be Katharine’s favorite, and filled it from a five-gallon wooden keg.

Laura watched their well-rehearsed routine and imagined her and Cord preparing dinner.

The three of them sat. John and Katharine bowed their heads while he said a rough but heartfelt prayer. Laura hadn’t prayed in a long time, but she sent up a silent entreaty for Cord.

When the plates were passed and filled, she finally realized how hungry she was. After nearly three days without food, and only picking at camp beans last night and this morning, the succulent aromas invited her to attack the simple yet tasty fare.

“More bread?” John asked, after a silent interval of everyone putting laden forks to their mouths.

Laura swallowed a bite of the rich and yeasty loaf, soaked in syrup. “Do you suppose that Cord … ?”

“I’m sure Feddors would love to starve him,” John said, “but prisoners always get an ample, if simple meal. If you like, I’ll stop by and make sure.”

“Lieutenant …” Laura began carefully, “… John. It’s been my impression that many of the men don’t care for Captain Feddors.”

His sun-roughened face took on a neutral expression. “A lot of soldiers despise their officers.”

“Cord Sutton is a gentleman, and he owns a fine hotel in Salt Lake City.” Her words tumbled out. “Won’t you please help him?”

The gray of his eyes changed to that of a winter sky. “I may deplore Feddors’s attitudes, but I must uphold the law. Mr. Sutton will face his accusers in a proper hearing.”

Defeated on another front, she rose and took her plate to the drain board. “In addition to the rest of your hospitality, could I borrow a little money for Western Union? I need to send a telegram to Cord’s family in Salt Lake City.”

“Go over to the hotel,” John suggested. “If you try
to do it from the superintendent’s office, I’m sure Feddors will make sure something happens to divert it.”