Faithful (9 page)

“Almost! Through the arch and up the road!”

In truth, I thought it was a little overbearing, that arch, looming over us. We were at our destination and yet Papa still hadn’t revealed anything to me. I would still have to be properly obedient to his whims. Now that we were on our way up the winding road into the Park, I was ready for this journey to end, ready to bring Mama home to Newport. As we drew away, I looked back. Paradise Valley, wrapped in clouds, pinched shut like a vise. The arch itself reminded me of a medieval gate—I could almost hear the doors clang shut and the key turn, with a
snick
, in the lock.

“The president himself dedicated it last year. He was very enthusiastic about his visit to Yellowstone.” Uncle John leaned toward me. “He shook my hand.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“I was repairing some of the trim in the lobby of the National Hotel in Mammoth—that’s how Mr. Reamer found me—and when President Roosevelt came through, he stopped and admired my work. And he shook my hand.” Uncle John beamed.

“How exciting.” I felt sorry for my uncle, so awestruck by a handshake. Isabel had a stuffed “Teddy” bear that was a gift from Roosevelt himself. I would see Isabel, if not her bear, again soon. With our family together again, I’d show her that I was worthy of respect and not her snobbish disdain. I sank back against the leather bench of the coach and smiled.

The rhythm of the coach’s movements lulled me and I closed my eyes. My other senses sharpened: the smell of horses, of leather, of dust; the creak and groan of the carriage; the murmur of voices; the rock and sway.

The carriage shuddered violently, jolting me from sleep. The horses at the front of the team reared and neighed as the driver pulled up. I opened my eyes wide now and grasped the edge of the open window. A woman screamed and the men shouted exclamations.

“Bear!” someone yelled.

A bear! My eyes searched the landscape; my body tensed. I tightened my hold, fingers curled over the wood. The driver cursed as he strained to control the horses. For one awful moment, I thought the entire coach would tip sideways, top-heavy as it was with passengers. A swift and gripping fear coursed through my every muscle. The coach righted at last. Yet something else ran through me: not relief, but a longing so primitive that it worked against common sense. It pulled me out, calling to me, drawing me from the safe confines of the coach.

I had to see the bear.

I thrust my head out the window, defying rational thought. There. Just off the road, no more than twenty feet away, staring at the coach with leaden eyes. Its head was massive—too massive for its tiny, round ears. Its sand-colored coat ruffled in the wind, and it sprouted an enormous hump on its shoulders, like a growth.

“Grizzly,” said the man sitting opposite me, in a quiet undertone.

Grizzly! I might have been at the edge of a cliff, my legs were so wobbly, yet I did not feel paralyzed, as I did when encountering a precipice. The bear and I locked eyes. I shrank back. It sat up, lifting its nose into the air in tiny, quick jerks. Its eyes were surprisingly small, and flat brown. We stared at each other for a long moment. I searched its eyes, but they were a void.

The animal was not like Ghost, whose thoughts I could read. There was nothing behind the bear’s gaze but raw instinct. It had no soul. It watched me with those tiny, flat, animal eyes, with a deep malice that I could feel in my gut. The bear waited for me and me alone. I knew that it was chasing the air for my scent.

“Ah!” The sound escaped me almost involuntarily, and as if in response to my cry, the bear grunted. It swung its massive head back and forth and took a step forward. Its eyes met mine; sure as sure, it read my thoughts. I knew I was reading the bear as well—torn between fear and a desire to know more, to probe deep into its psyche.

The driver strained to control the terrified horses and he urged them forward. They pulled off at last and the carriage started with a jolt. We moved away, leaving the bear behind as it followed us—me—with its eyes.

I craned out the window, looking back.

“What you do,” said the man opposite, “is lie down and remain still.”

The bear stood on its hind legs. I felt its call as if I were a wild thing. The taste of fear rose into my mouth but I still wanted to see the bear.

The man repeated himself, leaning toward me and blocking the window to catch my attention. “Did you hear? Completely still.”

“Excuse me?” What did this irritating man want? I tried to look past him but it was too late. I leaned back in frustration, breathing as if I’d been running.

“If you are out in the bush and come upon a bear,” he said, flicking his hand, impatient. “You lie still and play dead. The bear sees you as a threat, but if you play dead, it will merely sniff at you and move on.” His cultivated English accent matched his bearing.

I goggled at him, wondering why I would need this piece of trivia.

He smiled, revealing a gap between his front teeth, beneath the curve of his mustache. “Unless, of course, it’s hungry.” He extended his hand. “George Graybull.” I shook it and then withdrew, gazing out the window.

The bear’s eyes burned in my memory; something about it had imprinted my soul. I tried to slow my breathing. I spoke in a whisper, to myself. “It looked right at me.”

“What? The bear?” He had heard me, that Graybull. “Nonsense. Bears have dreadful eyesight. Couldn’t have seen you at that distance. Just sniffing the air.” He caught my skeptical glance. “Been on a number of safaris. Hunted throughout the west. I know animals.”

I smiled politely. Uncle John leaned over. “Exciting to see a bear this early in Yellowstone, eh, Margaret? Unusual!”

The coach climbed higher, and then the landscape opened into a series of rolling hills, until the road wound in tight spirals. I leaned with the coach as it swayed, and thought about the bear.

I knew animals. I knew animals well. I closed my eyes and remembered the feel of Ghost’s shoulder beneath my hand, the ripple of his muscle when I pressed my cheek against his neck. The bond I shared with him, the way he knew me. I thought again about the bear reading my thoughts and knew there was a difference.

I opened my eyes again and looked out over the high mountains into which we climbed with a steady pace. Soon I’d be back with Ghost; soon I’d be back with Mama.

My thoughts were interrupted again when I realized that George Graybull’s eyes were fixed on me. I squirmed, uncomfortable under his gaze, and color crept into my cheeks. I twisted in my seat, trying to avoid his piercing eyes, and leaned against the wood windowsill.

Neat, ordered, frame buildings capped with red roofs signaled our arrival at Fort Yellowstone. The coach drew past the fort and I looked up the hill.

“Is that smoke?”

“Steam, Margaret! You’re in Mammoth Hot Springs.”

“Hot springs.” Saratoga’s springs were mineral, not steaming. I gawked, amazed.

The National Hotel, a grand wood structure, loomed on our right. Clouds of steam rose beyond it. Elk grazed on the lawn only yards away from us and I couldn’t help feeling transported into another world. Our coach stopped before the National and, following the other jabbering tourists, I turned to enter the lobby.

Papa put his hand on my arm, held me back. “Not here, Margaret.” Uncle John collected our belongings on the covered porch, off to one side of the other passengers’ things.

“Not here?” I stopped, confused. “But, where . . .”

“I’ve booked rooms for you in the Cottage Hotel.” Uncle John nodded in the direction of a ramshackle log building. “It’s very quaint.” His smile was uneasy.

“Quaint?” It looked like a thin-walled box compared with the imposing beauty of the National. “What’s going on, Papa?”

“The National is more than we need right now.”

The other tourists had already gone inside the hotel. George Graybull glanced our way as he entered, clearly taking in my look of horror, and watched my uncle, who moved our belongings on a trolley toward the Cottage. Graybull tipped his hat to me, but his eyes betrayed his surprise. We looked like first-class travelers, but I could see his doubt now as we headed toward the Cottage Hotel.

We
were
first-class travelers. I straightened my back and turned to my father.

“Papa, I don’t understand. Why are we not staying here?”

He cleared his throat. His eyes met mine, and what I saw made my stomach clench. His eyes were like the bear’s, flat and unreadable. “Margaret. The National is more than we can afford. Let’s go inside. I need to tell you something.”

The air left my lungs and the ground shifted beneath my feet. I followed my father into the Cottage Hotel as if I were in a dream. No, not a dream, a nightmare. I knew, knew from his eyes, from his rigid shoulders, that something was very wrong. We couldn’t afford the National. That’s what he’d just said. How was that possible? Things were clearly not as he had led me to believe. And what of Mama?

My feet took step after step after my father, but they moved by something other than my own will. And I willed my heart somewhere else—over the gorge of Paradise, perhaps in the thicket with the grizzly, or in the station with Tom—because if my heart was in my chest at that moment, I felt sure it was about to break.

June 18, 1904

“THERE’S NOTHING FOR US TO RETURN TO,” PAPA SAID. I could not see his face. His voice spoke of finality. “It’s gone.”

My free hand tightened on the plain, wood bedpost. I stared at him, at his profile framed against the light from the window of my room, taking in his words. I was stunned to silence.

“I let you think this trip was about finding your mother. I had to, or you might have resisted.”

“Mama isn’t here? There’s . . . nothing?” My throat was so tight I couldn’t swallow.

“I couldn’t let your grandparents take you away from me, Margaret.” His voice was soft. I knew he meant that he needed me, but he had betrayed me completely. I only felt my own pain.

“You lied. You lied to me. All this time, you let me believe . . .” I choked, trying to control my voice. “You lied to me about Mama.”

He didn’t answer. “I’ve had to sell everything. We are bankrupt, Maggie. We could no longer make it in Newport. This isn’t a sightseeing trip. We’re going to make a new home, here, in Yellowstone.”

Bankrupt. Penniless. Like a hot poker spearing me right through the middle. My guts contracted. The strange room around me spun and I held the bedpost tighter, leaning hard against it so I wouldn’t faint. “We’re not going back to Newport? We’re supposed to stay . . . here?” I was sure I had misheard him. Misunderstood what he was saying. Newport was our home . . . my home.

“We’re not going back. I’ve sold it, everything.”

“Our house, the furniture?” My voice rose as I became hysterical. “Papa! It was my house. It was my home. It was Mama’s home. How could you . . . What have you done?”

“I did what I had to, Maggie.” He turned slightly but still did not meet my eyes. “Your grandparents would have taken you away from me.”

“And you should have let them! Why didn’t you let them?” I threw my hands up over my face, trying to keep myself from screaming. The image of Kitty came into my mind, her words about my grandparents. “Do you understand what you’ve done? I have to go back for my debut. It’s all planned. Kitty’s planned it. I can’t back out. It’s my only chance!” He would have to see reason, simply have to.

“I’ve canceled your debut, Maggie.”

“You—what?” My body shook as I grasped the full meaning of Papa’s actions.

“Canceled. We couldn’t afford it.”

“What about my future? What about me, my prospects? Without a debut, I can’t find a husband, I can’t build a life! Did you think to ask me what I wanted? What I had to say about this?” With one sweeping gesture, my father had destroyed my dreams, my hopes, and my future. “What about my life? No one will marry me! No one will even
look
at me unless I’m properly introduced into society. Did you think about that? Did you?”

“It all fell apart. You must have known, you must have seen it coming. I didn’t hold together after your mother . . .” He paused and his voice grew softer still. My fingers gripped the bedpost so hard I could have crushed the wood to pulp. “Your grandfather was right. I didn’t take care of things after your mother died.”

“She’s not dead!” I shouted. I didn’t care who heard me, I didn’t care about acting like a proper lady—there was no one here who mattered. “You let me think she was here. You let me think that that was what this trip was about. You told me you had a surprise for me, that Uncle John had news.”

“He does.” Papa’s face was invisible. “Just not the news you imagined.”

Imagined? I hadn’t imagined Papa’s lies, his betrayal . . . I leaned against the bedpost, clutching it with both hands. “How could you?” Fat tears welled in my eyes. He’d not only destroyed my future; he’d taken my mother away again. “I want Mama! I want to go home! I want my things, my life, my home!” Anger pushed through my misery and I dropped my voice. “You lied to me.”

“Maggie.” He spoke in a whisper.

Anger gave me strength. I paced the floor of the small room, my hands balled into fists. “You lied.” What would become of me now? I had been preparing my entire life for a future that no longer existed, a future that Papa had stolen from me. “And what about school? I have another year of school left. Where will I attend school?” I threw my arm out. “Way out here in the middle of
nowhere
?” I shouted the last word.