Page 14 of Two Wars and a Wedding

Some of the determined girlishness drained from Kit’s face, leaving her looking much older. Older and grim. “Then you just find your own door. Like volunteering with the Red Cross and hoping for a scoop.” Pulling herself together, she said brightly, “Did you know the famous Rough Riders arrived last night?”

“The who?”

“Teddy’s Terrors. Roosey’s Red Hot Roarers. Roosevelt’s Rough Riders.” The train juddered to a halt. Kit pulled herself up by the back of the seat in front of them. “You know, Teddy Roosevelt’s volunteer cavalry troop. The boys in the blue bandanas. You must have heard of them. Everyone’s mad for them. I’d give my little finger for an interview with one of them.”

“What’s so special?” Betsy picked her way carefully down off the train. The butterscotch had helped. And maybe, just a little, the conversation with Kit. She no longer felt light-headed, just very, very tired. “They’re all marching off to the same place.”

“Oh, come on. If anything makes good copy, if there’s anything every boy and girl in America wants to read about, it’s Roosevelt and his Rough Riders. You must see the magic of it. The whole panorama of American manhood coming together in a common cause, sitting at the same mess. Senators’ sons, cowboys, Yale men, desperadoes . . .”

Betsy got a better grip on her carpetbag. “What makes you think those categories aren’t all one and the same?”

Kit’s dimple appeared in her cheek. “A senator’s son–cowboy–Yale man–desperado? Now that I’d like to see. You find me one of those, I owe you the finest dinner in town. Here’s your hotel.”

The hotel was, as Kit had said, unmistakable. Although it didn’t look anything like any Turkish harem Betsy had seen. This was a Western fantasy of the exotic, coupled with the homey comfort of a wraparound porch.

Kit gestured grandly at the verandah. “This is where they all are: the generals, the foreign envoys, the wealthy curiosity seekers. I’m off to try to scrounge up some interviews. You’ll be okay from here?”

A shadow fell over Betsy, a man-shaped shadow in a broad hat. “Miss Hayes?”

Betsy turned and found herself facing a brown canvas-covered chest. She looked up from a blue silk bandana to a face shadowed by a wide slouch hat bearing the insignia of some regiment or other. She could just make out a thin face, a thin nose, a thin cavalryman’s mustache, a thin scar on one cheek.

This was all she needed. Paul’s self-righteous cowboy friend.

Tampa, Florida

June 3, 1898

“It is Miss Hayes, isn’t it?” Holt repeated, wondering if he’d accidentally accosted the wrong woman.

“No, it’s an Eskimo,” the woman said, and Holt knew, without a doubt, that this was the woman he’d met outside the train last night.

He’d seen her standing there, small and indomitable—it was the stance he’d recognized, more than anything else—and thought he ought to say hello, see how she’d fared, but when she just stared at him, he began to wonder if he’d made a mistake.

He’d definitely made a mistake. He should have just pretended not to recognize her and kept on walking.

“I’m glad to see you made it here safely.”

It was a bit of a stretch. Miss Hayes looked like she’d been put through a wringer and come out the worse for it. Her purple hat listed to one side, revealing an equally lopsided chignon beneath. The blond hair looked dry and brittle, like a bird’s nest.

Once, as a child, Holt had rescued a bird’s nest. It turned out it didn’t need rescuing at all, and the mama bird had swooped at him with all her feathers bristling and a look of mingled fear and fury that reminded him strangely of Miss Hayes. Fragile but fierce. Ready to peck.

He ought to stop trying to rescue things, Holt thought wryly. It never did end well.

The nurse standing beside Miss Hayes poked Miss Hayes in the ribs. “You didn’t tell me you knew one of Teddy’s Terrors.”

Holt winced. He hated that name. He hated the crowds lining the train tracks shouting their names, the articles in the papers extolling them for exploits they hadn’t committed, vilifying, deifying, making up stories when there weren’t any to be had, turning them from ordinary men into pocket heroes, modern-day Robin Hoods, part bandit, part saint.

“I don’t,” said Miss Hayes flatly. “I didn’t even know they were—whatever you called them. I only met Private Holt because he wouldn’t let me get off the train last night.”

“Wait. Did you say Holt? Not Hold ’Em Holt?” Miss Hayes’s friend grabbed his arm. “Kit Carson, St. Louis Star Ledger.”

“Ma’am.” Talking to reporters was always a mistake. Even ones dressed up as nurses. Disengaging his arm, Holt turned back to Miss Hayes. “Well, if you’re all right . . .”

“Other than near asphyxiation from the close atmosphere of the train compartment, I’m perfectly all right, thank you.”

Holt didn’t quite understand how she managed to make him feel as though he were in the wrong. “It wouldn’t have been safe to walk that way in the dark.”

“I got back on the train, didn’t I?” Miss Hayes folded her arms across her chest, emphasizing how loosely her jacket hung on her thin frame. “You didn’t follow me here, did you? There’s no need for more knight errantry.”