Page 18 of Ellen Found

IN THAT ODD way of Wyoming weather, spring sidled in when everyone was hammering, installing windows, and worrying if the final load of furniture would arrive on time. Builders and staff discovered a dismaying amount of final projects even the best of planners seem to leave undone until the end, because it was the Big Stuff that mattered.

May roared in with wind and more snow, and then suddenly, silence, followed by the steady drip of ice from the Inn’s enormous sloping roof. One day the landscape was gray, and the next day that impossible green of tender buds and grass. Even the geysers, paint pots, and hot springs seemed to perk up, as if aware that this inn at Old Faithful was destined for greatness .

Spring exited ahead of schedule in mid-May, as the string quartet practiced, the dining room acquired spotless white tablecloths, and rugs went down in the lobby. On his latest visit, Harry Child pronounced his project worthy of the nation’s first national park.

The days lengthened and warmed like a benediction. Ellen worked long hours too, rationing her love for Charles Penrose to quick kisses in the morning and maybe a moment in the evening by the roaring fireplace in the lobby, holding hands. What else was needed? She knew her own mind.

Then came her final visit to Plato’s grave outside the kitchen door, peaceful under the over-hang of windows. “I wish you could see the inn,” she told him, after looking around to make sure she was alone. She patted the grave, grateful beyond measure for the little Butte stray with the courage of a mountain lion. “I’ll be back now and then,” she promised. “I will.”

The U.S. Army triumphed. Major Pitcher knew of a frustrated Presbyterian minister in Gardiner about to leave that town of wicked sinners, and persuaded him to come to Old Faithful for a wedding. Ellen Found and Charles Penrose were married May 30 in the lobby of Mr. Reamer’s amazing inn by Old Faithful, which erupted when Ellen said, “I do.” Everyone laughed.

Harry Child himself handed her new husband the key to Room 140, the final guest room at the end of the hall. “It’s secluded,” he confided, which made Charles blush. Gwen and Socrates stayed that night with Mrs. Wilson, the former Mrs. Quincy, who had married Mr. Wilson a week earlier. Fort Yellowstone had a federal judge who’d done the honors.

In the morning they were packed and ready to take a freight wagon to Lake Hotel, where Mr. Reamer was halfway through a remodel of that grand old dame. “I need an expert’s finish work,” he said, then promised Charles the lead carpenter position on the new Yellowstone Park Transportation Company barn in Gardiner. “I have more projects,” he told him. “You’ll be busy.”

Eating leftover cake in the lobby, Mr. Child asked Ellen how she and Charles enjoyed the string quartet serenade last night outside Room 140. The violinists were still getting used to their summer job of playing for guests during dinner and dances. “I hope they impressed you,” he said.

“You mean those rascals who played ‘Brahms’ Lullaby’?” Charles asked. His wife blushed.

And here was Sergeant Reeves, splendid in his dress uniform, but looking forlorn. Ellen leaned against Charles and his arms automatically went around her. “Dan, thanks for getting him back to me safely.”

He glared at her new husband, then gave a philosophical shrug. “Drat the man, what could I do?”

“What you did.”

Ellen looked around, admiring the work of a winter and knowing she would never tire of it. The first tourists were arriving tomorrow. Some projects remained undone, but it would all happen. She watched Adelaide Child instructing a pretty young thing behind the front desk. Hmm.

“Dan, go meet that front desk clerk,” she said. “You look impressive right now.”

He laughed at that and followed her gaze. “Yes, ma’am! ”

“Will I like Lake Hotel?” she asked Charles, who watched Dan strut away.

“Yes, Mrs. Penrose, if you like cuddling with me on the front steps to watch the sun go down over the lake. It’s a far cry from Mercury Street.”

She relaxed in his arms. “True, but everything in my life, including Mercury Street and even Butte, brought me right here.” She whispered in his ear. “Let’s reserve Room 140 next year.”

“Without the string quartet.” He kissed the top of her head. “I’ve been thinking about your former name. Ellen Found. What did you find, dear heart?”

What indeed? They walked outside to look at the geyser field, ready for summer and tourists. “You, most certainly,” she said. She knew his heart.

“What else?”

“Me.”