Messenger by Moonlight (31 page)

At midday, when George still hadn’t ventured into the station, Annie walked down to the barn. Frank was standing outside a stall, admiring the new colt.

“George is over in the soddy,” Billy said. “Polishing a harness.”

“He didn’t kill you,” Annie teased.

“Thanks to Frank,” Billy said.

“I told him we should all be proud of you,” Frank said.

Once at the soddy, Annie rapped on the door before going in. When George didn’t answer, she went in anyway. “Thanks for the coffee. And breakfast.”

“You’re welcome.”

She perched on the windowsill, watching as George worked saddle soap into the leather. After a few moments, she said, “I guess you’re really angry with me, hunh?”

He shrugged. “Why would I be angry? Just because you ran off on a fool’s errand? Just because you risked your life? Just because you could have gotten killed over
scribbles on bits of paper
?”

He hadn’t raised his voice at all. Still, Annie could feel him shouting. “The Pony Express is about the farthest thing from a ‘fool’s errand’ a person could get, and I think you know that. And whatever scribbles I carried locked in those mail pouches, I’d like to think they were
important
scribbles.”

“There’s a lot of things in life that are important. Plowing’s important. You want to take that over for me? Or maybe you’d rather take over for Hart when he leads the next
column out on patrol. What about freighting? You want to try your hand at bullwhacking? A lot of people depend on those supplies getting delivered on time.”

“Now you’re just being silly.”

He sputtered, “Y-you c-c-ould have d-died.” He broke off. Dropping the harness, he stood up. He started to leave. Then he turned back and in one swift movement, gathered her into his arms and pulled her close—close enough that his scruffy beard tickled her cheek. Close enough that she could feel his heart pounding.

“S-see what y-you do to me?” He released her and stormed out.

Moments after George released her and stormed out of the soddy, Annie made her way back to the station. If ever she needed another woman in her life, it was now. Her mind swirled from George to Lieutenant Hart and even, at times, back to the only other male she’d ever entertained romantic notions about, Luvina Aikens’s brother, Calvin. Of course Calvin had been barely sixteen that time he tried to kiss her, and Annie had pushed him away shouting, “I’d rather be kissed by a horse!” The only thing she’d learned about romance from Calvin Aiken was to stay away from boys.

She didn’t want to stay away from Lieutenant Hart—or George, for that matter. Did that mean she was falling in love? Was either man falling in love with her? They behaved nothing alike. Wade Hart visited the station, smiled at her a lot, and wrote those pretty notes at the bottom of some of Lydia’s letters. She’d never caught George looking at her—well, not except for that one time at the cotillion when he stared as if she was some odd creature he’d never seen before.

There was something about Wade Hart that made her feel uneasy. Love did that, didn’t it? Until just now, she’d felt—homey—when she was around George. Especially now that she understood his ways. Why he was usually quiet, for example. And that beneath the sometimes-frightening, bearish exterior, there was a gentle side that brought chicks in
from the cold to protect them and even named the milk cow. Everything was nice and settled with George—or had been, until a minute ago, when he scooped her up and stuttered about what she “did to him.” What’d she do?

The whole time she swept floors and fixed lunch, Annie pondered the mysteries of men and romance, and by the time lunch was ready, she hadn’t decided much of anything beyond a faint sense of comfortableness with the idea of being snuggled next to George. But love didn’t mean feeling comfortable—did it? Wasn’t love supposed to be wilder than that?

Annie’s ponderings came to an abrupt halt when a gust of wind blew the storeroom door closed with a bang. She’d propped it open while she worked to take advantage of the spring breeze. Now, she realized the temperature had dropped. She went to the door, opened it, and peered west. She’d seen a wall of clouds like that before. While the crew shouted and chased about, closing the barn doors and securing corral gates, Annie shooed the chickens into the coop and closed the door, then hastened to where Elizabeth had been picketed and dragged her toward the lean-to George and Billy had put up.

Dried bits of hay and straw swirled through the air. The wall of rain hit just as Annie had tied the last hitch in the rope to secure Elizabeth in the shelter. Ducking inside the station, she ran to close all the windows and secure the shutters. It took all her strength to manage the last latch. She had just forced the front door closed, barred it, and turned to go to the back door when lightning struck the roof of the barn. A jagged tongue of fire shot down the roof.
George!
Her heart in her throat, Annie stepped outside, but she hadn’t even crossed the back porch when a downpour doused the flames.

Billy ran out into the rain and peered up at the damage.
George came around from behind the barn and joined him. In that brief moment of time, relief coursed through Annie—relief so strong it made her knees quake and her joints hurt. Unwilling to let George out of her sight, Annie stayed put. George looked toward the station, leaned in to say something to Billy, and jogged in her direction. He stepped just beneath the overhang, sweeping his soaked hair back out of his face as he called out, “Are you all right?” He practically had to shout to make himself heard above the rain.

“Yes,” she hollered back.

For a long moment the two of them just stood looking at each other. And then George smiled. Nodded. “Good!”

“Coffee?” she hollered.

“Soon! Need to check a few more things!”

He ran back into the storm. Annie retreated to her room and changed into dry clothes. Back in the kitchen, she made coffee, humming while she worked. Whatever had gone on down in the soddy, George wasn’t angry anymore. They were going to be all right.

As it had a year before, the spring rain splashed the prairie with welcome color and churned up mountains of mud. The crew tracked it in, customers tracked it in, and Annie tracked it in, for there was simply no way to navigate without slip-sliding through mud and having it splatter the hem of her skirts. She was sweeping clods of dried mud into a pile in the main room one sunny May afternoon when Lieutenant and Lydia Hart rode in.

“We have news,” Lydia said as she dismounted and hitched her horse. “I’ve already hired a girl to press our gowns for the cotillion. You’ll come early again, I trust?”

“Let’s talk about that over pie,” Annie said. While she worked, she and Lydia chatted easily, laughing over the inconsequential dramas Cinda Collingsworth seemed incapable of avoiding and worrying aloud over the profound events going on in the East. When they finally sat down at one of the tables in the main room, the lieutenant pressed the point about the cotillion.

Annie had been thinking about the matter for a good long while now, but it was hard to face those blue eyes and say
no.
“You know I love to dance as much as the next woman.” She looked across the table at Lydia. “And that gown—there are no words. But I just don’t know. It’s not like last fall, when things were winding down out on the trail.” She glanced back at the lieutenant. “You know what it’s like. We’re heading into our busiest season. I’ve a flock of chickens to tend and a cow to milk and a garden to weed.” She paused. Cleared her throat. “And when it comes right down to it, I’m not really a silk-and-sapphires kind of girl.”

Scowling, Lieutenant Hart rose abruptly, marched to the open front door, and stared out toward the trail. Annie set her fork down. Lydia reached over and squeezed her hand. “Maybe not, but you’re a rare gem. And a dear friend. And I’ll never forget you.”

Annie frowned. “That sounds dreadfully final.”

Hart returned to the table. “We both have news—of a nature we felt we should share in person. As it happens, your attendance at the cotillion has taken on an even more important place in our lives because of recent events.” He looked over at Lydia.

She took the cue to continue. Words spilled out. “Wade’s finally getting his wish. He’s been promoted to captain and ordered to Jefferson Barracks in St. Louis. And from there, to
only God knows what thrilling action and future glory.” Her eyes shone with tears. She forced a brighter-than-necessary smile.

The lieutenant broke in. “We’ll depart the week after the cotillion. Which is why it’s so important to both of us that you come. It’ll be something of a farewell. At least for a while.”

“I prefer to think of it as an until-we-meet-again,” Lydia corrected. “Wade’s going on to St. Louis by steamboat, but I’m staying in St. Joseph. There’s plenty going on in Missouri to keep ‘the Lady in the West’ writing. In time, I will conquer the Rockies and see the Pacific Ocean. I may even adventure to the Sandwich Islands.” Again, she squeezed Annie’s hand. “I’ll see you again, my friend—either when I visit that little cottage you’re going to acquire in St. Joseph this fall, or here at Clearwater when I once again experience the delights of the Concord coach—hopefully without the disagreeable fellow passengers.” She winked at Annie. “Perhaps I’ll entertain myself this summer by trying my hand at writing a romance. A story about a Pony Express rider and a rancher’s daughter.
A Girl Named Pete
has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

It was, for a moment, as if the world paused with Annie and the Harts sitting at a table, three pieces of untouched pie before them. And then George’s voice sounded from the back door and everything began again.

“Excuse me,” he rumbled.

Annie started and jumped to her feet. She looked his way. A boy of perhaps ten had followed him inside.

George nodded at the lieutenant and Lydia, then put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This young man and I have some trading to do.”

A voice called from the back lot. “Napoleon Edward
Casebolt, you coming to Oregon or should we just leave you here? Gid-ap there, Dude! Go on, now, Dimwit!”

Hearing the name
Dimwit
broke whatever spell had been suspended over the adults in the room. Annie and Lydia exchanged amused grins. Hart crossed the room to speak with George while the poor boy with the unlikely name ducked back outside to shout that he was coming and he’d catch up after he made the trade.

Annie hugged Lydia and offered her hand to Lieutenant Hart by way of farewell.

“Morgan and I have come to an agreement,” he said. “He gets the first dance. I get the rest—save one for Frank if he’s able to attend.” When he bent to kiss the back of Annie’s hand, his moustache tickled.

Mindful of a bit of grime beneath her thumbnail, Annie gave an awkward curtsy. Again she hugged Lydia, then proceeded to clear the table while listening to George’s friendly banter with the boy, who made it clear that he was “just plain Ed.”

With all the ceremony of a Pawnee brave presenting George with a fine pelt, young Ed unrolled a snakeskin atop the counter. He’d killed the rattler “with his bare hands” and didn’t really want to part with the prize, he said, but had decided he could take comfort in the knowledge that it was on display here at Clearwater. They could tell the story as much as they wanted, as long as they gave credit for the kill to Ed Casebolt of Oregon.

The boy pointed to a spot high on the wall behind the counter. “Right up there’s where I’d put it,” he said. “So’s all your customers would see it.”

George considered the suggestion before appearing to examine the snakeskin. With a little grimace, he looked up
at the boy. “It’s a fine specimen. What have you got to have for it?”

“Can’t part with it for less than ten good pieces of horehound. Licorice’d do, I suppose, but I’m partial to the horehound.”

Annie suppressed a smile and ducked into the kitchen, setting down the dirty dishes and then leaning against her worktable to listen. When Frank stepped in the storeroom door, she signaled him to be quiet and gestured toward the main room. He folded his arms and leaned against the doorframe to listen, his eyes alight with silent laughter.

“That’s a mighty steep price,” George rumbled. “Can’t go more than eight on the horehound.” He paused. “But I’ll throw in a couple of lemon drops and put it all in a little cloth sack instead of paper. Better for the long road ahead.”

The boy was quiet for a long while. Annie heard him shuffling his feet back and forth while he pondered the deal. Finally, with a dramatic sigh, he agreed. She peered around the doorframe just in time to see him extend a hand to George. They shook. Annie watched out the window as the boy tore off toward the trail in the wake of a wagon piled high with furniture. A calico-clad woman wearing a bright yellow bonnet walked alongside the wagon, two little girls dancing through the dust nearby.

When the boy caught up, the girls crowded around him. Annie smiled as he reached into the bag. She wondered if the girls would get lemon drops or horehound.

Looking in the mirror in her room, Annie placed one palm to her midsection and took a deep breath. She turned sidewise
and peered over her shoulder one way and then the other. She was no kind of seamstress, but she’d worked hard on the Prussian blue dress, and from what she could tell in the mirror, she’d done a good job. The dress felt right. And the blue ribbon woven into her braid was a nice touch. She hoped Lydia would understand about her wanting to wear her own clothes this time. The lace she’d taken off Mama’s ancient ball gown had made a nice accent for the neckline. And Finnegan O’Day had been right about the buttons. The mother of pearl looked much better than the cheap metal ones she’d originally selected. She smiled at the memory of baking a lemon pie to pay for the nicer buttons.