Rider's Desire

by Laura Stapleton

  A familiar voice drifted across the water to him. The yelling sounded like his Uncle Jack when he’d had too much whisky. Clay wondered how Aunt Lucy and his cousin Ellen were doing. He’d have to visit them in Missouri after meeting Abigail. Once the ferry hit the opposite bank, he was up and riding onward.

  Far more creeks and water crept along the land to South Pass than he’d seen since Ruby Valley. His spirit was willing to continue but he gave out at the South Pass Station. When the station keeper walked up, Clay asked, “Is there someone ready to go east?”

  “Yeah.” He moved the mochila. “Harry!”

  A man around Clay’s age strolled out of the station. “Yeah?”

  “Want to go see that little ol’ gal at Three Crossings?”

  “You know it.” Harry rushed over. “He’s ready?”

  “Go.”

  The other rider was off before Clay could blink. “He’s sparkin’ someone over there?”

  “Her and someone in Salt Lake.”

  “They don’t mind?”

  “They don’t know.” He led the way back to the main house. “He loves the ladies and they return the favor.” Holding the door, he added, “I’m Mo—just Mo.”

  “Clay.” He took off the canteen and bag. Last names didn’t matter when he’d be gone in the morning. The wood buildings were the usual small home and larger barn. He stepped inside. The sun had already disappeared below the horizon. “It’s warm in here.”

  “We get pretty cold up here even in August.”

  “My family passed through when I was a kid. I remember ice in our water pail every morning.”

  “Yep, still happens.” He dished up some deer meat for Clay and set it on the table. “I figured you’d be hungry. We have the best springs. You’ll want to refill your canteen here, too.”

  Clay watched as Mo gave him a fork and knife. “Thank you.”

  The man darted out and returned with a bucket of water. He dipped a cupful and set it in front of Clay. “There. We get bread a couple times a week fresh from one of the Green River ladies. Harry’s favorite, and I can’t keep it in stock around here.” Mo sat and turned up the lantern for more light. “Rumor has it a rider is on his way to St. Joe to marry a lady. Something like he’s a mail-order groom. Is he you?”

  He grinned, took a sip of water to stall for time and learned Mo was right. He’d need to drink his fill and then some before leaving. “Most of it’s me. I’m on my way to deliver the personal effects of a miner killed in a cave-in. His sweetheart lives in St. Joe, near where my family is from, and I figured why not.”

  “Huh. I figure Indians, poison water east of here, bandits, and dust storms are a lot of reasons why not.”

  He bit into the meat and nodded. Swallowing, he said, “I might have not taken them as seriously as I do now.”

  Mo laughed. “Experience changes things.” He stood, stretching. “There’s an early- morning rider scheduled and I want some shut-eye before then. Throw your dishes into the bucket and I’ll see to them tomorrow. Otherwise, make yourself at home.”

  Clay nodded and took another bite. Mo settled in and began snoring. Soon, both the water bucket and his plate were empty. He did as Mo had suggested and put the dishes in the bucket. Quietly, to let the station keeper stay asleep.

  He turned down the lantern, took off his boots, and went to bed, too.

  ***

  Clay stirred a little, the noise of a rider coming up and changing horses invading his dreams. He turned over but couldn’t slip back into sleep. Every day brought him closer to Abigail. He sat up, wanting to get back on the road.

  “Good morning,” Mo said while standing at the stove. “I figured you wouldn’t be interested in going back west, and let you sleep instead of taking the run.”

  “You figured right.” He rubbed his eyes. “When’s the next eastbound?”

  “In a couple of hours. You’ll have had breakfast by then.” Mo cracked a couple of eggs into a pan.

  “Coffee?”

  “From the best water in the world.” He poured a cup and set it in front of Clay. “I might be partial.”

  He took a drink, the bitter almost sweet on his tongue. “No, I think you’re correct. One of the best cups I’ve ever had.” He watched as Mo continued cooking. “Do I need to be helping?”

  “No, it’s ready.” He began placing food on the table. “Help yourself.”

  Clay didn’t need telling twice and began dishing up. The ham and eggs were the best. He wished every station had a keeper like Mo. Drinking the last of the coffee, he didn’t have to ask for a refill. Life here would be pretty good.

  Mo tilted his head. “You have around ten minutes before the rider is here.” He stood. “Is your canteen full?”

  He grinned. “Not yet.”

  “Better hurry.”

  Clay scrambled to make sure his bag held everything and put on his boots. He threw his bag over his head before running to the water pump. His canteen topped off just as the other rider skidded in from the west. Mo gave a whistle. Clay hurried over to the horses and hopped onto the fresh one. “Thanks for everything.”

  “Good luck, son!”

  A nudge to the horse’s flanks and they were off. The stations grew further apart and the terrain more rugged. Every stop blended into a blur as he strove to ride as far as Independence Rock by the end of the day. Focused on his goal and fueled by breakfast, he barely made time for a midday meal. He also hated finishing off the last of the South Pass water, but the day had been hot.

  He rode past Devil’s Gate, the landmark as huge as he’d remembered as a child. Sweetwater Station wasn’t too far away. Good news to him because the setting sun only illuminated the top part of Independence Rock up ahead. He followed the road north to the station.

  Close enough to see the building in the dimming light, Clay whistled his approach. The usual scurrying began and he hopped down.

  “My name’s Jacob. Are you here for the night?” the keeper asked.

  “Clay, and yep.”

  “Roy, you’re up!” Jacob turned to him. “Dinner’s on the stove. The rest is yours.”

  “I appreciate it.” He went inside for the meal and ate. After a sigh of contentment when full, he yawned, suddenly tired. The door creaked as the keeper came in and began gathering dishes. Clay asked, “Do you need my help?”

  “No, thank ya. I’m about done for the evening.” Jacob took the dishes outside.

  He settled onto the made up cot in the corner of the room. The others’ beds, messy, let him know where everyone else slept. He kicked off his boots and lay down. Closing his eyes, he had one last letter from Abigail to ignore reading. If he could resist two or three more days, he’d be able to give the envelope to her without having broken the seal.

  After pulling the book with her letters out of his bag, he untied the ribbon. Clay turned to where the last envelope was, snug in between the pages. He reread Crandall’s address, pulling out the letter to reread hers. He didn’t recognize the street. His family had left St. Joseph far too early in his life for him to remember anything about the town’s layout.

  Clay flipped over the envelope to check the flap and sat up straighter. Somehow, someway, the glue had broken apart. He could read the letter and Abigail would never know unless he told her.

  Chapter Nine

  Clay stared at the flap.

  He had read all the others. What would one more hurt? Besides, he needed more from her, even if the love wasn’t for him. He paused while pulling the letter free of the envelope.

  Her love wasn’t his. She didn’t even know he existed. Any decent woman would be horrified of how much Clay knew of her heart. Abigail was the finest woman around and he’d pried into her personal communications.

  Still, he thought while turning the envelope over and over in his hands. His mother had always said, in for a penny, in for a pound. What if this was the letter to Crandall saying Abigail couldn’t leave her family after all? What if she’d
fallen for someone in town and abandoned the idea of being a miner’s wife? Young women could be fickle. Didn’t Clay owe it to himself to be sure about how she’d accept the news of Crandall’s death?

  Deciding he did need to know Abigail’s thoughts before Crandall’s accident, Clay opened the letter.

  Dearest Richard,

  Yes, a thousand times. I confess living in the wilderness continues to scare me. Yet, if you’re there, nothing will keep me from being by your side. You are the love of my life and the man I truly want to marry.

  My parents are both intrigued and horrified by our courtship by pen. They aren’t in favor of letting their oldest daughter go across the continent to meet, never mind marry a stranger. Instead, my father has enclosed a train ticket for you to come here. Notice that I’ve not sent this by Pony Express. My delay in replying to you is certainly made under duress. Father said he didn’t become successful by paying more than necessary for invitations. He’s too old to understand young love it seems.

  Thus, you’ll find some of my pin money enclosed. Please send me a reply via the Express as soon as you read this letter. I need to know when you’ll be here to meet my parents. We’d like to have a small wedding here, unless your family protests. You also must tell me more about your parents, siblings, and friends. I feel as if we know everything and nothing about each other. I won’t be able to sleep a second until you’re here with me.

  Much love,

  Abigail

  Jacob wandered back into the cabin. “When do you want to go?”

  He put the letter away, his face hot. “The next run east if possible.”

  “That’ll be tomorrow at five a.m.”

  Later than he wanted, but he needed to take what he could get. He nodded. “Then that’s what I want.” Clay put the envelope and book back into the bag, making sure he was ready for the morning. Abigail had been ready to run away with Crandall. His heart hurt. Clay’s letter would devastate her. He shook his head. The only way he could offer sympathy was to return the letters. Yet, doing so was woefully inadequate and needed to happen as soon as possible. “What’s the fastest anyone rode from here to St. Joe?”

  Jacob turned down the lantern and took off his boots. “I figure four days.”

  “That long?” Clay needed to be riding into Missouri tomorrow, and could barely settle for the day after.

  “I guess if you’re willing to ride more than one-hundred-fifty miles a day, you could get there faster.” He turned over onto his side. “Things take as long as they take.”

  He grinned at the dubious wisdom. “I guess so.”

  The next morning Clay didn’t hang around for a meal, just coffee. He rode hard and swapped horses at each small station without hesitation. Every time he rushed through a stop gave him a few minutes closer to helping Abigail.

  He galloped into Fort Caspar in the midmorning, hungry and tempted to linger in favor of eating a late breakfast. The efficiency of the station so close to the fort ruined his plans. The personnel gave him no time to even think of asking for a leftover fried egg. He pressed on, barely stopping for anything to drink.

  Clay kept his focus ahead. He’d been through this part of the country and enjoyed seeing the familiar landmarks. Still, he had a mission to help Abigail in her time of grief. The sun set, the light fading to nearly nothing. He wasn’t sure the pony knew the road in the dark. When he reached a station before Fort Laramie, he had to stop for the night.

  The prior station had been huge and he wished he’d stopped there, instead. Clay let out a whistle to let people in the cabin and barn know he was here. Not until he rode up to the corral did he notice only one man stood outside, ready to move the mochila. “Are you the only one here?”

  “Yep.” The mochila landed on the new horse with a smack. “Everyone else is out on a run or two.”

  He stifled a curse and hopped onto the new pony. “Does your horse know his way in the dark?”

  “Sure does. Need anything else?”

  He was long past the point of being hungry, but had to ask as the horse pranced, ready to go. “Food you can spare and a full canteen?”

  “I got both,” he said, and reached up. “Let me fill that for you and package what’s left of dinner.”

  Clay gave the man his canteen. He ran inside for a few seconds and came back out with the canteen and half a loaf of bread. He grinned at the generosity. “Much obliged.”

  By the time he reached Fort Laramie he was done with everything, bread, water, and riding. He’d gone a lot further than planned, but couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. Clay whistled as the horse raced to the station.

  The station keeper moved the mochila as soon as Clay dismounted. When his feet hit the ground, he asked, “Is there someone to take the next run?”

  “Yeah.” He turned to the house. “Matthew! You’re up! Let’s go!”

  A wiry young man, younger than any he’d encountered so far, ran over and jumped onto the horse. He was gone in a flash and Clay turned to the station keeper. “Is he old enough to be a pony boy?”

  The man shrugged. “He’s a boy, so I guess so. Matt takes the run from here to Horse Creek Station at night when the Indians and rattlers are asleep.” He nodded toward the cabin. “There’s a spare bed. Did they feed you at Laramie?”

  “I ate before then.” Clay took off his canteen and removed the lid. “I wouldn’t mind another drink of anything you have.”

  “Water, since I don’t allow anything stronger than coffee and tea around the boy.”

  “That’ll do.”

  He scooped a cup of water and took Clay’s canteen. “I’ll be right back.”

  Every other bed was askew or had a sleeping rider on it so Clay sat on the only made bed. He pulled off his boots and put his head on the pillow.

  ***

  Dreams about waking up in a barn with Abigail filled his head. He’d hear people talking, yelling, and smelled food, but couldn’t wake up enough to do anything. Finally, a dream about riding clear into the Atlantic Ocean jolted him awake.

  He sat up with a start. Shadows in from the fancy glass windows said he’d slept long past noon. He scratched the back of his neck, the bag’s strap chafing him after all the miles he’d been.

  Clay stood and went to the front door. Three people sat out on the porch, Matthew included, and he stepped outside. “Hello.”

  Matthew came over to him. “Hey, mister. Are you sick?”

  He swallowed to see if his throat hurt. “No, just tuckered out I guess.” Clay hated the time he’d lost by sleeping so much. “Will there be a run east soon?”

  One of the other men said, “There always is.”

  “What time?” Clay asked. “Can I take it for one of you?”

  “I reckon so,” another one of them responded. “It’ll be along in an hour.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The time might give you a chance to clean up and all.”

  “Oh?”

  The men all exchanged glances until one of them spoke. “Seeing as how you’re riding into St. Joe for a gal.”

  They hadn’t gone through his belongings had they? Clay quickly examined each person. None of them seemed guilty. “I suppose so.”

  Matthew said, “Everyone up and down the Express knows about your riding from the first station to the last for a girl. We heard about you three days ago but figured you’d give up before now.”

  “I would have,” the first man said.

  The second leaned forward and asked, “You’ve never met her? Does she know about you?”

  How much they knew of his personal business bothered Clay but he figured he deserved the discomfort. Especially when considering how he’d invaded Abigail’s privacy. He nodded. “She might by now. I sent her a letter from Salt Lake, saying what I had planned.”

  All of them hooted and hollered, even Matthew, though Clay was sure the boy didn’t know why. Heat filled his face. “Plan to deliver her former fiancé’s personal effects, no
thing more.

  The group quieted, sobered by the task he’d taken on. Finally, the first man said, “I’m Ramsey. You’ll need to clean up before going to her. We have an hour to get you fed, watered, and ready to go halfway to St. Joe.” He turned to the second guy. “Barton, you know that run better than Matt or me. How’s the ride?”

  “Flat and crowded in warm weather. Don’t drink the Platte unless it’s in coffee or tea. Every time I do, I’m sicker than a dog for a week. I lose a lot of pay while living in the outhouse.”

  “I’ll make sure to only drink from well water,” Clay said.

  Matthew asked, “You have a better shirt in that bag of yours?”

  He stared down at the shirt with the mismatched button he’d sewn. “I do and, yeah, it’s in my bag.”

  Barton stood. “I’d better get started on a cold meal so you don’t have to waste time at a sit-down dinner.”

  “Thank you.” Clay stood. “I guess I might change shirts.”

  “We have some cleaner pants, if you want,” Ramsey offered. “Matthew can shine your boots.”

  The boy nodded and Clay chuckled. “You all have nothing better to do?”

  “Nope,” all three said at once and grinned.

  Clay let them help in the forty-five or so minutes they had to work in. Too soon, a horn honked and the four rushed around to finish up and get a horse ready to ride east. He waited, ready to go as soon as the mochila was in place.

  A pony boy Clay recognized from out west jumped off and grinned at him. “Good luck!”

  “Thank you.” He mounted and nudged the horse into a gallop, grinning at how everyone was cheering him on with Abigail. New clothes, new to him at least, shiny boots, and a couple days’ distance from her seemed too good to be true. Chill bumps rose on his arms despite the midday heat. He’d imagined their first meeting a hundred times, and soon they’d meet for real.

  His heart pounded and uncertainty set in. He wasn’t even at the first station of the day and wanted to go home. He couldn’t. The entire pony boy crew would be disappointed in him at best, laughing at worst.