Morgan gazed toward the station. “Billy was nine when his ma died.” He glanced over at Frank. “That’s when he hitched a ride with me.” He shrugged. “It’s not the same with a girl and her ma, though. That’d be harder, I guess.”
“It wouldn’t have been so bad if Pa—well, Pa might as well have died, too, for all the good he was after that. Emmet and I took on the farming and Annie took on the house. We managed. When Pa died the banker let us know he’d gambled the place right out of our hands. We had to leave. I don’t think Annie minded. She had an idea that moving to town would make her happy. Emmet and I mean to see her happy. In the meantime, she’s going to be all alone out here—again—just like she was on the farm. So if you could see your way clear to helping us build some kind of chicken coop, we’d be mighty grateful.”
Morgan stared toward the station. “Maybe off the arbor that shades the back door.”
“She won’t care where it is. But she wants those chickens to thrive. It doesn’t seem a lot to ask. You already said you like chicken and dumplings. And Annie’s not a half-bad cook—if only she could have eggs to work with.” He led Outlaw outside and hitched him to a corral post, then came back and began to fork hay into the stalls. Billy climbed down from the loft. Together, he and George began to haul water.
After he’d hung the last bucket of water in the last stall, Morgan came alongside Frank, who was standing near Outlaw staring east, keeping watch for Jake Finney. “Little thing like her, she’d never make it through the drifts we get in the winter. It should be close up to the station.”
“Luther said sod was the way to go,” Frank said.
Morgan shook his head. “Can’t spare the time to cut sod. I’ve got some scrap lumber piled behind the soddy. That’ll have to do for now. Might be in the fall I could have the crew cut sod after all the haying’s done.”
The morning dragged by. Annie served lunch and again, Frank could barely manage to swallow. He was pacing out front, barely taking his eyes off the eastern horizon when, finally, he caught sight of a horse and rider. Jake! His heart pounding, Frank charged around to the back and clanged away at the bell mounted by the back door. Billy raced out of the barn, unhitched Outlaw, and hurried up to help with the exchange. Annie handed Frank a sugar sack. She’d worked twine in and out around the mouth of the sack to form a loop he could hang over the saddle horn.
“Ham and crackers,” she said. “You’ve barely eaten.”
Frank barely had time to thank her before a gray pony streaked past the wagons trundling up the trail. Horse and rider arrived in a cloud of dust. In what seemed like one fluid motion, Jake Finney hauled back on the reins, dropped to the earth, and snatched off the mochila. He took a step toward Outlaw. The black horse danced away. They’d nearly made a complete circle when Frank motioned for George to step up and take the black horse’s head. “Let me try,” he said and reached for the mochila.
Jake stepped away, talking all the while. A courier had missed a connection on the train somewhere to the east. “We were three hours late before we even got started,” he said. “They got a special train and one heck of an engineer to make it up. Reckon we’ll read all about it. The Gazette is putting out a special edition.”
While Jake chattered away about this horse and that swing station, Frank held the mochila up so that Outlaw could take a good look. “Nothing to be afraid of, you big galoot,” he said, allowing Outlaw to snuffle the leather. “See? Can I put it on now so we can go for a run? You like to run. Remember?” Outlaw snorted, but he let Frank slip the mochila over the saddle horn and cantle. “That’s my boy,” Frank said, and patted the horse’s neck.
Taking the reins from Billy, he leaped into the saddle. Outlaw took off as if shot from a cannon. Settling the horse into an easy lope, Frank glanced behind him. Annie and the others were still standing outside the station. He raised one hand to signal good-bye. And realized that his stomach had come unknotted. He’d never felt so happy.
Chapter 12
Not long after leaving Clearwater, Frank realized that literally everyone looked his way as he and Outlaw loped past wagon after wagon after wagon. “See that?” he said to the horse, grinning when a black ear turned back. “That’s right. You listen to Frank. We make a good team.”
When the first “bonnet” raised a hand to wave at him, Frank acknowledged the attention with a dignified raising of one hand, just to let her know he’d seen her. Not wishing to ignore you, Ma’am, but as you can see, I’m about serious business, here. With all the publicity about the Pony in the newspapers, most of the folks on the trail would have heard of the Pony Express. A few bored souls might just be waving because of the red shirt and the fast horse. No matter the reason, Frank loved the attention.
When two boys straggling along behind a wagon took their hats off and cheered, Frank added a little tug on the brim of his hat. The boys saluted. When he raised his hat off his head and waved back at the next “bonnet,” she clasped her hands before her and jumped up and down with glee. When he got back to Clearwater, he’d ask Annie to stitch red stars to the backs of his gloves. Red, to match the red shirt. Maybe he’d see about getting gauntlets like the ones Whiskey John wore. White ones. With fringe and a red star on the cuff. People would really notice that, and why not give them something to remember. He’d probably meet Luther on the trail, for once the freighter delivered the rest of his load to Fort Kearny, he’d be turning around and heading back to St. Jo. Maybe he’d slow down just long enough to holler and ask the freighter to bring him a pair of gauntlets on his next trip.
By the time Frank and Outlaw reached the first relay station, the black horse’s shoulders were crusted with white, his nostrils flaring wide to suck in air. As Frank dismounted and pulled the mochila off, he asked the station keeper to take good care of the horse. “He’s special,” Frank said.
The station keeper grunted something noncommittal.
“I mean it. I might try to buy him when the paymaster comes through.” He hadn’t really thought about doing so, but once he’d said the words, he decided it was a good idea.
“Think he’ll last that long?”
Frank hadn’t thought about that, and it gave him pause. There was no way to tell how the other riders would treat their animals, no way to know when or if he’d be aboard Outlaw again. It surprised him how much that bothered him. He would try to find out about buying him.
The rangy dun he mounted next almost left before Frank was in the saddle. He blushed with embarrassment as he scrambled to find his seat. The mare’s choppy gait made for a miserable ride, and Frank was more than a little happy to catch sight of the flag flying over the parade ground at Fort Kearny. He was supposed to stop and check for mail at the fort post office, but he was distracted by gawking at the military buildings, and when the mare fought him, he almost got dumped. She was still feeling her oats when it was time to leave—much to the amusement of a couple of soldiers lounging in front of a store. They hooted and hollered while Frank tried to remount. By the time he managed to get back in the saddle, his face was burning with embarrassment.
Luther had warned him about the next place—Dobytown, just off the ten-mile-square military reservation to the west. Dobytown had twice as many saloons as it did residents. When Frank raced past, a few garishly clad women lounging against one of the buildings behaved in a distinctly unladylike manner. Maybe he should have ignored them, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood up in the stirrups and made a show of tipping his hat to them all. White gauntlets were definitely called for.
After Dobytown, the road deteriorated. The sobering possibility that if he didn’t keep watch his horse might drop into a chuckhole and break a leg ended all the waving and saluting for quite a while. By sunset, Frank had managed five flawless exchanges. His legs were beginning to feel it, but he’d expected that. Overall, he was feeling great about everything—and then he met his nemesis.
“Keep your eye on this one,” the station keeper warned. “I be
en callin’ her Jezebel. She bites. Hard. I wouldn’t put it past her to try to reach back and get a piece of your leg if you don’t keep her moving.”
Frank nodded. “I’ll watch her.” The station keeper let go of the mare’s head and Frank nudged her to move out. Instead, the mare gave a little buck and then, quick as a flash, bared her teeth and went for Frank’s right leg. “Whoa, there!” he hollered, yanking on the bit with all his might. The mare missed, but it was close. She started to rear. Frank dug in the spurs and the mare took off.
Darkness fell. The battle with the horse raged. Without warning, the mare would whip left or right in a perfect imitation of the move that had unseated Annie on the way out. The difference was that Shadow had been fleeing out of fear. Jezebel was acting out of sheer malice for her rider, and as he ground out the final leg of the 100-mile ride, Frank began to feel every stride the cantankerous beast took. Muscles he didn’t even know he had hurt. Just when he thought the mare was too tired to cause more trouble, she’d try something new. He nearly shouted hallelujah when he finally caught sight of the lights glowing in the windows at Willow Island.
As the station keeper brought a fresh horse up, Frank called out a warning.
“She’s the devil in disguise,” he hollered. “She bites and bucks. I imagine she kicks, too.”
The station keeper was ready. The second the mare bared her teeth, he slapped her hard with one hand and grabbed her bridle with the other. “I’ll work on curing her of that while she’s here.”
“I won’t be the only one who thanks you.”
As Frank switched to the new mount—he thought this one was a bay, although it was too dark to be sure—the station keeper said, ”She’s a sweetheart named Rachel. Be good to her, now.”
Frank promised, and it was an easy promise to keep. The mare’s gait was so smooth and he was so worn out that he might have fallen asleep in the saddle—if he hadn’t needed to keep his eye on the tall weeds that marked the edge of the trail just to keep from getting lost. Thankful for the full moon, he raced on through the night, catching snatches of sound as he passed campfires and circled wagons. Coyotes in the distance, a bit of accordion music once. A crying baby. Once, a scream. Or was it a wail? Either way, his first instinct at the sound of human misery was to stop and see if someone needed help. Of course he couldn’t. The mail had to go through, no matter what. Still, the sound haunted him all through the long night ride and into the next day when finally, as dawn was just beginning to light the sky, he reached Midway Station.
Frank slapped the mochila in place and stood back so the fresh rider could mount up. As he charged up the trail, Frank pulled the dust-caked kerchief away from his face and followed the wrangler leading his weary horse past the fence keeping someone’s garden safe from roaming cattle.
“Well, now,” he said, taking his hat off and staring up at a windmill over the well in place of a windlass. “That’s an improvement.” His horse drank deeply from the stock tank while Frank rinsed his hands beneath the trickle of water being pumped out of the earth and into the round stock tank. Next, Frank cupped his hand beneath the flow and sucked down the cool water.
“Yeah,” the wrangler said to his comment about the windmill. “Pa’s always up for improving the place. Even if it means risking his neck climbing halfway to the moon to rig up a piece of machinery.”
There was something odd about the wrangler’s voice. Weak. The poor fellah probably got teased a lot about it. It just didn’t sound manly. Wait a minute. What was it he’d heard about—“Hey!” he snatched his hat off his head. She turned around. She had a square jaw and tan skin. Freckles sprinkled across her nose. Two long dark braids that reached almost to her waist. Amber eyes and an expression that said If you want trouble, you’ll get it. She spoke to the horse. “That’s enough, now. Let’s get you cooled down and then I’ll bring you back.” She led the horse away.
“No, wait.” Frank trotted to catch up with her. Wow. She was tall. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. I’m sorry I didn’t greet you proper. That’s all. I mean. I didn’t expect—you. A girl. I meant—a l-lady. You didn’t look like a lady.”
The woman stopped. She looked down at him, one eyebrow arched, emotion flickering in her amber eyes. She looked over at the horse and then back at Frank. “If you aren’t going inside, you might as well help.” She traded the bridle for a halter and handed him the bridle, then tied the lead rope to the top corral pole with an expert hitch. While Frank stood there holding the bridle and feeling foolish, the girl loosened the girth on the saddle. About that time, the horse decided to protest the entire routine and lashed out with a hind foot. Frank sidestepped just fast enough that the worst of the blow missed. But it was close.
The girl grabbed the halter and gave it a shake. “You settle down or you and I are gonna have a problem. I’ll have you hobbled and hog tied in about two minutes if you try that again.”
The horse rolled its eyes and snorted. “Aw, now, just give it up. One way or the other, you’re gonna have to let me do my job.” She reached up to touch the animal’s head. When the horse flinched visibly, she swore softly. “Who’s been beating up on you, anyway?” She glared at Frank.
Frank held his hands up. “Don’t look at me.”
The girl pursed her lips. Slowly, ever so slowly, she laid her palm on the horse’s cheek. The mare did not relax, but she stayed put. “That’s better. Now.” She ran her hand across the cheek, to the throat, and then along the neck. Gradually, the mare relaxed, and the girl looked over at Frank. “If you’re responsible for her being afraid of a man’s hand, you and I are gonna have words. Later. I’ve got work to do right now. Mama’s got a meal in the oven, keeping it warm for whenever you showed up.”
Frank hadn’t mistreated the horse, but he didn’t defend himself right then. He was looking forward to “having words” with the prettiest ranch hand he’d ever seen.
A few days after Frank departed astride Outlaw, Emmet left carrying the Eastbound mail coming from California. Annie stood out front watching him ride away until he was little more than a pinprick on the horizon, fighting the tightness in her throat. For the first time in her nineteen years, she was absolutely and truly alone. Frank and Emmet weren’t just out in the field plowing or planting. They hadn’t just gone to find Pa and drag him home. They were a hundred miles away. A hundred miles. It might as well be a thousand.
“You going to feed me or not?”
Brought back to the moment by the gruff question, Annie looked over at the exhausted rider mopping his face with a filthy bandanna. “Right away,” she said, and scurried inside to fry a bit of salt pork and dish up a plate of beans.
As she set the plate before the rider, she introduced herself. He grunted something unintelligible and scooped beans.
“Frank’s my brother,” she said.
“Frank?” He took a gulp of coffee.
“He would have been at Midway Station.”
The rider shrugged. “Don’t know anything about any Frank.” He shoved the empty plate across the table at her. “Load me up again.”
Just as Annie took the plate and headed for the kitchen, George Morgan stepped out of the store. Reaching beneath the counter, he pulled out the ledger book and opened it. After she was back in the kitchen, she heard Morgan say something to the rider, although she couldn’t quite make out the words.
When she set the second helping of beans and bread before him, the rider thanked her. “Sorry I can’t tell you more about your brother. Didn’t hear any news of any trouble, so I reckon he’s all right. He was probably just resting up in the bunkhouse.”
Annie nodded. “You’re probably right. By the way, you didn’t tell me your name.”
“Reynolds.”
“Well, Mr. Reynolds, welcome to Clearwater. How about a slice of bread to go with that refill?”
“I would be much obliged, Ma’am. Thank you.”
Back in the kitchen, Annie decided she would want Fr
ank and Emmet treated well by whoever was feeding them, and so she reached for a treasured jar of preserves and put an extra-large dollop atop the slice of bread. If only I had butter, too. When she set the plate in front of Reynolds, he took a huge bite of the bread, clearly savoring the preserves.
He looked up at Annie. “I know I act like I was hatched under a rock, but I weren’t. My ma used to make some mighty good preserves.” He held out his mug and Annie poured more coffee. “Thank you, Ma’am.”
“You’re welcome. And if that doesn’t fill you up, there’s more. Just holler and I’ll serve it up.”
George Morgan lingered over his ledger while Reynolds ate and then Morgan offered to show him to the soddy. Annie thought that rather odd. After all, the soddy was right there in plain sight. Oh well. In the short time since she’d met him, Annie’d realized that understanding a man who barely said three words at a time probably wasn’t going to be possible. She resumed her cleaning and sorting. She intended to scrub every square inch of the kitchen and the storeroom including the walls and floors. She would even scrub the shelf George Morgan had ordered her not to use. She’d just discovered a bag of raisins tucked into a crock she’d expected to be empty and thought raisin molasses pie when Jake Finney came in the back door.
“Came to check the traps for you,” he said. “George was going to do it, but I told him I would. He’s got his hands full right now with some wagon master that wants to trade for fresh oxen.”
Annie stepped to the door and looked toward the barn. She’d been so busy scrubbing and cleaning she hadn’t even heard a wagon roll in. But there was no wagon. “Where’s the wagon? Are the oxen so bad they can’t even make it to the barn?”
“Oh, no. The wagon master had them stay up on the trail.”
“But—why?”
“Billy said something about knowing him from last year. He headed up a bigger group headed for Oregon. Seems to fancy himself something of a legend-in-the-making. Prides himself on making hard bargains ‘for his people.’” Jake smirked. “He actually calls them that. ‘His people.’ Anyway, he wants George to go to the oxen, not the other way around. In case he decides George won’t deal. Hey. That Reynolds isn’t much of a talker, is he?”
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