Messenger by Moonlight

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  “How about that parson,” Frank said. “He told me he doesn’t believe in coincidence. Said he and I had a ‘heavenly appointment’ over there at Dobytown. I don’t know what to think, but if he’s right, I guess that’s one of those ‘good things’ you like me to notice.” When she didn’t respond, he changed the subject. “It’s nice George asked him to spend some time on that chicken coop. A strong wind would blow that thing to kingdom come.”

  Annie shrugged. “He thinks they’ll all die in the heat. Or another snake will gobble them up. Or a badger. Or something. Anyway, he doesn’t want to be bothered putting up a proper chicken coop. Just like he doesn’t want to trade for a cow.”

  “You asked him for a cow?”

  Annie scattered flour on the tabletop, plopped the pie dough in the middle of the spot, and began to roll it out. “I asked him to consider taking the trade if one was offered. Told him I was willing to take on the milking and such.” She settled the piecrust into the waiting pie plate. “Did you know he traded for all that fancy furniture in my room? Billy told me about it.” She snorted. “He trades for things he doesn’t even need. But he doesn’t want to try for a cow. And I know why. He’s not happy with the job I’m doing, and he’s not about to give me something else to take care of.”

  “He was probably thinking ahead to winter. He knows how hard it is to get out and care for livestock when it’s blowing a blizzard. Billy says they sometimes winter as many as two hundred oxen. And from what I hear, the winters out here make Missouri’s feel like spring.”

  Annie reached for the bowl of pie filling and began to pour it into the waiting pan. She glanced over at Frank. “You can’t be running off to that place.” Her voice wavered.

  “You’re right.” He grunted softly. “I just needed—I don’t know. I can’t explain it. Something just—builds up inside me.”

  “What if the Westbound mail had come through last night?”

  “Emmet would have taken it. And I’d have gone east for him. It would have worked out.”

  “And what if it didn’t?”

  “Nothing bad happened. Except for Charlie getting beat up. And I saved him from worse. Like I said, isn’t that one of those ‘good things’ you’re always telling me to notice?”

  Annie took a minute before saying quietly, “Promise me you won’t go there again.”

  “I promise.”

  “And you’ll keep that promise?”

  “Would I have made it if I didn’t mean to keep it?”

  She sighed. “I hope not. But—sometimes I wonder.”

  If she’d slapped him it wouldn’t have hurt as much as hearing the doubt in her voice. Frank was about to march away when Annie did the strangest thing. She touched the place just above her nose. It left a floury smudge. “I worry about that crease between your eyebrows. It gets deeper when you’re upset about something, and—I wish you didn’t have it. I wish you were happy.”

  Frank grabbed a towel and wiped the smudge away. “Know what will make me happy, Ann E.?”

  He said the name slowly, with a break between her first name and the second initial—which was where Annie had come from in the first place. Ann Elizabeth. Ann. E. She shook her head.

  “Seeing you happy. Hanging your window boxes and painting the trim on your cottage. To finally, once and for all know that you have the home you deserve. That you don’t have to wonder how to stretch a cup of grits into a meal for four or hope the neighbors share something from their garden so we don’t all go hungry. That will make me happy.” Another tear leaked out of the corner of her eye. He handed her the towel. “I won’t go back to Dobytown. I promise.”

  A few days after the parson arrived at Clearwater, Annie had just taken two pies out of the oven when she heard the now familiar rattle-rock-creak-clatter of the approaching stage. Setting the pies to cool on her worktable, she hurried through the main room and stepped onto the back porch just as Whiskey John hauled back on the reins. He dropped to the earth the moment the stage rolled to a stop, moving quickly to open the Concord coach’s bright red door.

  The first passenger to exit was a ramrod-straight, elegantly dressed woman who moved with all the bearing of a queen. Her shining dark hair made the blue of her gown and hat seem even more brilliant. She wore black leather gloves and carried a black parasol, which she did not bother to open as she paused to look around.

  Two of the three men who clambered down behind the lady seemed bent on vying for the privilege of escorting her into the station, but she shooed them away. “Thank you, gentlemen, but I’d like to enjoy the fresh air here on the porch for a while.”

  Annie welcomed the passengers, promised a meal soon, and retreated inside. Four passengers, Whiskey John, Billy, George Morgan, Emmet, Frank, the parson, and me. Thank goodness she’d made two pies. She’d crossed the main room and reached the door leading into the kitchen when one of the men called after her.

  “See here, girl. Don’t scurry away until you’ve taken care of your customers. I’ve a craw full of road dust, and I require something a good deal stronger than water to clear it out.”

  Annie turned back around, taking note of the man’s tailored suit. When he pretended to brush dust off his coat, he “just happened” to reveal a holster and a glimpse of what was probably a pearl-handled gun. “I can have coffee ready in just a few minutes,” Annie said.

  “I asked for whiskey,” the man snapped.

  The lady passenger cleared her throat. Her blue hoopskirt swept the floor as she marched across the room, firmly planting the tip of her closed parasol with every step. When she’d reached the water cooler, she filled the tin mug that always hung on the spigot and held it out to the willful dandy. “It won’t kill you to drink a cup of water.”

  With a smirk, the man with the gun took the cup, emptied it, and slammed it down on the counter.

  “There now, was that so bad?”

  The man slipped around the counter and helped himself to the bottle of whiskey on the shelf below. And a glass. “No, but this is better.” He looked over at Annie. “And it’s what I asked for in the first place.”

  The lady leaned her parasol against the wall and removed her gloves as she spoke to Annie. “Please tell me Fort Kearny isn’t much farther. I don’t think I can take much more of these three.” She added in a stage whisper, “And I suspect the feeling is mutual.”

  The man with the gun spoke again. “Madam. No gentleman would dream of being so crass as to admit such a thing. We’ve enjoyed your company immensely. It is a rare thing to make the acquaintance of a woman who speaks her mind so eloquently—and so often.”

  The lady rolled her eyes. “As you can see, Mr. Valentine is capable of gallantry.” She sighed. “If only gallantry and truth-telling resided in the same neighborhood.”

  Hoping to lower the level of tension in the room, Annie said that Fort Kearny was less than a dozen miles away. “You should be there a little after dark.”

  “If only that were true,” moaned one of the other men.

  Annie glanced past the lady and into the main room again. The speaker was sitting across from the drinker. He’d removed his bowler hat and was mopping his bald pate with a handkerchief as he spoke. “The coach encountered some trouble a few miles from here. Something about a thoroughbrace, I believe. And a thrown shoe or a bruised foot or some such. The driver says we’ll be staying the night while repairs are made.”

  Ah. That explained George Morgan’s absence. He was helping with whatever was going on with the stagecoach. “I’m sorry you’ll be delayed,” Annie said, “but I think you’ll find the accommodations comfortable.” She stepped back into the main room and indicated the stairs to the loft. “There’s a window tucked under the eaves at the west end. The air circulates nicely. Feel free to get settled in. I’ll ring the dinner bell when everything’s ready.” She excused herself to see to supper and had just lifted the lid on the pot of stew simmering on the stove when she realized the lady had followed her
into the kitchen. “You’ll be more comfortable out in the public room, Ma’am,” she said. “As you can see, there’s no place to sit here in the kitchen.”

  “Please don’t banish me,” the lady said, leaning forward as she whispered, “The one in the bowler has nauseatingly bad breath. The second pontificates on every subject that comes up. And the dandy—well, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Mr. Valentine is running from the law.”

  Annie glanced into the other room. The man with the gun had lit a cigar. He’d dragged the rocking chair in off the back porch—another of George Morgan’s pointless trades, as far as Annie was concerned—and was leaning back as if he owned Clearwater. She could not blame the lady for not wanting to keep his company. She retrieved the crate she was still using for a stepladder and set it on end. “That’s as good as I can offer.”

  “Having just exited that dreadful Concord coach—Do not believe the ads about those things, by the way. If I knew who was responsible and if my father had allowed me to read law, I’d be intent on taking someone to court for fraud. At any rate, the last thing I need is a place to sit down.” She stepped forward and extended a hand. “Miss Lydia Hart. On my way to Fort Kearny to visit my brother.”

  Hart. “Lieutenant Hart?” To hide the fact that she was blushing, Annie turned away, making a show of tasting the stew, adding a bit of salt, and checking the bread in the oven.

  “Yes. You’ve met him?”

  Annie nodded. “He was at the head of a patrol sent out from Fort Kearny a few weeks ago. Someone reported Indians raiding the station.”

  “A false report, I assume, from the way you just said that.”

  “Yes, although no one could be blamed for misinterpreting what they saw.”

  “What did they see?”

  “A Pawnee named Badger at the head of a hunting party. They camp here at Clearwater every year before going on the spring buffalo hunt, and they make quite a show of their arrival—painted ponies and all.”

  “And you were here when it happened?”

  Annie nodded. She described hiding under the table while Emmet brandished a knife. “And then George Morgan came in to tell us what was happening. And Badger followed him.” Annie held a hand up to one side of her face. “This side painted red.” She moved her hand over. “This side painted white. He looked quite terrifying.”

  “And Wade came charging to the rescue,” the lady said.

  Annie smiled. “There was no one in need of rescuing. I think he was quite put out about that.”

  Miss Hart nodded. “I can imagine. Wade’s always fancied himself the hero in every story.” She sighed. “I don’t suppose he can be blamed for that, though, handsome devil that he is.” She changed the subject abruptly, waving a hand about the kitchen. “You seem awfully young to be in charge of a place such as this.”

  “I’m not in charge of anything. I’m just the cook.”

  “That’s not a ‘just,’ Missus—?”

  “Annie.”

  “Very well,” the lady said. “Then you must call me Lydia. As I was saying, put me in here with a few sacks of something and a pot of whatever and we’d starve before I managed to build a fire and boil water.” She paused. “Still, you and your husband seem to have quite a growing concern, what with all the corrals and that massive barn. And I noticed the store as I came through the main room. It looks quite well stocked.”

  She thinks I’m married to George Morgan? Annie hurried to correct the misunderstanding. “I don’t live here. I mean… not really. I’m here because of my two brothers.” She allowed a tinge of pride in her voice. “Frank and Emmet ride for the Pony Express.”

  Miss Hart clasped her hands together. “I was in St. Joseph for the inaugural ride. It was thrilling. Will your brothers dine with us this evening? Do you think I could meet them? An editor friend of mine back home is having parts of my letters published as ‘Travel Notes from a Lady in the West.’ I’ve already written about the inaugural ride. I visited the Pony Express stables while I was in St. Joseph and spoke with a Mr. Lewis about the organization. Clearwater is what they call a home station, correct?”

  Annie nodded.

  “Most excellent. Now that things are off and running, I’d love to speak with a rider about his experiences on the trail.”

  “You know the mail run’s been suspended, right?”

  “Yes.” The woman gave a little shudder. “That awful trouble in Nevada. Still, there is nothing more Western than the Pony Express.” She paused. “Unless, of course, you have an Indian or two hidden somewhere.”

  Annie laughed softly. “I imagine Emmet and Frank will be happy to talk to you once the day winds down. As for Indians, we do have Billy. Billy Gray Owl. He works for Mr. Morgan, who owns Clearwater. I imagine Billy’s seeing to Whiskey John’s team at the moment.”

  A rumbling voice sounded from just inside the back door. George Morgan. The drinker who wore a gun beneath his coat wouldn’t be able to cause any more trouble now.

  Chapter 17

  Annie was washing dishes on a rickety table just outside the storeroom door when Lieutenant Hart’s sister sought her out. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said and held up a coffee cup. “I helped myself.”

  “Not at all.”

  “And I won’t be in the way if I ask you a few questions?” She brandished the small notebook she held in her free hand.

  “It’s nice to have the company. Did you get what you were hoping to from Frank and Emmet?”

  “Oh, my goodness, yes,” Miss Hart said. “Emmet made me work a little harder to draw him out, but Frank—” She smiled. “He is a charmer, isn’t he?”

  Annie chuckled and nodded.

  “Now I’m curious about you. How did you feel about their taking on the job? I saw the flyers in St. Joseph. They made it sound like it’s dangerous.”

  “I didn’t want anything to do with it, and I told them so.”

  Miss Hart seemed surprised by the answer. “And yet, here you are.”

  “They’re my brothers. I couldn’t let them down. You’d do the same.”

  Miss Hart didn’t answer right away. “I’d like to think so, but I haven’t seen Wade in a very long time, and the truth is we’ve never been close.” She paused. “I doubt he’d ever have invited me to visit, except for one thing. A cad named Blair Bohling left me literally standing at the altar last month. Wade’s invitation is his way of helping me escape the humiliation of coming face-to-face with my former fiancé and the woman he left me for at some social function.”

  Annie looked up, shocked. “I’m very sorry that happened to you.”

  “Thank you.” Miss Hart took another sip of coffee. “Ironically enough, from the vantage point of hindsight, I’m not sure I am. Blair is thirty years old, and he’s never set foot outside Philadelphia. He converses like a world traveler, but it’s all a ruse. He’s well read but not at all well traveled, and travel is something I am determined to do. Perhaps for the rest of my life. Suffice it to say, I am far from brokenhearted.” She paused. “To return to the topic at hand, though, did you try to talk your brothers out of it? I heard stories while I was in St. Joseph. A lot of men were badly injured just trying out. Until someone ‘busted the bronc.’ I think that’s the term.”

  Annie let pride sound in her voice as she said, “My brothers did that. Frank went the distance, and then Emmet followed. Together, they broke Outlaw. In fact, Frank rode him out here.”

  “He didn’t say a word about that,” Miss Hart said. And then she smiled. “I need to learn to ask better questions. I shall have to speak with your handsome brother again.”

  Five weeks into what newspapers were calling the Paiute War, Frank spent an afternoon working alongside Charlie in bottomland about two hours from Clearwater. George had sent them out to cut enough sod to lay around and over the top of the chicken coop to provide insulation against both the intense heat sure to arrive with summer and the frigid cold that would come with winter.

&nb
sp; Charlie worked the specially designed plow, laying the earth open in three-foot-wide swaths and curling it over, the latter accomplished by the curve of the plow itself. Frank walked behind, cutting the sod into strips to be laid up like bricks once they were back at Clearwater.

  As the men worked, Charlie began to sing. A hymn, of course. When he called back to Frank to join in, Frank just shook his head, “Can’t. Don’t know it.”

  “Tell me one you do know, and we can sing that instead. It makes the work go easier.”

  “Don’t know any hymns,” Frank said, grunting as he cut through a swath of sod.

  “Not a single one?” Astonishment sounded in the parson’s voice.

  “Not a one.”

  “Surely you know ‘Amazing Grace.’ Everybody does.”

  Frank rolled the strip of sod up and hefted it onto the sled—a low, sideless wagon they would use to transport the sod back to Clearwater. The exertion cleared some of the anger out so he could answer without swearing. “Everybody doesn’t. I don’t.” While he hacked at another swath of earth, he told Charlie the short version of what he called his “heathen” past. It wasn’t until he’d finished cutting all the way through the strip of sod that Frank realized the plow wasn’t moving. He looked up at Charlie.

  “I am sorry you had to go through that, son. Very sorry.”

  The pure sympathy and kindness in the man’s voice made it hard to answer. Frank gulped. Finally, he croaked, “No need to be sorry. It’s done.”

  “If only that were true,” the parson said and went back to plowing.

  Frank called after him. “You go right ahead and sing, though. I don’t mind it.”

  Charlie sang out in a rich tenor Frank thought just might carry all the way back to Clearwater. Maybe even to Dobytown. He sang about amazing grace “that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost but now am found, was blind but now I see.” The words touched a place deep inside. Like someone had reached in and started digging around. When Charlie sang about grace teaching his heart to fear and then relieving those fears, Frank wondered what that meant. He rolled more sod and carried it to the sled. They probably had enough, but Frank didn’t want Charlie to quit singing, and so he didn’t say anything. Not until Charlie got to the end of the song. Of course Frank didn’t know for sure it was the end until the singing stopped, although he thought he could feel it coming with the mention of ten thousand years in heaven. The idea that time wouldn’t run out on people in heaven was downright hopeful.