Messenger by Moonlight

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  Frank had just set another roll of sod on the sled when Charlie chirruped to the mule they were using to plow and guided the animal to loop back around so they could head back toward the sled. He looked at the stacked sod and then at Frank. “Why didn’t you tell me to stop?”

  Too embarrassed to admit the real reason, Frank shrugged. “Wasn’t sure we had enough yet.”

  Charlie smiled. “Son, there’s enough sod on that sled to build three chicken coops.” He shrugged out of the traces and mopped his brow. “But that’s all right. Time’s never wasted when we’re praising the Lord’s amazing grace. On the other hand, I’m glad to be heading back. Your sister said she was planning to try a peach cobbler in that oven, and I’ve faith enough to expect it’s going to turn out just right.”

  Frank smiled. “You pray over the stove so it’d behave?”

  “Well now, I suppose I could have, but it didn’t come to mind. I just asked the Lord to bless and guide Miss Annie. She needs to see how much good she does every day. How important she is, not only to the crew but also to the good people passing by on the trail. A kind word can go a long way to easing a troubled soul, and from what little I’ve seen of how things work at Clearwater, your sister speaks more than her share every day.”

  After improving Annie’s chicken coop, the parson sorted cattle and stacked lumber. He also conducted Sabbath services beneath the arbor extending off the south side of the blacksmith’s soddy. The messages were short and to the point—and somewhat repetitive, to Annie’s way of thinking. All men were sinners, and sin carved a canyon between man and God. The wages of sin was death. But God so loved the world that He gave his only Son to pay those wages. So Jesus came to earth and lived perfect. When He died on the cross, He could pay everyone else’s death wages, because He didn’t owe any of His own. The parson said a man couldn’t ever do enough good to deserve eternal life, but that was okay because he didn’t have to earn it. He just had to ask God to take Jesus’ death as payment for those death-wages. Because of Jesus, God could hand out forgiveness and eternal life as a free gift. Free.

  When Annie commented on the simplicity of the parson’s sermons—and the brevity—Emmet agreed that it wasn’t what people generally expected from a circuit rider. He also said that almost every word Charlie spoke was in the Bible. He’d show her the verses, he said—if she was interested. Annie was, and Emmet spent an entire evening underlining passages in the Pony Express Bible so she could read them for herself.

  As time went on, she wondered at the idea that Frank, who never wanted to hear Emmet “sermonize,” seemed drawn to the parson. She hoped it meant the something deep inside Frank that seemed to keep him from being happy would eventually be dug out and tossed aside. Maybe Charlie would help Frank see the Lord as his shepherd. Maybe that would erase the deep line between Frank’s eyebrows once and for all. That would be something.

  News of the end of the Paiute War arrived in late July. The Pony Express would resume mail service on July 29. Frank rode west. A week later, Emmet rode east, and the next morning the parson ate a hearty breakfast, thanked George Morgan for “giving him a place to land for a while,” and said he’d be leaving.

  “Hate to see you go,” Morgan said.

  “Not as much as I hate going. I could be as happy as a flea in a pack of dogs here at Clearwater. Which is why it’s time to go. The Lord’s calling upon my life does not include settling down. At least not for now.”

  “Then I’ll see to getting Cordelia saddled,” Morgan said and left.

  Instead of following the station keeper down to the barn right away, the parson helped Annie clear the breakfast table, talking while he worked. “I’ve sowed some good seed here at Clearwater, and I’m praying the Lord of the harvest will work His will. I will pray to that end, for all my friends at Clearwater.”

  “I’ll miss you,” Annie said as she piled dirty dishes into the pan out back and then retrieved the wash water she’d been heating on the stove. While she worked, the parson said some very nice things about Annie’s kindness to travelers and how he thought she had a gift for hospitality. Annie shook her head. “A gift for burning supper is more like it.”

  “Folks hanker for kindness and a smile a lot more than they do a perfect meal,” the parson said. He went on to say he hoped Annie would spend some time with the Good Book. “It contains words of life. Everybody ought to read ’em.” When Annie nodded, he raised one hand like he was taking a vow and said, “The good Lord bless you and keep you, Miss Annie. The Lord make His face to shine upon you and be gracious to you. The Lord lift up His countenance upon you and give you peace.”

  Embarrassed that tears had sprung up, Annie murmured a thank-you without looking up from her work. She’d finished the dishes and carried them back inside when she heard a mule bray. Peering through the kitchen window, she watched as Cordelia carried the parson westward.

  August ushered in the kind of heat that sometimes made it hard to breathe. A permanent cloud of dust hung over the corrals and the trail. It blew in the open doors and sifted over everything inside. A short time after Annie dusted a counter, swept the floor, or scrubbed a shelf, it returned to its former state—dust, dirt, and grit. The endless battle to keep things clean occasionally reduced Annie to weary tears over the uselessness of it all.

  As the sun blazed away without mercy, the rosemary plant from Mrs. Hollenberg began to wilt, and in spite of the sod Frank and the parson had stacked up and around the chicken coop, a young hen died. Annie took to keeping a damp cloth in a bowl of water so she could mop the back of her neck in a vain effort to keep cool. Every time she opened the oven door, she barely managed to resist the urge to stagger backward.

  The crew rose before dawn and tried to get as much work as possible accomplished as early as possible. In the heat of the day they took a long break, lounging beneath the arbor down by Hitch’s soddy until evening and then working until dark.

  Annie knew it would be best to follow their example and do her baking at night, but by the time the sun went down she was so spent she simply could not manage it. Summers at home had been hot, but summer out here on the prairie was punishment. By noon every day she was drenched with sweat. The best part of the day was when she could slip away to the pump and draw up cold water from the depths. One afternoon, she hauled a bucket of well water into her room, closed the door, took her boots off, and reveled in the sensation of cool water bathing her feet.

  With creeks drying up and the sandy Platte River running slow and filled with silt, the artisian well down by the barn became a regular “watering hole” for patrols from Fort Kearny. The idea of rowdy soldiers frequenting the station had originally made Annie feel apprehensive, but after the first few visits, she began to look forward to seeing a column of dusty, thirsty men riding toward Clearwater. Especially when Miss Hart’s handsome brother rode at the head of the column.

  One day when Annie said something to Frank about how the “brave soldiers” appreciated the cool, clear water, he smirked. “Yeah. That’s it. That’s the attraction, all right. That’s why they congregate around the pump instead of drifting up to the station. Oh… wait… they do spend time up at the station.” He shrugged. “Can’t imagine why. Surely can’t have anything to do with your pretty face.”

  Annie felt a blush creeping up the back of her neck. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  “And I’m sure I hope you’re telling the truth,” Frank retorted. “You just stay focused on your St. Jo. dreams. You don’t like the West, remember? If any of those soldiers takes a notion to flirt, you let me know. I’ll see they mind their manners. And if I’m gone, tell George. He’ll set ’em straight.”

  Annie waved a dismissive hand in the air. “You have nothing to worry about. Lieutenant Hart’s men have been polite to the point of gallantry.”

  “And you don’t think George had anything to do with that?” Frank didn’t wait for a reply. “Who do you think saw to it that Harris Reynolds ch
anged so quickly. You remember Reynolds, don’t you?”

  Of course Annie remembered. Harris Reynolds had been rude at first, but he’d responded to kindness—so why was Frank bringing him up? “Who told you about Harris Reynolds, anyway? As I remember it, he said he didn’t know you.”

  “Never met the man,” Frank said, “and he’s long since ridden off into the unknown. Doesn’t work for the Pony anymore. But thanks to him, the word is out up and down the line. ‘Don’t mistreat the cook at Clearwater unless you’re ready to take on a riled-up George Morgan.’ So when you pass out the credit for those soldiers’ behaving themselves, don’t pour it all in the direction of the golden-haired Lieutenant Hart. Everyone in these parts knows they’ll answer to George if they cause you any trouble.” He paused. “And now that I’ve told you, don’t you tell George I said anything. I don’t think he’d appreciate me jawin’ about it.”

  Annie agreed to keep the conversation to herself. To be honest, she thought Frank might have exaggerated things a bit when it came to George Morgan’s watching over her. She was growing used to the idea of looking out for herself now that Emmet and Frank were gone so much. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea of someone else stepping into their role unbidden. After all, she’d held her own against Harris Reynolds and an entire host of other riders and visitors to Clearwater. Including Badger—and a rattlesnake.

  At midday one particularly hot August day, Annie had just pumped a stream of cold well water over a kerchief and was tying it about her neck when a patrol rode in. After dismounting down by the barn, Lieutenant Hart handed the reins of his horse to another soldier and strode toward the station. As he approached, the lieutenant unbuttoned his uniform jacket and reached inside, withdrawing an envelope.

  He held it out to Annie. “A note from Lydia. And a copy of the article she wrote about your brothers.”

  “Please thank her for me. I hope she’s enjoying her stay at Fort Kearny.”

  The lieutenant chuckled. “She is. Although the rest of the ladies probably feel a bit like they’ve been blown off center. Lydia does have a way of taking charge. In fact, she’s convinced the captain that it would be good for ‘military-civilian relations’ for the ladies to host a social at the end of October and to invite everyone from surrounding ranches. She campaigned for September, but I was able to convince her she’d get a better turnout if she waited until hay-cutting season was mostly over with.” He pointed at the letter. “I’m sure she’s told you all about it. And I do hope you’ll come. Lydia’s calling it a ‘grand cotillion.’”

  Annie didn’t know what to say. Her time wasn’t really her own—was it? The idea of an entire day away from Clearwater was likely impossible. But an evening of dancing would be wonderful. Especially if the lieutenant—well. Best not to daydream about that. She probably wouldn’t be able to go, anyway. “Thank you. I don’t know what to say beyond that.”

  Hart glanced behind them and toward the barn, then asked, “If I spoke to George Morgan about it—if he didn’t object to your being gone for an evening—would you come? I’d be honored to be your escort.”

  Annie stammered yes and thank you.

  “Lydia will be delighted. As am I. I hope the heat hasn’t been too hard on you. I can’t imagine being trapped in a room with a hot stove on a day like today.”

  “And I can’t imagine riding through clouds of dust for hours on end.”

  Hart smiled. “One of the advantages of rank is leading the way. I eat less dust than the average soldier.” He nodded toward the chicken coop. “How are your ladies faring?”

  “I lost one to the heat and another disappeared without a trace. Carried off by some varmint or another, I suppose.” Annie looked over at the coop and shook her head. “Not much I can do about it—at least about the heat, anyway.”

  Hart nodded and looked eastward. “This is the time of year our mother always took Lydia and me out of the city to escape the heat.” He untied his bandanna and pumped water as he talked, mopping the back of his neck before tying the wet bandanna back on and tucking it inside his shirt collar. “I have wonderful memories of the little cottage we stayed in. Flowers spilling out of window boxes. Fruit trees in the back. And a little skiff Lydia and I could row out into the lake. The Meadows wasn’t nearly as big as the places where some of our friends spent their summers, but we loved it.”

  The Meadows. A cottage with window boxes. Fruit trees. “It sounds delightful.”

  “It was. I haven’t thought about it in a long while.” He smiled down at her. “But I’m certain you’d love it there.”

  Annie’s heart thumped. For a fleeting few seconds, the heat didn’t matter. But then a blast of hot air swept up from the corrals and the pungent smell of manure erased the magic. Hart glanced toward the barn again. “With your permission, I’ll deal with any objections Morgan has to your attending the cotillion.”

  “Y-yes. All right.”

  With a quick tug on the brim of his hat, he took his leave. Annie watched as he strode away. When George Morgan emerged from the barn and the lieutenant went to talk with him, she skittered back inside. It wouldn’t do for either man to know just how much she cared about the outcome of their conversation.

  Chapter 18

  Annie didn’t read Lydia’s note right away. Tucking it into her apron pocket, she carried it with her through the rest of the day, ever mindful of its presence, ever thankful for the promise it represented. Lydia Hart wrote. To me. Lieutenant Hart and I had a real conversation about his family. He told me about the Meadows. He wants to escort me to the cotillion. Annie frowned. And I have nothing to wear but cotton calico. It might not have mattered at the Patee House when everyone was in the throes of enthusiasm for the Pony Express, but it would surely matter when she was on Lieutenant Hart’s arm. What had she been thinking, saying yes to his invitation? You weren’t thinking. Who could, looking into those blue eyes?

  Late that evening, after Emmet and Frank had had a chance to read Lydia’s article, Annie lit the lamp in her room and perched at the foot of her bed to read both the article and the accompanying note.

  I thought Frank would especially love to see that he is now known in the East for his daring accomplishments for the Pony Express. With Wade’s help, I have written about the Paiute War, although that article will not appear for some weeks yet. I am still collecting firsthand accounts from Eastbound travelers who have passed through the country and seen the depradations firsthand.

  After many weeks in residence here, I have learned to recognize the various bugle calls that order the men’s lives. They look very fine when they assemble on the parade ground for inspection. It makes me glad that I have come here, if for no other reason than to see my brother in his element and to feel the same kind of pride I heard in your voice when you first spoke of Emmet and Frank.

  The ladies and I are planning a social for the last Saturday in October, and I hope you will attend. I often wish that you could “come calling,” but I realize that life in the West necessitates the forgoing of many of the niceties practiced by others. I do hope to see you again soon, and I have reason to believe my brother would welcome your visit as well. You do realize, I hope, that there is more to the military patrols’ frequent stops at Clearwater than the artesian well down by the barn.

  A circuit rider named Charlie Pender has caused quite a stir here in recent days. He is one of the most unusual men I have ever encountered. He mentioned you with the highest regard. I close now, in hopes of seeing you soon.

  I remain your friend,

  Lydia Hart

  Annie wondered if Charlie would return to Dobytown. Lord, you are his Shepherd. Please protect him. She smiled when she read “Travel Notes from a Lady in the West.” “Daring Frank Paxton, the moonlight messenger” of the Pony Express featured strongly in Lydia’s article. How Frank loved the romantic moniker moonlight messenger. Perhaps there was something to his prediction that he would one day be famous.

  Annie read a
nd reread Lydia’s note, thrilled by what she said about her brother’s visits to Clearwater. She also treasured Lydia’s closing words. I remain your friend. How strange that hundreds of miles from where Annie had planned to make friends, a woman from even farther away, both in social station and in distance, had used that wonderful word.

  Friend.

  Dawn had tinged the eastern sky pink on the September morning when, just after Annie set the coffeepot on the stove, George Morgan opened the storeroom door and called for “Rattlesnake Woman” to come and check on her Rhode Island Reds. “I heard a ruckus just now.”

  Annie’s heart lurched. Rattlesnake! Not again. Steeling herself against what she was about to see, she brushed past Morgan and into the chicken coop. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. When they did, she didn’t see anything amiss. “They seem fine.”

  “I didn’t say there was anything wrong. I said I heard a ruckus. Check under the one with the black tail feathers.”

  Frank had kept his word to build nesting boxes, and the hen Morgan was talking about had claimed the one on the far right. Gently, ever so gently, Annie slid her hand beneath the hen. Yes! At last. An egg. She quickly checked the other boxes. Only the one, but it was a beginning. In due time, she’d have a proper flock. Eggs enough to cook. And chicken and dumplings. Perhaps for Christmas dinner. She stepped back outside and held up the egg, beaming with joy. “How did you know?”