Messenger by Moonlight

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  “Been keeping an eye out. Hoping they’d finally start to earn their keep. After all the trouble they’ve been.”

  “It’s going to be worth it,” Annie said. “You’ll see. How do you like your eggs, Mr. Morgan?”

  “It’s a little early for that, don’t ya think?” He changed the subject. “Got a long day of plowing ahead. Best be getting to it.”

  “Plowing? But—why?”

  “Prairie’s drying out. We need a fire guard.”

  Annie looked past him to the horizon. Fire. She’d learned not to worry too much about Frank and Emmet chasing across the prairie alone, but—fire. And the wind. A terrifying combination.

  Morgan seemed to read her mind. “They can set a backfire.” He explained the practice of putting out one fire with another, the second set purposely to consume a wide swath of dried grass. “First fire goes out for lack of fuel.”

  “And the second?”

  “The second stays under control at the hand of whoever set it,” Morgan said. “I’ll make sure they carry matches. They’ll be all right. And so will you.”

  “Who—why would anyone start a fire in the first place?”

  “They do it in the spring to renew the prairie. This time of year it’s generally an accident. A spark from a campfire some fool doesn’t take time to douse. Or lightning.” Morgan’s voice gentled a bit. “We’d see it long before it got here. Smell it, too.”

  With those few words, he left. Annie returned the egg to its nest, praising the hen she’d named Lucille and encouraging a repeat performance.

  That night she opened the Pony Express Bible, seeking the comfort of a verse she remembered Emmet reading to her. Thankfully, he’d written page numbers on the inside cover, and Annie quickly found the verse about fear in chapter forty-one of the book of Isaiah. “Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.” It was a good message, but it didn’t comfort Annie as much as she’d hoped, largely because of the four words I am thy God.

  Annie lay in bed a long time thinking about those four words. Was God hers? She didn’t like admitting it, but she didn’t think He was. At least not in the same way He was Emmet’s God. How could she make sure she could claim the promises about God’s strengthening and helping her—in the same ways He strengthened and helped Emmet and the parson? She wished she’d listened to Charlie’s sermons better.

  The Lord is my Shepherd. I shall not want. Funny that she hadn’t really pondered the little word my in the Shepherd’s Psalm, either. She frowned and tossed a question into the night. Was the Lord her Shepherd? Was God her God? Was He, really?

  Much to Annie’s great relief, as September faded into October, all she or her brothers experienced of prairie fires was a distant red glow along the far horizon. Nights grew cool enough that George Morgan occasionally built a fire in the fireplace on the eastern wall of the main room. Annie spent a few minutes each evening sitting in the rocking chair he’d dragged in from the porch, knitting socks and mittens as fast as she could. She was inclined to doubt Morgan’s prediction they might see snow by the end of October. Still, she would do what she could to see her brothers properly outfitted.

  When Fort Kearny patrols were sent out to help ranchers beat back the flames of distant prairie fires, Annie saw little of Lieutenant Hart, but she thrilled at the personal note he scrawled at the bottom of one of Lydia’s letters.

  We are sent to wage war on flames seeking to destroy all the settlers have battled to create. Thoughts of Clearwater remind me that you are safe inside a swath of plowed earth, and I am thankful. The cotillion looms bright on my horizon.

  Respectfully,

  W.H.

  She consulted the almanac George Morgan kept in the store and began to count the days until the last Saturday in the month. There’d be a full moon two days after the cotillion. As she knitted, she daydreamed about dancing in the moonlight with a handsome blond-haired lieutenant.

  The second week of October, the Overland Stage delivered a letter for Emmet. Annie smiled as she carried it into her brother’s room and laid it on his cot. When Emmet rode in a few days later, dismay and sadness swept over her when she saw his horse. In fact, she barely paid attention to the handoff between Emmet and a rider named Bill Garrett, so intent was she on Shadow.

  “Hey, girl,” she said, and patted the paint mare’s neck. Shadow whickered and nuzzled her hand. “How about that,” she said. “She remembers me.” She glanced over at Emmet. “You go on in and get something to eat. There’s a pot of beans on the stove and fresh bread in a basket on the table. I’ll see to Shadow.”

  Emmet nodded. “The Pony hasn’t been kind to her.” He paused. “What’s this I hear about a social over at the fort?”

  “Who told you about that?”

  “The rider—Bill Garrett. Didn’t you hear him just now? He was lamenting that he might not be back this way before some co-tillun, whatever that is.”

  “Cotillion,” Annie said. “It’s just a fancy word for a dance.” She smiled. “Lydia sent a note inviting me, and Mr. Morgan said I can go.” It was probably best not to mention Lieutenant Hart’s part in the invitation—at least not yet. “In fact, he promised to ride over with me.”

  Even in the fading light, she could see Emmet frown. “George Morgan is squiring you to a dance?”

  “No. No… it’s not… no.” Annie shook her head. “The ladies at the fort are inviting everyone in the region. All the ranchers and station owners. No one’s squiring anyone. I’m going to see Lydia. And speaking of notes, there’s a letter waiting for you. From Luvina.”

  Thankfully, in the wake of that news, Emmet forgot all about the matter of who was squiring who—or not—to a cotillion at Fort Kearny. With a “hallelujah,” he handed Shadow over and hurried inside. Annie led the mare away, pained to see how thin she’d become. How she moved, head down, shuffling wearily along. She led the mare toward the barn with a heavy heart.

  George Morgan came in while she was brushing Shadow down. “Reminds me of that flashy paint you rode into Clearwater.”

  “This is her,” Annie said. “Only—it’s not.” Her voice wavered.

  Morgan reached over the stall door and stroked the white strip running down the mare’s face. “Poor little gal.” Moments later, he was handing a feed bag over the stall door. “Mixed up a little treat.”

  Just as Annie strapped the feed bag in place, Emmet stumbled into the barn, letter in hand. He held it up and croaked, “Luvina.”

  Oh, no. Had her suspicions been right all along? Had Luvina broken it off? Annie put her hand on his arm. “Tell me.”

  “Remember that bull I warned her father about?”

  A chill washed over her. “You always said he was dangerous.”

  “I must have warned him a hundred times about that da—darned beast.”

  “You did. You swore about that creature.” As he almost had just now. And Emmet just did not swear.

  “It tore through a fence. Gored the old man and—he’s dead. Earl Aiken is dead.”

  “Oh, no!” Annie’s hand went to her heart.

  “Luvina was out in the garden. After goring Earl, the bull—”Another deep breath. He pointed at the letter. “It says she’ll mend, but she’s hurt bad.”

  Morgan spoke up. “You’ll want to go to her. You can take my horse.”

  Emmet blinked. “Banner? You can’t mean that.” The flashy chestnut was the best horse on the place.

  Morgan nodded. “I do mean it. He’ll take you through without any trouble. Just remember it’s a loan, not a gift.”

  Emmet looked over at Annie. “Maybe you should come with me.”

  “And lose my wages? Not on your life.” She stepped out of Shadow’s stall and tugged on Emmet’s sleeve. “Come on. I’ll get you something to eat while you pack.”

  “And I’ll saddle Banner,” Morgan said.

/>   Back at the station, Annie assembled a hodgepodge of a meal from leftover ham, half a loaf of bread, and some dried fruit. Shoving it into an empty flour sack, she hurried into the store. Retrieving a treasured wheel of cheese, she cut off a wedge and added it to the sack. If they tied it to the saddle horn, Emmet would be able to eat without stopping. She and Emmet trotted back to the barn, where George Morgan waited, the tall gelding with the four white socks at his side.

  Emmet took the reins, but he didn’t mount up. “You’re sure about this?”

  “I’m sure,” Morgan said.

  Tying the sack of food to the saddle horn, Emmet scrambled aboard. “You’ll get him back. I’ll see to it.”

  “Just take good care of him.” Morgan reached up to shake Emmet’s hand.

  “I’m trusting you to take care of my sister.”

  “I will. You have my word.”

  Feeling desperate to say something—anything that would comfort Emmet, Annie promised to pray for Luvina.

  He nodded. “Remember: ‘What time I am afraid, I will trust in thee.’”

  Annie wondered if he was saying the words for her or himself. “I’ll remember.”

  Emmet thanked George, then spoke to Annie. “I love you, Ann E.” He spurred Banner to action. Annie stared after him. The Lord is your Shepherd, Emmet. Don’t forget.

  “He said your name different.”

  Annie started and looked up at Morgan. “What? Oh—that. Mama named me Ann Elizabeth. Hence, Ann-initial-E. Ann E. Annie.”

  Morgan began to douse the lanterns hanging in the barn, but when Annie moved to leave, he called after her. “That hen you lost last month. Not the one that died in the heat. The other one. The one that just disappeared.”

  He wants to talk about chickens—now? She turned back. “What about her?”

  He snuffed the last of the lanterns and walked up beside her. “Don’t know that it would have saved her, but you’ll have a proper chicken yard around the coop before much longer. Luther’s delivering a roll of wire with his last load of supplies.”

  Last load. A reminder that winter would soon be upon them. Unlike the freighters contracted by the government to supply the military, Luther didn’t haul supplies in winter. When he departed after this next delivery, Annie would not see him again until spring.

  “Emmet will be all right,” Morgan said quietly. “Banner’s a good horse.”

  “I know. And Banner will be all right, too. Emmet won’t abuse him.”

  “I’m glad you said no to leaving just now. And I don’t mind the chickens.”

  The man could not keep a singular stream of conversation going. “The last time you said anything about my Reds, it was to grumble about how much trouble they’ve been.” She looked up at the vast night sky, folding her arms across her body and hugging herself to stave off a shiver.

  “I don’t remember grumbling.”

  “The morning you found that first egg, your exact words were that you hoped they’d start to earn their keep, ‘after all the trouble they’ve been.’”

  “That was—teasing.”

  “Were you teasing when I asked how you like your eggs and you groused about it being too early to have that conversation?”

  “I don’t remember—did I really say that?”

  “Yes. Right before you said you had to plow a firebreak, so we wouldn’t all die.”

  She felt rather than saw him looking down at her. “I said that? About dying?”

  “Not exactly. But it was implied.”

  After a long silence, Morgan apologized. “Never meant to frighten you.” His voice gentled. “Scrambled. I like my eggs scrambled.”

  Annie nodded. “I’ll remember.”

  “Is it true Sophia gave you her recipe for chicken and dumplings?”

  “She did. I’m hoping to make use of it for Christmas dinner.”

  “She didn’t happen to share one for peach cobbler?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Best I ever ate. Except for my sister’s.”

  Annie looked up at him, wishing she could see his expression better. But the moon wasn’t bright this evening. “You have a sister?”

  “Had. Rose passed on right before I left home.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Morgan.”

  He was quiet again. Finally, he said, “About that Mr. Morgan. It makes me feel old. Think you could see your way to just George?” He made a leap to a new subject before Annie could reply. “You got thrown into the deep part of the pond here. A pond you never wanted to wade in, let alone swim. At least according to your brothers.”

  “I suppose that’s a good way to put it.” And I can’t swim. “But I’m not as miserable as I expected to be.”

  “Still, you are… miserable?”

  Was that disappointment in his voice? Or hurt? Annie looked out over the corrals and toward the station, thinking about the years of hard work Morgan had poured into the place. “I don’t mean to take anything away from what you’ve accomplished here. But it is true that I’m here because Frank and Emmet forced my hand.” She paused. “And things didn’t exactly get off to a successful start.”

  “Like I said,” he rumbled, “deep part of the pond.”

  “At least I’m fairly reliable when it comes to making grits instead of glue now. And it only took six months.”

  “More like two weeks,” Morgan said. “For the grits, anyway.” He paused. “Billy and I have been here at Clearwater for five years. Haven’t had a cook stay the winter yet.”

  Annie understood why a woman wouldn’t want to spend a winter here. But with Emmet gone, her pay was even more important for the future. Besides that, she had nowhere to go. The Aikens would take her in because of Emmet, but that prospect made living at Clearwater almost attractive. At least here she was in charge of her own kitchen. She had a clear purpose, and she got paid to fulfill it. She cleared her throat. “Well, I’m staying.”

  After another brief silence, Morgan said, “That wire’ll help keep the hawks away and discourage bigger varmints. Best turn in now. I’ll see you safe inside.”

  “You don’t have to do that. It’s not that dark. I can find my way.”

  “Emmet’s a man of his word. So am I. He said he’d take care of Banner. I said I’d take care of you.” He led the way past the corrals and to the station. When they reached the storeroom door, he said quietly, “This life isn’t easy for a woman. I didn’t think you could do it.”

  Annie snorted. “That was obvious.”

  “It was? How? I mean—why?” He huffed. A frustrated sound. “What made it obvious?”

  “For one thing, you hardly said two words to me for what felt like weeks. It probably wasn’t really that long, but it felt like it.”

  “But that—that’s just—that’s me.”

  “I know that now. You’re a ‘man of few words.’ And the few words you do speak are sometimes—abrupt. But that was hard to get used to—especially when I was making such a mess of everything.”

  “You learned. Quick.”

  “It didn’t feel quick. You said I got dropped into the deep part of a pond? I felt like I was drowning. But then Badger gave me that ridiculous name. I didn’t let on, but it made me feel good. To have impressed him.”

  Morgan was quiet for a moment. When he finally spoke up, Annie listened in amazement. “W-when I w-was a b-b-boy I t-talked l-l-l-like thi-this. R-rose helped me with it. Fewer words. Fewer stumbles.”

  He stuttered? “I wish I’d known that. It would have made things easier.”

  “What things?”

  She was about to tell him. To list the ways he’d made her feel awkward or stupid. But what he’d just said put all of that in a different light. And so Annie just shook her head and said, “It doesn’t matter. I’m just glad to know that your—blunt ways aren’t because you don’t like me.”

  He sighed. Shook his head. “Never. I—you’re—good. For Clearwater. I—” He broke off. Again. “We got off to a bad st
art. That first day. Those men—the fight. I was embarrassed. And then you were so… young. So… miserable. I didn’t know what I should do. What I could do.”

  “This,” Annie said, motioning from herself to him and back again. “You can do this. Just—talk to me.”

  He nodded. “I’ll try.”

  Chapter 19

  Frank sucked in a deep breath. Opened his eyes. Dark. No moon. He shivered. Where was he? What had happened? It felt like his head was in a vise. He reached up. His left hand encountered something sticky. Ouch. He moved to get up, but when he lifted his head, the pounding nearly made him retch.

  He lay still for a moment, thinking. Trying to remember. One minute he was tucked into the saddle, making good time on his way back to Clearwater. The next he was—here. Where’s here? He looked about, willing his eyes to make sense of the darkness, wondering what had happened to his horse. The worst horse yet. A spotted mare born and bred from Hades. So many bad habits he’d have a hard time naming them all. Especially now, when it hurt to think.

  Slowly, he managed to sit up. The world spun. He rested his head in his hands. He’d been so busy fighting the mare to keep her moving ahead—she must have stepped in a hole. How long ago, he didn’t know, except that he’d mounted the mare just before sunset back at the relay station, and now it was dark. He was off the trail. The mare had been constantly shying away from things like wagon covers and odd sounds. She’d gone crazy over a boy banging a drum as he walked along with a little girl. Frank had nearly been thrown then, distracted by the oddity of a family group traveling west this late in the year. He sure hoped they had plans to lay up somewhere before getting too much farther west. At any rate, he’d decided to ride off the trail for a bit and see if he couldn’t settle the mare. Bad idea.

  Wincing, he reached up to feel his head again. Most of the blood was dried, but it had trickled down from his hairline to his jaw. Even dribbled down his neck some. Slowly, he untied the kerchief knotted about his neck and used it to bandage his head. He felt about him for his hat. Nothing but rocks and dirt at first, but finally, a stroke of luck. His hat had landed within arm’s reach. He pulled it on over the bandage, wincing when the band connected with the cut and the egg-sized lump beneath it. One good thing about the lump, he supposed, was that it made the hat tight enough to stop any more bleeding.