Standing up made him sick to his stomach. But at least he could stand up. Nothing seemed broken. Except his head. He concentrated on staying upright. Resting his hand on the grip of his pistol, he listened carefully for any sound, hoping for the clink of a bit or the swishing of a hoof through grass as the mare grazed. The only thing he heard was a far-off howl. Far-off, thank goodness.
He took a few steps, each one more difficult, and finally sat back down, breathing heavily, wondering why he felt so all-fired sick. A knock to the head shouldn’t do that—should it? He peered off to the north. You’d think he’d at least see a campfire, but there was nothing. Just darkness.
He tilted his head. Struggled to stand up again and took a few steps. His foot struck a shape he first took for a mound of sand. We swore softly as he reached down and swept his palm across the mare’s side. A fine crust adhered to her flanks. She was breathing, but barely. His heart sank. He murmured comfort as he felt his way along, trying to understand what was wrong. Suspecting the worst, he found it. A broken leg. She would have struggled mightily to get up, but the fight was gone out of her now. There was nothing he could do for her but to end her suffering.
Frank sat back. She’d been an ornery cuss, but he still hated thinking of the pain she must have endured. You need to end it, he thought, remembering that distant howl. Taking a deep breath, he pulled the gun out of its holster. Muttering “I’m sorry, girl,” he pulled the trigger. He felt his way to the saddle. Carefully, he pulled the mochila off. It took some doing to free the side tucked beneath the mare. He fumbled to loosen the girth and get the saddle, too, but had to give up. Every time he bent down his head pounded and his stomach roiled. At least he could get the bridle.
He had to rest again before he could face walking. Had to rest every little while, in fact. Dawn would be here soon—he hoped. He didn’t really know what time it was. Daylight would help him find water. The Platte was over there somewhere, but he didn’t really know how far. He couldn’t think straight. For a moment, he thought maybe he should turn around and go back to Plum Creek. Maybe that was closer? No. Keep the mail moving. Just. Keep. Walking.
The morning after Emmet left for Missouri, Annie awoke refreshed and looking forward to the day. She’d had only a few hours’ sleep, but she wasn’t nearly as tired as she’d expected to be. In fact, the first thing she felt as she faced the new day was a surge of hope. Just about everything she’d assumed about George Morgan—about George—had been wrong. His few words weren’t because of anything she’d done—or undone. His few words had been a way to overcome a stutter, and the habit stuck. Who could blame him for that? Living at a place like Clearwater didn’t exactly inspire orations. Even the parson had kept his sermons short and to the point.
Thinking about Charlie Pender reminded Annie of something he’d said the day he left Clearwater. “In a world full of sadness and travail, kindness is not to be underestimated. You have a chance to do a great deal of good, my dear, just by showing kindness to those the trail brings your way. Whatever you do, do your work heartily, not as unto men but as unto God. He will take notice and He will be pleased.”
After feeding her chickens and finding two more eggs, Annie retreated inside, leaving the storeroom door open and enjoying the cool promise of fall. While she cooked, she thought of Emmet and poor Luvina. Even though Emmet would take care not to push Banner beyond the breaking point, he might reach St. Joseph in as little as a week. He would undoubtedly report in to Mr. Lewis at the Pony Express office so a replacement rider could be assigned to Clearwater. Riding from St. Joseph to the Aikens’ would take the better part of a day. All told, it would be at least a couple of weeks before Annie knew anything about how Luvina was faring. Poor Luvina. Bereft of her father as the result of a tragic accident.
She felt a tinge of guilt at the way she’d judged Luvina Aiken, just because the girl didn’t show her emotions. Maybe she simply was not good with words—like George. Emmet loved her. That was what mattered. Luvina’s quiet ways were well suited to a man like Emmet. They would probably be very happy together, in their own sweet, dispassionate way.
Passion. The very word made Annie blush. Of course it didn’t always refer to romance. A person could be passionate about life, too. Frank was that way. In his case, passion sometimes got him into trouble. On the other hand, it would help him succeed as a Pony Express rider. It might even make him famous. Annie smiled, thinking of the white gauntlets with the red stars.
She’d just stepped outside to ring the breakfast bell when she heard an approaching rider. A lone rider. Coming fast. She hadn’t been expecting the mail for at least another day. Still, she clanged the bell furiously before hurrying to the front of the station to tell the rider to be patient. A fresh horse would be here directly. But it wasn’t a Pony rider at all. It was Lieutenant Hart. When he caught sight of Annie, he brought his horse to a skidding stop and leaped out of the saddle.
“You’re not to worry,” he said, “but Frank’s in the post hospital. The stage found him stumbling along the trail.” Her palm to her mouth, Annie staggered back. The lieutenant caught her, just as Billy trotted up with a fresh horse. “It’s not the mail,” Hart said. “Frank Paxton’s been hurt. He’ll be all right, but I knew Annie would want to know.”
“I’ll get George,” Billy said, leading both the Pony Express horse and the lieutenant’s away with him.
“Let’s get you inside,” Hart said. “I’ll get you a drink of water. Then I’ll tell you everything.”
Moments later, Annie was seated at a table in the main room, with George on one side and Lieutenant Hart on the other, listening as the soldier repeated what little was known about Frank’s accident. “He’s had a bad blow to the head.” Hart drew an imaginary line across his forehead and down one side of his face. “Twelve stitches. A lot of swelling.”
“How’d it happen?”
“No one knows exactly. He passed out after the stage picked him up and still hasn’t regained consciousness.”
George stood up. “You’ll want to go,” he said to Annie. “I’ll get a horse saddled.”
Annie didn’t move. “But—I—you—what about the cooking? The chickens?” And now I’m the one babbling about chickens in the midst of a crisis.
“Stay until you know Frank’s going to be all right,” George said. “In fact, stay until you can bring him back with you.” He looked over at Lieutenant Hart. “If she needs anything, you get word to me and I’ll see that she gets it the same day.”
In a fog of worry, Annie hurried to pack. When she grabbed her comb off the dresser, she caught sight of Emmet’s Pony Express Bible. Fear thou not. The Lord is my Shepherd. She still hadn’t settled the issue of that word my, but absent Emmet or the parson’s advice, something about having the book with her seemed like a good idea. She wrapped the Bible inside her only other outfit and stuffed everything into her saddlebags.
By the time Annie stepped outside, George and Billy were waiting, Billy with the lieutenant’s horse in hand and George with the buckskin gelding he’d been riding since lending Banner to Emmet. When Annie was ready to mount up, George simply picked her up and set her in the saddle. He briefly covered one of her hands with his and gave it a little squeeze. “Hart says Frank’s all right. You remember that. Buck here’s pretty reliable, but he’s still a horse—and he’s not used to you. He’ll—”
“I know,” Annie said, tucking her skirts about her legs and settling in for a long ride. “He’ll test me. And I’ll win.”
“I don’t doubt it for a minute,” George said and stepped back.
Over the first mile or so, Annie had to fight the horse through several bouts of crow-hopping and mild bucking until, finally, Buck gave up and settled into a steady if choppy lope. The lieutenant seemed to sense that Annie was in no mood to talk, and so they covered the miles in silence. After what felt like an eternity, he pointed into the distance and said, “It won’t be long now.”
Annie peered
ahead. Was that a flag? The indistinct shapes on the horizon melded into a collection of buildings gathered around an open space.
“The parade ground,” the lieutenant said, when Annie asked about it.
“No walls?” Who’d ever heard of a fort without defensive walls?
“Many of the Western forts are built this way,” Hart explained. “Fort Kearny sprawls atop a low table that affords a good view of the area. We don’t have walls, but that doesn’t mean we’re without defenses. We’ve a couple of mountain howitzers and plenty of other pieces at the ready.” He broke off, adding quickly, “And no expectation they’ll be needed. Things are peaceful in this part of Nebraska Territory.” He led the way to the north of the grounds, past a corral and the post stables, past adobe buildings and, finally, to the post hospital in the southeast quadrant of the fort. Annie slid to the earth just as Lydia stepped through the hospital door.
“He’s awake,” she called, “and he’ll be glad to see you.”
Relief washed over Annie as she handed Buck to Lieutenant Hart and hurried up the wood stairs. “You waited with him?”
“Of course.” Taking Annie’s hand, Lydia led her inside, past a desk where a soldier was looking through a mountain of paper and then into a long room with cots arranged in two rows on either side of a wide aisle. She pointed toward the far right. “Just past that last curtain.”
Frank’s head was swathed in bandages, one eye swollen shut, the visible part of his face a riot of purples and blues. He was lying on his back, his eyes closed, both hands visible above the sheet. His lip was split. Beneath the bruising, he was frighteningly pale. Sinking to her knees beside the cot, Annie reached for his hand. “Frank? Frank, it’s me. Annie.”
It seemed to take forever for him to open his eyes. When he did, he looked at her for a long while before saying anything. Finally, he managed a weak smile. “What you doin’ here?”
Resisting the urge to cry with relief, Annie produced a mock frown to accompany an affectionate scolding. “I thought you said you ‘broke the best’ when you broke Outlaw.” She tapped her own head where his was bandaged. “Looks to me like ‘the best’ was out here in Nebraska—and the best broke you.”
Wincing, he reached up and touched the bandage. “Aw… I’m aw-right. It’s jus’ a bump.” He started to sit up, winced, and lay back down. “Got a headache’s all.” He grimaced. “A bad one. Don’t remember much. Dark night. That mare—straight outta Hades. She stepped in a hole. I woke up feeling like someone with a hammer used my head for a nail.” He touched the bandage. “Twelve stitches.”
“I heard. And the stage brought you here.”
“Yep. Prolly thought I was drunk, layin’ there in the grass. Sure glad they stopped.” He shrugged. “I didn’t lose the mail, though. Still got my job. Soon as I can do it again. I’m not quittin’. Don’t you worry.”
“I’m not worried about that,” Annie said—although she had thought about it. A little. On the ride over. “I’m sticking around to make sure you don’t do anything foolish.”
He frowned. “What about your job?”
“George said to stay until I can take you back with me.” She forced a smile. “So be forewarned. If I have to, I’ll tie you to the bedpost to ensure you follow doctor’s orders.”
“Hunh. Like to see you try that.”
“It wouldn’t be hard today.”
Frank closed his eyes. “Got that right.”
A middle-aged man with a stern face and kind gray eyes stepped into the cubicle. “I’m Dr. Fields. You must be the sister. Annie, I believe Frank said?” He held out his hand and Annie shook it. “As long as he doesn’t go back to riding too soon, he’s going to be fine. But it’s going to take some time. And he’s going to have to be patient.”
Annie tapped the back of Frank’s hand. “You heard that, right?” She turned to the doctor. “Patience is not one of my brother’s virtues.”
“I suspected as much,” the doctor said. “But he’s going to have to develop some if he wants complete healing. We don’t understand all that much about the brain and I’m not particularly well informed regarding the latest research. What I do know indicates that rest is the most important part of recovery from something like this.”
Again, Annie looked down at Frank, but it seemed he’d fallen asleep. “Can I take him back to Clearwater?”
“I’d like to keep an eye on him for at least a few days,” the doctor said.
Lydia spoke up. “Wade and I already discussed that. You’ll stay with me.” She smiled at Frank. “Until the famous ‘moonlight messenger’ is ready to ride.”
Without opening his eyes, Frank muttered, “Lydia’s got it all worked out.”
“We’ve got it worked out,” Lydia said, smiling at Annie. “He’s agreed to be good so he’ll be ready for the cotillion by the end of the month. He’s promised me the first dance.”
Frank gave a weak salute.
Dr. Fields asked for a moment “with my patient.” Annie kissed Frank on the cheek and followed Lydia outside. This was no time to talk about Emmet’s leaving. That could wait until Frank was feeling better. Lieutenant Hart was waiting on the hospital porch, having already taken the horses to the stables. As he led the two ladies toward his quarters, he identified each of the buildings facing the parade ground. “Commander’s quarters, adjutant’s office, quartermaster store, commissary store.” He paused. “Those three across the way are soldier’s quarters. I’ve been staying in the middle building since Lydia arrived.”
Lydia chuckled. “He’s hoping to use my presence to land a larger apartment the minute someone transfers out. If I stay, he can make the case for needing it.”
They stopped outside a north-facing, two-story building with a sweeping front porch. “We’re on the ground floor on the right,” Lydia said and led the way up the stairs and through the door.
The apartment was a row of small rooms with a walkway running straight through to the back door. The simply furnished parlor boasted a small writing desk in front of the single window looking out onto the porch. The lieutenant had deposited Annie’s saddlebags on a chair in this room. “We’ll get a cot set up in here today.”
The next room, a tiny bedroom, was crowded with two large trunks and an assortment of bandboxes and traveling cases that obviously belonged to Lydia. The modest kitchen was outfitted with a small cookstove, a table by the window, two chairs, and a small worktable. Open shelving served as both cupboard and pantry. Annie could see why the lieutenant was hoping for something bigger. Her room at Clearwater was more comfortably furnished—and larger—than these. As for the kitchen, there was no comparison.
Someone knocked on the front door. Lieutenant Hart leaned out and looked down the hall. He grunted softly. “I thought she might at least give you time to freshen up.”
“She who?” Lydia asked.
The lieutenant didn’t answer directly. Instead, he looked over at Annie. “The ladies of Fort Kearny are very meticulous about making calls. And that is my cue to take my leave.”
Lydia leaned close and said, “He means he’ll be hiding out until Miss Collingsworth and her mother have departed. The young lady has had her eye on my brother since arriving with her parents a few weeks ago.”
The lieutenant sputtered something about the young lady in question being a “mere child” and scooted out the back door. Lydia looped her arm through Annie’s and drew her to the front of the apartment to meet the two ladies waiting on the porch.
Chapter 20
Annie was already awake when a bugle sounded in the night. Throwing her blanket aside, she snatched up her skirt and dropped it over her head. Next came the blouse, which she buttoned with trembling hands, stuffing it into her skirt as she rushed to the front window to peer outside.
Lydia spoke from the doorway to the bedroom. “First call,” she groaned. “Were you up already?”
“Just awake. But—I thought it meant something bad, so I hurried to dress.”
“I thought I wrote you about it. Life here is ruled by that infernal bugle. You’ll learn to ignore it.” She paused. “No, that’s not quite right. You’ll adjust. Like someone with a clock that gongs and chimes its way through the day. You still hear it, but you don’t consciously react.”
“How often does it go off?”
Lydia tapped the tips of the fingers on her left hand as she counted off more than a dozen different calls, from First Call to Reveille and, finally, Taps.
“And you recognize them all?”
“It becomes second nature. You’ll see—if you’re here for more than a few days.” She waved Annie toward the back of the apartment, joking that they would have their own “mess call” in a few minutes. Annie watched while Lydia donned an apron. “I’m very sorry for the reason you’re here at Fort Kearny,” she said, “but I won’t pretend not to be delighted to have company.” She pointed to one of the two chairs at the kitchen table. “Sit. We’ll walk over to the hospital as soon as we’ve had breakfast.”
Annie sat, but by the time the lady slid what she called a Johnny cake onto her plate, Annie was gripping the edge of the table to keep herself from getting up and taking over. Poor Lydia. In all the weeks she’d been at Fort Kearny, she hadn’t learned much when it came to cooking on a two-burner stove. If the raging fire she started was any indication of the way she usually worked, it was a wonder she hadn’t set fire to the building by now. As far as the Johnny cakes went, Annie was grateful there was coffee. Even bitter coffee was useful when it came to washing down what amounted to a disk of scorched cornmeal.
When Lydia slid another disk onto her plate, Annie protested. “I’ve had plenty.” She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “It feels too strange for someone to be cooking for me.” She glanced toward the front of the apartment. “And it’s past time I was at the hospital with Frank.”
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