Lydia set the iron skillet aside and sank onto her chair. “They’re really awful, aren’t they?” She stabbed the cake on her plate with a fork. Finally, she picked it up, went to the door, and tossed it outside. “Abominable. You were very kind to choke even one down.”
“The coffee’s good,” Annie said, and took another sip to prove the point.
“Barely drinkable.”
“I’ve had to grind up toasted grain and call it coffee.” Annie lifted the mug as if to toast her friend. “This is good by comparison.”
Lydia grimaced. “We should just hire a cook. The officers’ wives all have them—hired from the ranks of the enlisted men’s wives working over on laundress row.” She drank down the rest of her own coffee and set the mug down firmly. “But I’m stubborn. I don’t want to admit defeat.”
“If you really want to learn, I can show you a few things.”
“Would you? You wouldn’t mind? Do you think I could master that pie you served at Clearwater the day I arrived on the stage?” Lydia pointed at the stove. “And how to build a proper fire?”
“I grew up cooking on one of those little stoves,” Annie said. “It’s the big beast at Clearwater that gives me fits. At least it did for the first few weeks. I think I’ve finally got that figured out.”
Lydia jumped to her feet. “Let’s get started. I mean—let me get dressed and we’ll go see Frank and then when he needs a nap we can come back here and—thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.” She smiled. “I can write an article about it. ‘The Lady in the West Learns to Cook.’”
While she waited for Lydia to dress, Annie stepped out the front door and onto the porch. She truly liked Lydia, but it was strange to be friends with someone for whom cooking was fodder for rich Easterners reading “Travel Notes from a Lady in the West”—people sitting before fires they hadn’t built in homes they didn’t clean. She thought back to the maid serving the family in the mansion she’d passed on her way into St. Joseph, Frank’s reaction to her fascination, and her own thoughts about how it would be all right to serve others for the privilege of handling fine things. The Patee House seemed very far away.
Midmorning of Annie’s third day at Fort Kearny, she was sitting in the chair beside Frank’s cot watching him sleep when he opened his eyes and looked over at her. “You should get back to Clearwater before George Morgan complains to the Pony Express and we’ve both lost our jobs. There’s no reason for you to waste time watching me sleep.”
“First of all,” Annie said, “I’ve only been here an hour or so. And second of all, George would never do something like that.”
Frank arched an eyebrow. “It’s George now?”
“It is.” Annie shot him a piercing look. “And I don’t care to be teased about it.”
“O-o-o-kaaaaay,” Frank drawled. “The George notwithstanding, Emmet will worry more than he should if you’re still over here when he next rides in. If anything changes with me, Lieutenant Hart can bring the news. I don’t imagine he’d mind an excuse to pay you a visit.”
Emmet. Annie took a deep breath. “About Emmet…” As she talked, the deep crease reappeared between Frank’s eyebrows. And deepened.
“Of all the rotten luck,” he muttered, swearing softly. “Two hundred dollars a month down the well.”
“Don’t think about that,” Annie said. “Just get better. Once you’re back in the saddle, we’ll start saving again. We won’t have as much as we planned, but—just don’t worry about it. Please.” She leaned close and lowered her voice. “And don’t tell anyone, but I’m rather enjoying it here. I’ve finally found time to write Ira. And I’m giving Lydia cooking lessons.”
“Cooking lessons?” Frank barked a laugh. His hand went to his bandaged head. “Ouch. Don’t make me laugh.”
“She’s going to write an article about it. ‘The Lady in the West Learns to Cook.’ I can’t possibly abandon her until she’s flipped an edible Johnny cake.”
Frank studied her for a moment. “Lydia’s nice, isn’t she?”
“You sound surprised.”
He shrugged. “She’d fit right in with all those dandies who were looking down on us the night we walked into St. Jo. Except she doesn’t ‘look down’ on us in that way.” He paused. “You think she really meant it—about the dance? My name at the top of her dance card and all that?”
Annie sighed and shook her head. “I hate to admit it, but she’s probably just saving you the humiliation of being ignored. Surely you remember how all the ladies at the Patee House acted. How they avoided you. Why, if I hadn’t been there, you probably wouldn’t have had more than three dozen dance partners, you poor thing.”
“Only three dozen? I thought sure it was four. Guess hitting my head made me forget the particulars.”
Annie laughed. “If you’re feeling well enough to rewrite the past to aggrandize your charm, I do believe you’ll be ready to leave the hospital in no time.” She bent to kiss him on the cheek. “Rest. I’ll be back this afternoon.”
After exiting the hospital, Annie made her way past the young trees lining the parade ground. According to Lydia, a former post commander had ordered them transplanted from the banks of the nearby Platte River. How hard would it be to keep a tree alive over at Clearwater? Just one tree by the chicken coop would make such a difference. She could already imagine how nice it would be to step into a shady spot just outside the back door. The well wasn’t far away. It would be easy to keep a tree watered. She could do that at the same time she watered the rosemary plant. Assuming the rosemary lived through winter. She would need to get it dug up and brought inside the moment she returned to the station. She glanced up at the blue sky. Please. No killing frost until I get back.
Her musing about transplanting trees was interrupted when Lieutenant Hart strode up from the direction of the post office. “How’s the patient this morning?”
“On the mend but not ready to leave the hospital yet.”
“The captain’s wife is hosting her weekly quilting bee over in the officer’s quarters. Lydia’s already there. May I walk you over?” He offered his arm.
A servant answered the lieutenant’s knock and then backed away from the door to admit him and Annie. Although the parlor was easily three times the size of Lydia’s, it was still crowded to the point of overflowing because of the quilting frame dominating the center of the room.
“Ladies,” Lieutenant Hart said, “I present Miss Ann Paxton.”
From the opposite corner of the room, Miss Collingsworth called out, “Why, if it’s not the lovely cook from Clearwater road ranch.”
Lydia asked for a report “on the patient.” Once Annie delivered it, she invited her brother to “run along.”
“Unless you’d care for a glass of lemonade,” Miss Collingsworth offered.
“Thank you,” the lieutenant said, “but duty calls.” He turned to go.
Miss Collingsworth protested. “Please, Lieutenant Hart, we are in need of advice.” She glanced around the quilt. “I’ve been put in charge of the refreshments for the cotillion, and a problem has presented itself just now.” She held both hands up as if tossing things from one to the other as she said, “Pumpkin or sweet potato pie? Bread stuffing or cornbread? Turkey or ham?” She looked pointedly at the women seated around the quilt. “Some of us feel that with the election looming in only a few weeks, we should show our support for the Union and serve only Northern dishes. Others insist that we give equal attention to Southern favorites.”
“And some of us,” a woman with a distinct Southern accent retorted, “believe that the political situation has been carried entirely too far by our Northern ‘sisters.’” She rose from her chair. “Cinda. If you are determined to politicize your position as chair of the refreshment committee, then—do what you will with your little ‘grand cotillion.’ I’ll stay home.” She dropped the thimble into the bag at her wrist. “I declare, if I hear one more word about that homely rail splitter from Illi
nois—” She broke off. Gulped. And turned to Annie. “Miss Paxton. I do apologize to you. But I cannot and I will not sit here and be insulted because the self-righteous among us seem to think Abraham Lincoln should be anointed for sainthood and my beloved South remanded to Hades.”
As the lady in question charged for the door, Lieutenant Hart moved aside to let her pass before following her outside. Lydia broke the uncomfortable silence. “Well, then. I’d say you have your answer, Cinda. Both pumpkin and sweet potato.” As a nervous titter sounded in the room, Lydia looped her arm through Annie’s and drew her to the quilt. “Annie’s staying with me while her brother mends.” She pointed to the recently vacated chair on the far side of the quilt. “Sit there, dear. Ladies—I think it best to table the topic of refreshments and move on to decorations. Mrs. May had a lovely idea for creating swags from native grasses—hopefully we can all agree that will neither celebrate nor excoriate any particular political party. And I suggest we stick with harvest colors when it comes to ribbons and such.”
Annie didn’t know what excoriate meant, but more nervous laughter relieved the tension in the room. She looked down at the quilt. The lady who had just stormed out wasn’t a particularly good stitcher. Annie picked up where she’d left off, listening as the ladies talked. It sounded like the cotillion would be a wonderful event.
At one point, Miss Collinsgworth called out to Annie. “I do hope your employer will allow you to come.” The words were sincere. The tone was not.
“Of course she’ll attend,” Lydia said. “I happen to know she’s already been invited. As my brother’s guest.”
Miss Collingsworth’s false smile disappeared. She glared at Annie.
She’s jealous. And you’re enjoying it far too much. Annie hurried to correct Lydia. “Your brother has been very kind, but I’ll be riding over with George Morgan.”
Miss Collingsworth shuddered. “I don’t know how you endure working for that man. He’s absolutely terrifying. And so ill-kempt.”
“To be precise,” Lydia enjoined, “Annie works for the Pony Express. As for Mr. Morgan, I think he’s fascinating.”
“You would,” Miss Collingsworth sniffed.
An older women in the far corner chuckled. “I’ll allow he doesn’t quite look civilized, but I think it’s oddly attractive.”
“Annabelle Greeley,” another woman scolded.
But Mrs. Greeley didn’t back down. “Just because I’m not fishing anymore doesn’t mean I can’t admire the view from the banks of the stream.”
“Did you know he lived with the Pawnee? Mr. Smith says he arrived at Clearwater with that boy in tow. What’s his name? You know, the Indian.”
“Billy Gray Owl,” Annie said.
Mrs. Smith shuddered. “I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night with an Indian lurking in the barn.”
Miss Collingsworth asked, “Are you really staying the winter in that place?”
“Of course. The mail must go through, and that means the men must be fed.”
“Won’t you die of boredom?”
Annie forced a smile and tried a little joke. “I hope not, for the riders’ sake. Billy says George is a terrible cook.” And yes. I know Billy and I call George “George,” and I don’t like you, either, Miss Nose-in-the-air. I wonder if there’s a Pawnee name for that. She would ask Billy. Annie concentrated on the line of stitching at hand while conversation and gossip circled around her. She said very little, but she learned a lot—especially about Miss Nose-in-the-air, who spoke of “Lydia’s brother” with an undertone of ownership and expectation that obviously annoyed Lydia. When someone wondered aloud if the post commander would still be on duty in the spring, Annie learned more about how the political situation in the East was taking a toll here at Fort Kearny.
Mrs. Greeley spoke to the post commander’s political leanings. “If Lincoln wins the election, our commander will resign and don a different uniform.” She smiled at Lydia. “And your brother is the likely candidate to be promoted to his position.”
Talk continued about the horrible possibility of a war between the states. Finally, Annie excused herself to check on Frank. Lieutenant Hart intercepted her on the way to the hospital. “I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“Throwing you to the she-wolves.”
Annie smiled. “I survived.” After a moment she added, “I didn’t realize the North-South tensions were quite so strong among the ladies.” She glanced up at him. “You never did answer Miss Collinsgworth as to your personal preference in the matter of pie. Which is it, pumpkin or sweet potato?”
“Neither,” he said. “I’m partial to the raisin molasses pie served at a road ranch a little to the east of here. Perhaps you know it?”
Say something, you idiot. He’s flirting with you. She could think of nothing to say.
“As your escort, I’m speaking for the first two dances at the cotillion. If you don’t object.”
Object? Of course she didn’t object. She’d dream of it every night. She nodded.
“You do object?”
“No. I mean—yes.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t object. I will give you the first two dances.” And the third, if you want.
“I shall hold you to it,” he said, “and count the days.” He nodded toward the hospital door. “I hope Frank mends quickly. And while I’m sorry that an injury was the cause for it, I’m very glad you’ve spent some time here at Fort Kearny. I was running out of excuses for leading patrols past Clearwater.”
Chapter 21
The day after Annie met the ladies of Fort Kearny at the quilting bee, she was dusting the furniture in the apartment’s parlor when Lieutenant Hart stepped in the door. “Do I dare hope that’s raisin molasses pie I smell?”
“It is,” Annie replied, “but not mine. Lydia’s.”
The lieutenant grimaced.
“I saw that,” Lydia called from the doorway leading back to the kitchen. “It’s just now ready. Annie was going to get the first taste, but seeing that look on your face just now, I think you should do the honors.” She waved him toward the kitchen. “Come along.”
The lieutenant obeyed. When he joked about being punished for honesty, Lydia smacked him—playfully. He put his hand to his cheek. “Ouch. That hurt.”
“Just sit down,” Lydia said, and pointed to the chair by the door. She served up a piece of pie and handed him a fork.
“Can I at least have something to wash it down with? A cup of coffee, perhaps?”
“I’ll make coffee in a moment. It remains to be seen if I’ll be serving it to you.”
Taking a deep breath, Hart tasted the pie. He closed his eyes for a moment. Frowned. Opened one eye and looked at his sister. Took another bite. Finally, he spoke to Annie. “Tell the truth. She didn’t make this. You did.”
“I had nothing to do with it.”
“Not true,” Lydia enjoined. “She’s been a most patient instructor in recent days. In fact, she’s suffered through three miserable failures.”
The lieutenant took another bite. “Well, there’s nothing miserable about this. It’s delectable.”
“Really?” Lydia stared at him in disbelief.
“Really.”
With a shout of joy, she grabbed Annie and gave her a hug. She looked over at her brother. “Wait until you taste my Johnny cakes. And grits. And—next I’m going to master jumbles. Do you remember Grandmother’s jumbles?”
Lieutenant Hart looked over at Annie. “What wonders have you wrought, dear girl? And in only one week. Lydia Morton Hart in the kitchen? Willingly? Joyfully?”
“She’s writing an article,” Annie said. “‘The Lady Cooks Western Fare.’”
“And I’m going to share the pie recipe,” Lydia said. She looked over at Annie. “I wish Frank nothing but a speedy recovery, but from a selfish standpoint I’m going to hate to see you leave.”
“I second that,” the lieutenant said.
After Hart left and while c
offee brewed, Lydia asked Annie to follow her into the next room. Opening the largest of her trunks, she set a few things aside on the floor and then pulled a blue silk gown from the depths. “It’s not the latest style, but if you think you’d like it, we could remake it to fit you. For the cotillion.”
Annie caught her breath.
“Well? What do you think?” Lydia waggled the dress.
“I couldn’t. It’s too elegant. Too fine.” It’s gorgeous.
“Oh come now. It’s just a dress. And an old one at that.” She held the gown up to Annie, folding it at the bodice and inspecting the waistline. “If we add a sash, we can draw it in.” She pulled a length of ivory silk out of the trunk. “Happily,” she said, “I’m not that much taller than you, so the sleeves will work as they are. We have plenty of time to hem it up.” She looked over at Annie. “I’m actually quite handy with a needle. I can easily have it ready by the twenty-seventh. You’ll need to arrive a few hours early, just in case we have to adjust something at the last minute.”
What could it hurt to try it on? Annie stepped out of her calico and into the silk. The gown rustled as she walked to the front of the apartment to peer into the mirror by the front door. What she saw made her gasp with delight.
Lydia reached around from the back and tied the ivory sash in place. “There. It almost looks like an original part of the gown.” She stood back. Tilted her head. “If I can find some matching silk—or something complementary—I’ll add an accent to the hem.” She rushed back to her room and returned with a nosegay of pale ribbon flowers. Turning Annie back to look in the mirror, she tucked the flowers into the twist at the nape of her neck. “That’ll look nice. I wish I had blue ones, though. They’d look so nice with your eyes. And—one more thing.” Again, she retreated to her room, this time returning with a velvet box.
When she opened the lid, Annie gasped at the stunning array of sparkling blue and silver. She had no idea what the stones were, but from the look of the box, they were incredibly valuable. She pushed it away. “I can’t. It’s too much.”
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