Messenger by Moonlight

by Stephanie Grace Whitson

  Lydia insisted. “It’s not ‘too much.’ It’s just right. All the officer’s wives will be showing off their best. Why shouldn’t we? Besides, it isn’t even my best. I’m keeping that for myself.” She draped the jewels about Annie’s neck. “This is simple and tasteful.” She leaned sideways and looked at Annie in the mirror. “I’m wearing rubies and a claret gown. We’ll look like fire and ice. It’ll be fun. Wade will think he’s dancing with a princess.”

  Annie touched the necklace. The only thing missing was a pair of glass slippers.

  The morning after Lydia’s success with raisin molasses pie, something clicking against the parlor window accompanied First Call. Pulling her patchwork comforter about her for warmth, Annie rose and padded across the floor to peer out the front window. Sleet had transformed the world into a silver wonderland—at least for those with nothing to do but peer at it from the warmth of their apartments. It would be a treacherous day for everyone else. The stage might be forced to lay over. The thought sent a pang of guilt through Annie, as she thought of George, alone at Clearwater—alone save for Billy and the two or three members of the summer crew who were staying over to try their hand at trapping this winter.

  Annie’s concerns grew when, after breakfast with Lydia, she stepped outside and had to navigate the stairs. She made her way to the hospital with careful steps, nearly slipping and falling more than once, until Lieutenant Hart called out for her to wait for him to help her. But when he tried to hurry to her side, he fell on his backside.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Nothing hurt but my dignity,” he laughed as he righted himself. “Just—wait.”

  Annie waited and together they slipped and slid their way to the hospital, laughing so hard by the time they got there they were both out of breath.

  “Thank God for bannisters,” the lieutenant said as he handed her off to the railing leading up to the hospital’s front door. “That’s far more dependable than I am at the moment. I hope you get good news inside.”

  Frank sensed rather than saw Annie sitting beside his cot. He didn’t open his eyes at first, but rather lay quietly, listening to the clicking of her knitting needles. When he finally did open his eyes, however, he was surprised that the chair beside his bed was empty. So what was clicking? A glance in the direction of the window answered the question. Sleet.

  Annie peeked around the curtain separating Frank’s cubicle from the rest of the ward.

  “Thought you’d still be asleep,” she said.

  He nodded toward the window. “I thought you’d borrowed someone’s knitting needles.”

  “It’s letting up some,” Annie said, shivering and drawing her shawl close as she settled on the chair next to his cot. “Too bad I didn’t borrow knitting needles. I could have gotten a lot done by now.”

  “Check over at the commissary. From what I heard, they have just about anything anyone could want, and they sell to civilians.”

  “There’s no point in spending money when I have what I need back at Clearwater.”

  “If we ever get back there,” Frank groused.

  Dr. Fields stepped into view from just beyond the curtain. “You really don’t like the accommodations here at Fort Kearny, do you?”

  “Don’t take it personally,” Frank said.

  “Let’s see how you’re doing.” The doctor extended his index finger and ordered Frank to follow with his eyes as he moved his hand back and forth, up and down. Next, he checked beneath the bandage. Looking over at Annie he said, “If you think you can handle removing the stitches in a few days, I’d be open to letting your brother go today—assuming the weather lets up later this morning.”

  “Of course she can do it.”

  “I believe the doctor was talking to me,” Annie snapped.

  Whoa. Since when did she mind his answering for her? “You killed a rattlesnake with your bare hands. Compared to that, what’s snipping a stitch or two?”

  “It’s twelve stitches,” Annie said, and then looked at the doctor. “But of course I can do it. As long as the weather improves.”

  The doctor nodded. “Take the ride to Clearwater at a nice, steady walk.” He looked over at Frank. “By the time you get there, you’ll probably feel like you just set a hundred-mile speed record for the Pony Express. I’m telling you that so when it happens, you won’t be discouraged. It’s going to take some time for that hard head of yours to return to normal.”

  Frank reached for the shirt draped over the back of the chair Annie had been using when she visited.

  “You just settle back,” she said firmly. “We’re not running out of here this morning.”

  “Well, of course we are. We’re just not running. I heard the doc about that—but—we are leaving. You said you rode Morgan’s buckskin here, right? I’ll just ride”—he glanced at Dr. Fields—“I mean I’ll walk Buck to the Pony Express relay station down the road and bring another horse back. Shouldn’t take long at all.”

  Annie shook her head. “I’ll ride to the relay station and bring back an extra horse. You’ll wait here until I have things sorted out. And we aren’t going anywhere if the weather doesn’t improve.” She thanked the doctor for all he’d done and left to see about the horses.

  Moving slowly, Frank finished dressing, surprised at how much effort it took and pondering how bossy Annie had become in recent days. By midmorning, though, he and Annie—along with Lieutenant Hart, who insisted on escorting them—were on their way back to Clearwater.

  Fort Kearny had disappeared from view when Frank reached behind him to grasp the cantle, hoping it looked as though he were slouched comfortably in the saddle. The truth was, his head had started to pound. A jackrabbit sprang from behind a bunch of grass. Outlaw snorted and stepped out. Frank had to grab the saddle horn to keep his balance.

  Annie looked over, frowning. “When I saw him in the corral at the relay station, I knew you’d want Outlaw, but—I hope he isn’t too much for you.”

  “I said I’m fine,” Frank sputtered. If only the world would stop quaking. If only his stomach would settle once and for all. Outlaw’s ears twitched forward. With an instinctive “Whoa, there,” Frank peered at a moving smudge in the distance. Finally, the smudge resolved into a lone horse and rider headed toward them.

  Annie had better vision than either of the men. “It’s George!” As soon as he was within earshot, Annie called a hello.

  With little more than a nod by way of greeting, Morgan reached inside his coat and withdrew a wrinkled envelope. “News from Emmet.”

  When Frank reached for the letter, Annie asked him to read it right away. “At least find out if it’s good news.” She thanked Morgan for making the effort to deliver it. “You could have sent it by stage.”

  He shrugged. “Didn’t think you should have to wait.”

  As Frank scanned the letter, he smiled. Rotten Luck hadn’t followed Emmet back to Missouri, after all. “They’re doing all right,” he said, flipping the single piece of paper over; squinting and blinking when the handwriting blurred. Finally, he deciphered the most important part of the letter and looked up at Annie. “They’re married.”

  “Married? But—I thought they’d wait.”

  “What for?”

  “For us to be there. To witness it.”

  Frank shook his head. “There’s no telling when we could do that. I’m glad they went ahead. They deserve to be happy.”

  Annie brushed something out of her eyes. “You’re right.” She offered a weak smile.

  Morgan nudged his horse alongside Buck as he said to Hart, “You’ll want to be getting back. I’ll see them home from here.” He smiled at Annie. “Lucille’s not the only hen with chicks now. Three of Henrietta’s had hatched before I left this morning.”

  “Lucille?” Confused, Hart looked to Annie for an explanation.

  She seemed embarrassed. “I know it’s silly, but I’ve named them.” She looked over at Morgan, surprised he’d listened enough to k
now which one was which. “And I sure hope they don’t all freeze in this weather.”

  “Not likely,” he said. “I brought them into the storeroom before I left. Henrietta, Lucille, Clifford—the whole bunch of them. Billy’s keeping an eye on them.”

  Hart spoke to Annie. “Guess I’ll be getting back. Don’t forget, now. You promised me the first two dances at least.” And with that, he rode away.

  Chapter 22

  October 27 dawned crisp and cold. Neither stage nor mail run were expected at Clearwater, and Annie decided to indulge in the nearest thing to a bath she could manage. First, she dragged a copper boiler into her room and slowly filled it with water she’d pumped, hauled in, and heated on the stove. By the time she had enough, her “bath” was barely lukewarm, but it would do.

  Barring the door to her room, she disrobed and knelt to wash her hair. That done, she scrubbed herself, reveling in the sensation of being clean before donning the blue calico she’d laundered the day before. Back in the kitchen, she stirred up the fire in the stove and opened the oven door, perching on an upended crate and combing through her waist-length hair as it dried.

  Frank sauntered in. “Fort Kearny’s going to think an angel flew down for the cotillion.”

  Happy to see her brother wearing his Pony Express shirt and jeans, Annie grinned. “I could say the same to you. You look right fine. Impressive scar and all. You sure you’re ready for a long ride?”

  “Not at a dead run I’m not, but I should be all right if we keep an easy pace. I promised Lydia Hart a dance, and I aim to keep that promise.” He tied his yellow bandanna in place as they talked.

  It was good to see Frank smile. Good to see him looking forward to something. They chatted about the pile of buffalo robes stacked beneath the stairs to the loft in the main room and how, when they had arrived at Clearwater back in March, neither of them had known a thing about what was involved in running a road ranch. When Annie said she was looking forward to seeing Luther again, Frank grinned.

  “Which is it you’re really excited about—seeing Luther or getting that wire so George can build your chicken yard?”

  “Both,” Annie said, reaching back to comb through her thick hair with her fingers.

  Frank talked about the various station masters he’d met up the line to the west and inevitably touched on the topic of the girl named Pete.

  “Will she be at the cotillion? I’d like to meet her.” Annie studied her brother carefully while she waited for the answer.

  “I don’t think Pete’s the type to care much for dancing.” He’d been leaning against the doorframe leading into his room while they talked. Now, he looked past Annie toward the main room. “Speaking of folks you wouldn’t expect to dress for a dance—you look vaguely familiar. Have we met?”

  Annie spun about. Her jaw dropped. George Morgan had trimmed both his beard and his long hair. Sporting a long black coat over blue denim pants and a white shirt, he looked… handsome.

  “Billy’s bringing up the horses,” he said to Annie. “We can leave whenever you’re ready.” He raked one hand through his hair and donned a black hat. “If you’re up to it,” he said to Frank, “you could help me roll up a buffalo pelt for each one of us to take along. It’ll be cold when we ride back, and one of these days we’re going to get some snow. Best be prepared.”

  While Frank helped George, Annie retreated to her room and tied up her hair, all the while thinking of the gown and jewels waiting at Lydia’s. Once her hair was done, she gathered extra socks, mittens, and a scarf. Stuffing them into her saddlebags, she grabbed the campaign hat she always wore outside and tied a shawl about her. With a patchwork comforter draped over one arm, she headed for the door.

  The day was cool, but the shawl and comforter did their job, and she was only slightly chilled when at last she caught sight of the flag flying over the Fort Kearny parade ground. “I’m supposed to meet up with Lydia,” she called to the men. “We’ll see you at the cotillion.” Without waiting for a reply, she nudged Shadow ahead, turning off the trail to head straight for Lydia’s back door. Sliding to the earth, she hitched Shadow and hurried inside. Lydia was standing in the parlor inspecting herself in the mirror. Tucking an errant curl into place, she turned to greet Annie.

  How long had it taken to iron all that ruching? Yards of it formed a scrolling pattern of ruffles across the surface of the wine-colored skirt. More ruching accented the V from Lydia’s shoulders to her waist. Deep red jewels dripped from her necklace. Annie stammered, “Y-You look gorgeous.”

  Lydia curtseyed. “Thank you. I had help, of course. Annabelle Greeley really is a dear.” She reached for Annie’s saddlebags and set them aside. “Let’s get you dressed. We’ve only a short while before the band starts to play. I can’t wait to see the look on Wade’s face when he arrives. We ladies have outdone ourselves, even if I do say so myself.”

  Annie had dreamed of candlelight and music, of gallant men and laughter, of beautiful women and trembling fans, but even her most outlandish dreams of the cotillion itself paled by comparison to seeing Lieutenant Hart’s expression when Lydia opened the door to admit him to the apartment. For the longest moment, he simply stared at Annie—until, finally, Lydia cleared her throat and brandished a blank dance card and a pencil.

  “As I recall, you wanted the first dance with our guest.”

  The lieutenant didn’t look away from Annie as he held out his hand and accepted both card and pencil. “I’d rather command the first two—if you’ll still allow it?”

  Annie felt her cheeks warm beneath his gaze. She nodded. “Of course. If you’re certain.”

  As the lieutenant scribbled his name on the first two lines, he murmured, “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

  While Annie tucked the dance card into the silk bag at her wrist, Lydia reached for the two shawls draped across the back of a nearby chair. Taking one for herself, she handed the other to Annie and together they stepped out onto the porch. The lieutenant offered each lady an arm and together they descended the stairs and set out for the mess hall. The interior of the hall glowed in the light of at least two dozen lamps and what seemed to be hundreds of candles. Nearby tables groaned with ham and turkey, pumpkin and sweet potato pie, pickles and jams, cakes and punch.

  The band was just taking its place when Frank stepped up. Making a show of inspecting Annie from head to toe, he said, “You remind me of my sister.”

  Annie leaned close and muttered, “She’s still in here. Feeling like a weed pushing its way into a flower bed.”

  Frank whispered back. “You’re no weed, Ann E. You’re the prize-winning rose. Try to enjoy it.” He turned to Lydia. “I hope you meant it when you promised me the first dance.”

  “Dear boy,” Lydia said, and reached out to adjust the bandanna knotted about Frank’s neck. “I always mean what I say and say what I mean.” She handed Frank her own dance card. As soon as he’d signed it, she looped her arm through his. “I hope you don’t mind, but I promised to introduce you. The ladies all want to meet the intrepid Pony Express rider they’ve read so much about.”

  “I thought that article was for the back-East news,” Frank said.

  Lydia made a show of tucking a dark curl behind her ear with a gloved forefinger. “I might have left a copy or twelve lying about at this quilting bee or that afternoon tea.” She batted her eyes at Wade. “Will you be all right without Frank and me for a few moments?”

  “We’ll manage,” the lieutenant said. He asked Annie to produce her dance card. “Do you mind if I monopolize you?”

  “I can’t say. Are there rules?”

  “None that rank can’t overcome.”

  Annie stayed his hand. “I’d like to dance with my brother a time or two.”

  “Of course.” He wrote his name on several more lines before handing back the card.

  Annie glanced down. He’d left the bottom line blank. One dance for Frank, and that was all. She caught sight of George, sta
nding with a group of other ranchers gathered just inside the door. He was staring at her as if she’d grown an extra head.

  Frank was standing at the refreshment table sipping punch and waiting for his head to stop spinning when Annie put her hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”

  “Don’t I look all right?”

  “You look very handsome.”

  “Don’t I always? And stop worrying. I just got a little dizzy. I’ll be fine. Although I fear I may have to disappoint a few of the ladies this evening. Hate to admit it, but I’m plum tuckered out.” He nodded toward the dance floor. “Happily, George can take up where I’ve left off.” He grimaced. “There’s something I never expected to say. Not that I’ve been keeping track, mind you, but I think he’s danced with every woman in the room. Even the uppity one who’s spent most of the night staring daggers at you.”

  “That’s Cinda Collinsgworth,” Annie said. “And I don’t know why, but she doesn’t like me.”

  “You really don’t know?” He sounded doubtful.

  “Not for certain. I suppose it might have something to do with Lieutenant Hart.”

  Frank raised his glass. “How observant of you. Hart only has eyes for you, and she only has eyes for him.” He looked about the room. “Speaking of the golden-haired wonder, where is he?”

  “Why don’t you like Wade?”

  She was calling him Wade, now? Blast it. “Tonight? Because he’s rude and selfish. Monopolizing your dance card. Shutting all the other men who’d like to dance with you out. Just because he can.”

  “It’s one night out of an entire year of socials,” Annie said. “They’ll soon forget all about me. The clock will strike midnight soon, all this finery will go back into Lydia’s trunk, and I’ll go back to being the calico-clad cook at Clearwater road ranch.”