Frank chuckled. “Say that three times if you can. And if I’m not mistaken, that particular fairy tale had a very nice ending.”
Annie reached for his cup of punch and drank it down. “Dance with me.”
“What will your lieutenant say?”
“He’s not my lieutenant, and he won’t say anything. You’re my brother. He wouldn’t dare try to pull rank on you.”
Chapter 23
A week to the day after the Fort Kearny cotillion, Frank stumbled into the kitchen at Clearwater and, with a groan, sank onto the upturned biscuit box that served as a sometimes perch. “I’m not getting better.”
“Of course you are,” Annie insisted, as she stirred the giant pot of oatmeal cooking on the stove. “You’ve helped Billy with chores every morning this week.”
“And had to take a nap every afternoon. Right when Luther was here and George could have used help with that chicken yard.”
“Luther didn’t mind. We were his last delivery before he turned back toward St. Jo., and he didn’t seem in any particular hurry to leave.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s taking too long for me to get back in the saddle.”
“Dr. Fields said that if you hurry it, you could do permanent damage. And you’re already damaged enough, dear brother of mine.” Frank didn’t laugh at her joke. He didn’t even smile. Annie set the spoon down on the stovetop and gently moved his hair out of the way to inspect the cut. “No swelling. The bruise is entirely faded away. And I did an excellent job taking the stitches out. You’ll have a very impressive scar. Boys like scars, don’t they?”
Frank pulled away and smoothed his hair into place. “Sure. They make us look tough. Which impresses the ladies.”
“You are tough. You could barely stand upright, but you didn’t lose the mail. Last week, you impressed plenty of ladies at Fort Kearny—including Lydia Hart, who does not impress easily.”
“My head still pounds when I move fast.”
Annie only knew to repeat what the doctor had said, and Frank didn’t want to hear It takes time. She dished up some oatmeal. “Molasses or sugar?”
“Sugar. And butter?”
Annie hesitated. She had one precious bit of butter left, and she was saving it. Two of the chicks were roosters, and Clifford was entirely rooster enough for her little flock. Chicken and dumplings was on the menu for Christmas Day, along with biscuits served with butter and chokecherry jelly.
“I’m still wounded,” Frank pleaded. “Spoil me. Just a dollop.”
Annie complied, handing the bowl back with a blob of butter melting into the cooked oats. She even sprinkled a bit of cinnamon on top.
Frank savored the oatmeal before saying, “We need a cow.”
“Talk to Mr. Morgan about that. I’m done trying to convince him.”
Frank studied her as he finished his oatmeal. “Mr. Morgan? You and George on the outs?”
“Why would you think that?” Annie grabbed a mug off a shelf and poured herself a cup of coffee.
Frank shrugged.
“Has George—Mr. Morgan—said something to you?” Annie asked.
“Well… sure. We talk all the time.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Annie stared out the window toward the trail. The only traffic these days amounted to freighters, the weekly stage—with few passengers compared to this past spring and summer—and the Pony Express. In the span of a few weeks, Clearwater had begun to feel exactly the way she’d always expected it to feel. Lonely. And George Morgan was back to barely talking. What had happened? Annie turned around and leaned against her worktable, coffee mug in hand. “He’s barely said two words to me since the cotillion.”
Frank shrugged. “He’s been busy sorting cattle. Stacking hay near the corrals and firewood by the back door. Building your chicken yard. Trying to get things done before it snows. Not to mention beating Luther at checkers every game they played while he was here.”
“He didn’t dance with me. Not once.”
Frank snorted surprise. “That been simmering for a whole week?”
“Simmering?”
He mimicked her voice. “‘He didn’t dance with me. Not once.’ You sound like a little girl who didn’t get invited to a birthday party.”
“How would you know about that? Whoever had a birthday party when we were growing up?” Annie huffed frustration. “Sorry I said anything.”
“What you should be sorry about,” Frank blustered, “is letting Wade Hart take over what should have been one of the best nights of your life. But it wasn’t, was it? I could tell that when you stole my punch at the end of the night.”
“It was wonderful,” Annie said. Not perfect, though.
“It could have been better, if only you’d stood up to Hart.”
Annie set her coffee mug down and pretended to inspect the rosemary plant she’d brought inside and set near the window. “‘Stood up to him’? How? What are you talking about?”
“The same thing I was talking about the night of the dance.” He paused. “It would have made a lot of lonely boys happy to waltz with the prettiest girl in the room. Maybe you didn’t know that, but the great and glorious Lieutenant Wade Hart definitely did. And he didn’t care. He used you to make a point about his power over the men under his command.”
“Used me?” Annie raised her voice. “Are you saying he only pretended to want to dance with me?”
“Of course not. But he didn’t have to write his name on every single line but one. That’s the part I’m talking about, and I stand by what I said. He’s rude and selfish.”
“Well, I am sorry you don’t approve of Lieutenant Hart,” Annie retorted. “But that doesn’t fix whatever’s bothering George Morgan, does it?”
“Neither does your talking to me about it. If you wanted to dance with George, why’d you let Hart take over?”
“Mr. Morgan said he was going to talk to the other ranchers about the election. He never mentioned dancing. I didn’t know he could dance.”
Frank shook his head. “For a smart little gal, Ann E., you can be awful stupid sometimes. You really think George trimmed his beard and polished his boots for a meeting with a bunch of ranchers?” He reached for a mug and poured himself a cup of coffee. After taking a sip, he added, “He did that for you. And then you ignored him.”
Annie frowned. George dressed up for her? Could that be right? She let regret sound in her voice as she said, “Before the cotillion, we’d started talking. We were getting along. I’d finally gotten over being afraid of him.”
“You were afraid of George?”
“A little.”
“Well, you ought to be over that, especially now that you know the only times he’s ever done violence was in defense of people he cares about. And you, Ann E., are one he happens to care about.”
“I miss him.” She’d blurted out the words without thinking. And of course, what would happen but George Morgan stepping up to the doorway between the kitchen and the main room. He’d probably heard every word. Setting her coffee mug down, Annie reached for a bowl. Time to make something. Anything. Just to give her an excuse to avoid those gray-blue eyes.
“And he misses you,” George said.
Annie wheeled about. “You were listening. That’s called eavesdropping.” She glanced over at Frank. “And it’s rude.”
“I was working in the store. And you were talking kinda loud. And by the time you were into it and I realized you wouldn’t want me to hear, it was too late to sneak out. Although now that I think on it, I suppose I could have lifted the trap door and gone down into the root cellar. Glad I didn’t.”
Frank snorted a barely disguised laugh. Annie glared at him. He ducked his head and concentrated on the coffee. Looking up at George Morgan, she blurted out a question. “Where’d you learn to dance like that?”
“Lessons when I was a boy. Hated every minute of it.”
“Well, you learned it very well.”
“So I’m told.”<
br />
“I should have saved you a dance.”
“I should have asked.” Morgan hesitated a moment, then held out his hand.
“There’s no music.”
“We can hum. You have a favorite?”
“I… no.”
“I do.” He began to hum. Off key.
Annie took his hand and followed him into the main room, where George waltzed her past the counter, around the tables, and back again, with all the skill of a dance master. A very tall dance master with a booming laugh.
Frank was forking hay down from the barn loft early in November, when the clanging of the bell up at the station announced the approach of the eastbound Pony Express. Hurrying down the ladder, he helped Billy saddle a fresh pony, then grabbed the reins, insisting that he’d take the horse up and help with the exchange. Running through the snow with the fresh pony in tow left him gasping for breath.
Jake Finney had already dismounted and was waiting, stamping his feet to keep the blood flowing. He handed over the reins of his spent mount and slapped the mochila in place while he talked. “Telegraph just carried the biggest news since it reached Fort Kearny,” he said, as he jumped into the saddle. “It’s President Lincoln now. Telegraph operator said the westward riders are going all out to set a record. Five days to California.” He spurred his horse and was gone before Frank could manage a reply.
Five days. How many horses will die to make that happen? Sucking in a deep breath, Frank watched as Jake disappeared eastward. He started when Annie called from the doorway. “Did I hear right? It’s Lincoln?”
Frank nodded. Without a word, he led the horse away. Bitter regret accompanied him to the barn and throughout the rest of the day. The biggest news of his lifetime, and he could barely manage a run from the barn to the station. Some “moonlight messenger” he was. He spent the remainder of the day in the barn, brushing down horses, fiddling with tack, doing anything to avoid talking—especially to Annie, who would know how he felt about not being part of the historic mail run and try to cheer him up.
When it came time for supper, he told Billy he was worried about the horse Jake had ridden in and was going to stay in the barn and keep an eye on him. “I’ll see to evening chores here in the barn,” he said. With a nod, Billy headed for the station. Later, Annie trudged through the snow to bring down a ham sandwich. Frank called down from the loft and asked her to just leave the sack hanging on a hook and he’d get it in a minute. He waited to eat until she’d retreated and then waited again until the moon had risen and she was likely in bed before making his way back to the station. Shivering with cold, he dove beneath the pile of covers on his cot and waited to fall asleep.
But Annie just couldn’t let him be. He was almost asleep when she stepped into his room and said quietly, “If you think it would help, you could see Dr. Fields again.”
He was facing the wall, and he didn’t turn over. “I might do that. Right now, though, I’m going to sleep.”
“You could take the stage. We have enough money. It wouldn’t cost much.”
“Leave me be, Annie. Please. Just let me sleep.”
“I just want to help. I’m worried about you.”
He barely managed to swallow a torrent of angry, bitter words. “I just told you how to help. Let me be.” For a long moment, he could sense her presence as she lingered in the doorway, staring across the room. Finally, she did what he’d asked. He heard her pad across to her own room. The door creaked as she closed it.
With the first serious snowfall in late November, George carried a small trunk into the main room and set it on the counter. Opening the lid, he took a muslin-wrapped package out and unwrapped it. He ran his palm over the dark surface of a leather-bound book, smiling as if looking down at an old friend. Curious, Annie went to see what he was up to.
George brandished the book. “The secret to surviving winter at Clearwater.” By the time he was finished unwrapping the package, over a dozen books stood on the counter, a small crock at either end holding them upright. Picking one up, he recited, “‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way…’” He paused. “Magnificent, isn’t it? And strangely applicable to the recent election news.”
Annie’s heart lurched. “You think there’s going to be a war?”
George set the book down. “I wish I could believe that cooler heads will prevail and a solution be found. But to be honest, it’s probably too late for that.”
Annie rubbed her arms to dispel the goose bumps. She remembered the woman storming out of the quilting bee at Fort Kearny a few weeks ago and the prediction regarding the post commander should Lincoln become president.
“What’s it mean for us—I mean, for people in the West?”
“Much of the regular army will likely be called east. The rest of the ranchers and I talked about that at the cotillion. We’ll form a volunteer militia to take their place.” His voice gentled. “It’s good to remember a verse in the Psalms at times like these. I can’t quote it exactly, but the general idea is that when ‘the nations are in an uproar,’ God is still on His throne. Remembering that can get a man through many a ‘winter of despair’ and on to the ‘spring of hope.’”
Annie reached over and opened the book George had laid on the counter. Oliver Twist; or, The Parish Boy’s Progress by Charles Dickens. “I’m impressed you liked this well enough to memorize it.”
“Oh, that’s not the one I quoted. I don’t have that book yet. It’s Dickens, just a different story. Newer. I read the opening in a magazine a stage passenger left here while you were at Fort Kearny. Captivating language. The story’s set during the French Revolution. It was published in pieces last year—a serial in Harper’s. I’d like to own a copy, though. Rose loved Dickens.”
Annie set the book down. “Tell me about Rose. A favorite memory.”
“That’s easy.” George chuckled. “We stole a peck of apples from the neighbor’s orchard. Green apples. And ate nearly the whole thing.”
“That makes my stomach hurt just to hear about it.”
“Mine, too, even after all these years.” He shook his head. “That girl got me into more trouble.”
“Poor George, an innocent child, dragged into trouble against his will.”
“Absolutely. I was always the good one. Rose was the troublemaker.” His tone denied the words, and they shared a laugh. “All right. I caused my share of trouble, too, but probably more than I would have on my own. Rose was never one to stay still for long. She was like Frank in that way.” He looked over at the books. “After the accident, she said literature saved her. She didn’t know it would save me, too. All those hours reading to her after she got hurt cured my stutter, once and for all.” He sighed. “Did I ever tell you what happened to her?”
Annie shook her head. “Only that she passed on before you left home.”
George looked toward the fire blazing in the fireplace across the room as he talked. “She sneaked off with our father’s best rig and challenged a boy she liked to a race. She would have won, too—except she rounded a corner too fast and the carriage overturned. She never walked again.” For a moment, he was silent. Brooding. But then he looked at Annie and said, “I haven’t thought about that green-apple episode in a long while. I should think more on the fun we had and less on the accident.” He pointed at the row of books. “She taught me to cherish a well-told story.”
Annie wondered if reading might help Frank. She glanced toward his room.
George read her mind. He pulled another book from the row and handed it over. “This might appeal to his adventurous side.”
The Iliad. What a strange word. “I can’t even
pronounce this,” Annie said and started to hand it back.
George stayed her hand. “Trust me. It’ll appeal to Frank. War and sieges and calamity galore. It’ll get his mind off things here at Clearwater.”
Nineteen winters on a poor Missouri farm taught a girl how to cope with a lot of things—including winter. Annie knew what it was to battle deep drifts and to spend long days shivering beside a tiny stove in a futile attempt to keep warm. There was nothing to be done but to endure it, knowing that spring would come again. But neither Annie nor Frank had ever endured weather like what Mother Nature threw at Clearwater in the winter of 1860 to 1861.
All through December, a succession of fierce storms piled snow in ever-deepening drifts. News filtered in from stage drivers about horses slipping or enduring injuries so profound they had to be shot. One such incident resulted in the death of a Pony Express rider who, after shooting a horse with a broken leg, grabbed the mochila and tried to walk to the next station. He perished when yet another storm blew through. The resemblance to Frank’s accident made Annie shudder.
George and Billy ran ropes from the station to the corrals, from the corrals to the barn, from the barn to the well, and so on. George warned Annie and Frank against thinking they could find their way without those ropes. “Men have been lost within a few feet of home when the wind came up and turned the world white. If that happens when you’re out doing chores, you keep hold of that rope, no matter what.”
The notion of getting lost in a storm plagued Annie as she thought about the men riding for the Pony Express. How could any of them survive? When she asked the question, George said, “By trusting their horses to know the way home. Those ponies know the trail better than their riders by now. A man gets lost in a storm, best thing he can do is to just wrap the reins around the saddle horn, hang on, and trust the horse.”
Night after night, howling winds rattled the shutters locked across Annie’s windows. As the thermometer plummeted, she added successive layers to her bed until she huddled beneath two buffalo pelts, several blankets, and the patchwork comforter she’d brought from home. Some nights, she slept fully clothed. And still, she shivered.
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