She’d just dozed off one night when she heard someone moving about out in the kitchen. Reaching from beneath the covers, she retrieved her boots and put them on without getting out of bed. Drawing a buffalo hide about her shoulders, she padded into the kitchen. George Morgan was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a wooden crate crowded with live chickens on either side of him. Presently, Billy—who’d been sleeping up in the station loft since the onslaught of winter began—came inside accompanied by Luke Graber, a new Pony rider. Both men had a hen tucked beneath each arm. Shivering, they set the hens in the crate and hunkered down next to the stove.
Graber muttered, “It’s so cold the thermometer froze.”
“At least forty below,” George said. He pointed at the chickens. “Can’t do much about the cattle or the horses, but there’s no reason to let Christmas dinner freeze to death.”
As the night wore on, the men carried feather beds down from the loft to cover the kitchen floor while George nailed blankets over the doors and windows. They scattered loose hay in the storeroom and released the chickens, blocking the doorway with stacked crates to keep them contained. Finally, the birds turned in, cocooned in the kitchen. Annie’s last thoughts before drifting off to sleep were of the riders on the trail. Lord, have mercy on them. Please.
Chapter 24
In spite of the snow, the stage ran with surprising regularity. Passengers were rare, but newspapers and regular mail got through. An island in a world of white, Clearwater was not entirely cut off from the rest of the world. Emmet wrote every week. Lydia stayed in touch, writing frequent notes laced with humor and goodwill. As expected, the election news had precipitated the departure of several men from Fort Kearny—the post commander among them. The resulting shift in housing netted a larger apartment for the Harts, and Lydia was now ensconced in her own room. They call it a room, she wrote, although it’s only slightly larger than the chicken coop outside your storeroom door. One letter included a warmly worded invitation from Lieutenant Hart to attend the Christmas gala at Fort Kearny. I have missed you. Please do all you can to join the festivities planned for Christmas Day. Annie carried the letter in her apron pocket for a couple of days before broaching the topic with George.
He just shook his head. “You’d be taking your life into your own hands.” He paused. “Unless—I suppose if there’s a break in the weather when the next stage comes through, you and Frank could take it over. But if a blizzard blows in, you could both be at Fort Kearny for a good long while.”
“You wouldn’t mind, though? If we did that—if we took the stage?” Annie mentioned Frank’s seeing the doctor again.
“You work for the Pony Express, not for me. It’s not my business to order you about.”
Frank said no. They couldn’t risk not being able to get back. Annie’s twenty dollars a month wasn’t much, but they needed it. Annie knew he was right, but she still held out hope that unseasonably warm weather would make it possible for the two of them to ride to the fort and return early in the morning after the Christmas Ball. But the weekend before Christmas, yet another storm blew in. As drifting snow buried Annie’s kitchen window beneath a mountain of white, her dream of once again donning the blue ball gown and Lydia’s jewels faded.
In spite of her disappointment, Annie did her part to see that the humans huddled inside Clearwater Station marked the holiday happily. When she set a steaming bowl of chicken and dumplings before him, George smiled. He looked about the table at Luke Graber and Jake Finney, Billy and Frank, and referenced a Charles Dickens story he’d read aloud to everyone over the past few evenings. “‘God bless us every one.’” He took a bite.
“Mrs. Hollenberg uses butter for the dumplings,” Annie said. “I didn’t have any, because I wanted what little was left for the biscuits and jelly.”
George nodded. He took another bite.
“She didn’t indicate how much rosemary to use, either. I had to guess.”
“Mmm-hhm.”
Annie glowered at him. “Could you kindly do more than grunt? Is it good or just passable?”
“When a man can’t stop eating long enough to say anything, seems a cook would know the food’s good.”
Annie folded her arms. “I’d still appreciate actual words, Mr. Morgan. I sacrificed two of my Reds for that food you’re gobbling down without so much as a thank-you.”
Humor twinkled in the man’s gray-blue eyes. “You mean those two roosters you didn’t want fighting with Clifford? Seems their demise was already decided the day they hatched.” He held up a hand. “But all right, all right. If it’s words you want, then it’s words you’ll have.” He paused. “The not-so-subtle reference to the absence of a milk cow is noted. As is the fact that we’re about to use the last of the butter.” He cupped the bowl of dumplings with both hands as he said, “As to the chicken and dumplings. With our without butter, they’re delicious. You used exactly the right amount of rosemary, although I personally lean toward a little more salt. All told, even Sophia would be impressed.” He set the bowl back down. “How’s that, Miss Paxton? Enough words to earn me the right to eat some more?”
Annie smiled and batted her eyelashes at him. “Quite. Just save room for pie.”
Right after Christmas, the stage delivered news that sent a different kind of chill through the inhabitants of Clearwater Road Ranch. South Carolina had seceded from the Union five days before Christmas. By the end of January, Mississippi, Florida. Alabama, Georgia, and Louisiana had followed suit. When George’s newspapers reported that secessionist mobs had torn down United States flags in St. Jo., Annie worried for Ira Gould and Luther. Initially glad Emmet was “safe” in Missouri instead of riding into blinding snow and life-threatening cold, Annie now began to worry about him for a different reason. As a slave state, would Missouri secede from the Union? Would Emmet volunteer to fight?
Occasional bouts of dizziness continued to send Frank wobbling back to bed. Sometimes, after he helped with chores, he slept for twelve or sixteen hours. Although she did her best not to let it show, Annie was worried. She was also fairly certain Frank was stealing a drink now and then from George’s medicinal stores.
In February, the newspapers reported the burning of stage stations along the southern mail route in Texas “with the stated purpose of interrupting enemy communications.” When railroad bridges along the southern route west of St. Louis were also burned, the central line became the main overland mail system. On hearing it, Frank let out a string of profanity.
“The Pony’s needed more than ever, and what am I doing about it?” He looked over at Annie and bopped himself on the head. “Waiting for my brains to unscramble.” He stormed outside.
On February 18, Jefferson Davis was inaugurated president of the Confederate States of America. Luke Graber brought the news with him from Fort Kearny as part of his Eastbound mail run. The next morning, when she skittered into a cold, dark kitchen to stir up the fire and cook breakfast, Annie found a scrawled note. Six words.
Gone to see doctor. Don’t worry.
Wincing from the pain of what felt like the thousandth headache since he’d been thrown by that cursed horse, Frank leaned into the wind. At least the sun was shining today. If it kept up, the temperature might actually get above freezing. Annie meant well, but he was sick and tired of hearing her talk about how he should rest and wait. She was right about one thing, though. He needed to get away from Clearwater. He was tired of hearing about Jake Finney’s adventures in the snow. Tired of hearing Luke Graber talk, period. The blond-haired, blue-eyed rider had mentioned Pete just one time too many. Frank had “rested” long enough.
What if being dizzy and having his head feel like it was caught in a vise was the way things were going to be for the rest of his life? The only thing that helped was whiskey, and he was pretty sure Annie knew he’d been hitting George’s medicinal stash. He could read the worry in her eyes. And he didn’t want to see it anymore. Now he wouldn’t—at least for a few days.
Once he’d decided to leave for a while, he was packed and ready quicker than Outlaw could throw a greenhorn.
Outlaw. He’d never have a chance to buy him now. The Pony Express might have paid them while the Paiutes were raiding, but they weren’t paying Frank now. With Emmet and his money gone back to Missouri, Annie’s dream-come-true was looking more and more impossible by the day. And all she could say was Wait. Be patient. Rest.
Well, he was done with all that. He was going to see the doc at Fort Kearny and if the doc had nothing to offer… well, if he was going to have a headache all the time, it might as well be one he’d earned having a little fun.
The moon was a mere sliver in the night sky and Annie had just stretched out on her bed when someone pounded on the front door. Frank! She’d barely slept, hoping he’d return as soon as he saw the doctor. Rising quickly and using the patchwork comforter for a shawl, Annie hurried into the main room just as George stumbled out of the soddy at the opposite end of the station and unbarred the door. A dark-haired, buckskin-clad stranger staggered across the threshold and went down like a felled tree.
By the time Annie got to his side, George had knelt and turned him onto his back.
“Badger, old friend,” he muttered. “What’s happened to you?” He shouted for Billy.
“I’ll get water,” Annie said.
“Light some lamps first. And—stay in the kitchen until I call for you. I need to look him over.”
Annie shoved four tables together and spread a buffalo hide atop them. “Put him up here,” she said. “You’ll be able to see better.”
“Good. That’s good.” George spoke to Billy. “Help me move him.”
Annie hurried to light the lamps around the room while the two men lifted Badger and placed him on the makeshift examination table. Lastly, she lit the lamp on the store counter and carried it to George.
He thanked her as he took it. “Hot water,” he said. “I’ll call for you when we’re ready.”
Annie hurried into the kitchen. While she worked, she tried to pray. For Badger and for Frank. When George didn’t call for her right away, she slipped into her room and dressed, leaving her braid to trail down her back as she rushed back into the kitchen. George was standing at her worktable, rummaging through a hide box she’d never seen before.
“I need to make a poultice,” he said. “Can you gather up some rags or towels? As long as they’re clean, it doesn’t really matter.”
A few moments later, he was stirring a stinking concoction on one burner while Annie brewed strong tea from a handful of dried herbs that had come from the medicine box.
“Do you know what happened?” she asked.
“He’s been shot. The bullet went clean through his shoulder, but it happened a while ago and now it’s pouring green pus.” He stopped short and looked over at her. “You squeamish?”
Annie shook her head. She looked around the kitchen. “What if we move Emmet’s cot in here? Wouldn’t it make it easier to tend him?”
“The cot’s a good idea, but we’ll set it up in my room where I can keep a better eye on him. He’s burning with fever. There might be something more going on than just the wound.”
It was three days before Badger opened his eyes, and during those three days Annie barely had time to think, let alone worry about Frank. Without consulting George, she killed one of her hens to make broth.
When the aroma finally wafted through the station, George came to the kitchen door. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Chicken broth,” Annie said. “Best thing I know to help a body heal.”
“You didn’t have to—” He broke off. Smiled at her. “Thank you.”
Either George or Billy stayed by Badger’s side day and night, changing the poultice, pouring tea down his throat, and praying. When delirium transported the Indian to other places to fight battles, George choked out the words, “I’ve done everything I know. All we can do now is pray.”
Knowing her friend was reliving those horrible days fighting small pox drove Annie to the Pony Express Bible, looking for better prayers than the ones she knew. Some of the verses Emmet had written on the inside cover took her to Psalms. Realizing many of them were ancient prayers, Annie ended up reading them aloud, surprised when her mind wandered from Badger to George, and then on to Emmet and Frank. Surely Bible words would reach God, wouldn’t they? Oh, Lord, please save Badger. And Frank. Where are you, Frank?
Folks said a lot of bad things about Dobytown, but to Frank’s way of thinking, they just didn’t have the right attitude about the place. He’d been having a right good time making his way from saloon to saloon the past few days. As a Pony Express rider, he was something of a favorite. After all, he was one of a select few. Or had been. Folks didn’t need to know about the knock on the head that might have ended that. They never seemed to tire of hearing how he’d broken Outlaw or how he’d ridden two hundred miles through a pouring rain just to get the mail through.
Only one thing was bothering him at the moment. The pretty little redheaded gal who’d welcomed him when he first arrived had deserted him. Guess she wasn’t much of a friend after all. He thought about finding a new gal, but the smoke was thick in the saloon and he was in the midst of a game with a couple of fellows he’d just met. He was feeling a little off. Headache coming again, most likely. Nothing he could do, the doc had said. Frank had to be patient.
It felt good to rest his head on the table until it was his turn again. The table vibrated a little when the piano man hit certain chords. Interesting. Not something he’d care to drink to, but interesting, anyway. He’d be all right. He’d bounce back. Or not. What difference did it make, anyway?
Someone grabbed the back of his shirt and jerked him upright. “Hey!” Frank shouted. “What-d-ya think yer doin’?” He took a swing at whoever it was. Missed.
Rotten Luck not only wreaked havoc in a man’s life; he was a killjoy. Tonight—or was it morning, Frank had lost track of time—anyway, right now, Rotten Luck looked suspiciously like golden boy Lieutenant Wade Hart. Who was not supposed to be anywhere near Dobytown and yet here he was, looking down at Frank with a disgusted expression that reminded Frank of Pa. You’ll never amount to anything. Couldn’t even ride Hiram Hillsdale’s best horse to a win. Never mind that the horse in question had a bowed tendon and had been drugged to run in spite of the pain. Pa didn’t know anything about that, he said. That horse was a ringer to win, Pa insisted. Frank was just making excuses. Well, Frank had learned to ignore Pa, just like he was ignoring Hart right now, pretending he hadn’t heard the suggestion that he get up and come outside.
Holding onto the hand he’d been dealt, he tossed his last poker chip into the pile in the center of the table. Hart repeated the “invitation” to follow him outside. Frank squinted up at him. “Does Captain Whoever know his prize officer is off the military reservation?”
Hart rested his gauntleted hand on the butt of his sidearm. “I’m here on army business. Rounding up a few wanderers before they get themselves into worse trouble.”
Frank nodded. “Good to know.” He held up his drink by way of a toast while waving his cards in Hart’s face with the other. “As long as this hand isn’t going to be interrupted, you may carry on.” Emptying the glass, he set it down with a thump and peered at the cards. Straight flush. You see this, RL? Old Frank’s about to add some money to the family till, after all.
Hart leaned over. “Come on, now, Paxton. Think of your sister.”
Frank narrowed his gaze. Thinking of his sister had gotten him into this mess. If it weren’t for Annie, he probably wouldn’t have stayed home after Ma died. Not for long, anyway. Might never have heard of the Pony Express or come west or fallen off that blasted horse. Think of your sister. Who did Hart think he was, anyway? Frank spat out the words. “What I’m thinking about is none of your gol-durned business.”
Hart motioned for the soldier standing by the door. “Get on the other side of him so we can haul him o
ut of here.” He reached for the cards.
Frank jerked his arm away.
The barkeep called out, “Now hold on, there,” and stepped out from behind the bar. He strode toward Hart, shoving the chairs in his path out of the way as he walked. The piano music stopped. The barkeep turned around and made a circular motion in the air. “No need to stop the party. I’m just gonna have a little talk with the lieutenant.” He pointed to a balding string bean of a man who’d been leaning against the bar. “Set ’em up, Jed. One round on the house.”
The music started up. The barkeep came to stand behind Frank. “I don’t want any trouble, Lieutenant. But the fact of the matter is, you don’t have any authority over the civilians in this place. If Frank wants to stay, then you need to round up the boys you came for and leave. Now, if you don’t want to do that, you can stir up a hornet’s nest and ruin the night for some of my customers. But I guarantee you that after I have a little talk with your captain, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
“Yeah,” Frank said. “You tell him, Harley.”
“The name’s Marley,” the barkeep snapped, “with an M.” He spoke to Hart again. “So, what’s it going to be, Lieutenant? Are we going to have a problem?”
Frank thought Hart might just break his jaw, he was gritting his teeth so hard. Or have an attack of apoplexy if his face got any redder. Finally, he looked down at Frank. “I’m not letting this go.”
Frank burped and managed a sloppy salute. Hart left. And that was that. Except for the relentless pounding of the words think of your sister. He hadn’t thought about much else ever since he’d cracked his head open. All he wanted to do was keep riding so he could add to the family till. Take care of Annie. Now he couldn’t even do that.
Guilt was a hard thing to get away from, but Frank was determined to do his best to outrun it. He was no good to anybody—especially now, when he’d broken the only promise Annie really cared about. He was back at Dobytown.
Messenger by Moonlight Page 22
