“Yer late,” he groused. Then he slapped the mochila on and was gone.
Annie pulled her gloves off. “Sure would appreciate a drink of water,” she said. She took her hat off to swipe her brow, and felt some of her hair fall about her shoulders.
The station keeper finally looked at her. His jaw dropped. He motioned toward a well a short distance away. With a nod, she started to march away.
“Hold on there,” the station keep said. “I’ll get it. Miss—?”
“Paxton. Frank’s my brother.”
She leaned against the well while the station keeper handed her the dipper. Never had water tasted so wonderful. She drank two dippersful and swiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Thank you.”
“Thought you were Frank at first.”
Annie nodded. “My twin brother.”
“Couldn’t let him outshine ya, hunh?”
“I’m the cook at the home station down at Clearwater. A couple of riders have disappeared—probably joined up with the army. We thought the other rider could just keep going, but he was too sick. Practically fell off his horse when he rode in.” She shrugged. “Had to do something.” She forced a weak smile. “The mail must go through and all that.”
The man looked her up and down. Finally, he gave a low laugh. “Well, ain’t that something. You come on inside and meet the missus.”
Annie took a step. Staggered.
“Here now, little miss.” The man put a strong arm about her. Somehow, she managed to wobble up to the house and inside.
The station keeper called out for Maude, and a middle-aged woman stepped into the room. One look at Annie, and she clucked and fussed and practically carried her to the cot that occupied the corner of a lean-to. She apologized for its not being nicer and wondered aloud at… something Annie didn’t hear, because she fell asleep before her head hit the pillow.
Chapter 29
When Annie finally woke up—she’d slept for twelve straight hours—Maude made scrambled eggs and bacon. She served up biscuits slathered with butter and just about the best peach preserves Annie had ever tasted. While Annie ate, Maude explained that Midway Station was on a working ranch in the heart of the Platte Valley. She and her husband had been hired on by Ben Holladay to keep the stage station that was at the midpoint of the route connecting Atchison, Kansas, and Denver. Hence the name, Midway.
The station itself reminded Annie of Clearwater, for it was a sturdy structure built of heavy timber. Just outside the front door and off to the right a three-sided shed was the closest thing to a barn on the property. Like Clearwater, a series of corrals rambled away from the station house. Unlike Clearwater, the yard around the house was protected from roaming cattle by a fence.
“You should see it in summer,” Maude said, of the narrow expanse of earth between her front door and the fence. “I’ve got a nice garden and a rosebush that blooms like nothing you’ve ever seen. And the blossoms smell like a bit of heaven.”
Annie told her about the rosemary plant she’d nursed through the winter. And her Rhode Island Reds. For the rest of the day, she worked alongside Maude, while the older woman schooled her on everything from how to battle the constant threat of fleas to how to discourage flies to how to grow the best watermelon in the county.
“I’m grateful not to be living in one of them soddies, mind you—can’t imagine the fight the sodbusters must have with varmints—but on the other hand, them deep window-sills are a good place to winter geraniums and such.” Maude paused for a moment. “You obviously did all right with the snow. Sure makes for a long winter for us gals, all cooped up inside a house practically drifted over.”
“George—that’s the station keeper—said reading’s the secret. We did plenty of that. I didn’t mind it too much.”
Maude just looked at her. Finally, she said, “I don’t mean to discourage you, honey, but you haven’t made it through winter yet. It can blizzard all the way into early May out this way. You got any sewing projects stored up?”
Annie shook her head.
“Let me show you something.” She trundled to a back room and came back with a box. Pulling the lid off, she picked up a quilt block. Someone had signed the center square. “I brought these with me from home when Henry and I came out in ’54.” She pointed to the name. “That’s my sister, Bess.” She picked up another block. “This one’s our grandmother. The whole thing was Granny’s idea,” Maude said. “Called it the album block. Made from scraps of dresses.” She pointed at a rose plaid. “That’s Granny’s favorite Sunday-go-to-meetin’ dress. I never got them set together, but this year I told Henry I’m going to do it no matter what.”
Annie looked through the stack of blocks, admiring the colorful scraps. A hideous chrome yellow dot elicited laughter.
“That one,” Maude laughed, “makes me think of dear old Susie Bee, the pastor’s wife. That woman was a caution. I once caught her taking stitches out after a group quilting. Come to find out, she actually measured, and if it was any less than eight stitches to an inch, out they came. ‘I already basted it,’ she said with a sniff. ‘I invited people in to quilt.’
“Do you like to quilt?” She went on without waiting for Annie’s reply. “I’m partial to piecing myself—evidenced by the half-dozen tops languishing at this very moment in the trunk in the bedroom. Of course what Henry doesn’t know won’t hurt him, will it? And someday when I’m gone my girls will be glad to have something their mama made them.”
“How many children do you have?”
“Just the three girls,” Maude said. “Henry and I weren’t blessed with more. But he loves his girls. Oh yes, he does. Two went on to greener pastures, as they say. Pete stayed. She’s her dad’s own right-hand man.”
“I’ve heard a little about Pete,” Annie said.
Maude smiled. “From that handsome brother of yours?”
Apparently the woman didn’t mind Frank’s attraction to her daughter. Annie nodded.
“Don’t know if you’ll get a chance to meet her or not. She’s not much for sitting around sewing. Can’t cook worth a darn, either. Would you listen to me, babbling on and on and didn’t even give you a chance to answer when I asked about quilting.”
“I grew up chasing after my brothers,” Annie said. “Only been to one quilting bee. That was last fall with the ladies at Fort Kearny. Guess I’m a bit like your Pete. I spent more time riding and doing farm chores.” She paused. “After Mama died, it took me a long time to get the knack of cooking, but I finally did. I’m good at that.” She ran her hand over the top of one of the quilt blocks. “These are lovely. I can see why you treasure them.”
“You want to learn, I could teach you how,” Maude said. “The basics, at least. That’d be a start. We could work it in before you have to make the run back to Clearwater. You are planning to make that run, right?”
“Lord willing and the creek don’t rise,” Annie said.
That evening, Maude showed Annie how to make an album quilt block, cutting pattern pieces from a pasteboard box, explaining things like seam allowance, cutting line, and stitching line. She put numbers on the pattern pieces so Annie would know exactly how to create the block. When Annie took her first few stitches, Maude declared her “a natural” because of her “dainty fingers.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen my first attempts at mending my brothers’ shirts,” Annie said. “And buttonholes? I’m still not sure I’m doing those right.” Maude spent the next few minutes demonstrating a buttonhole stitch. Annie was so enthused about learning “the secret” that she hugged the older woman in gratitude. When it was time to take the eastward mail run, Annie regretted that Clearwater was a hundred miles away from the kind older woman.
The last morning over breakfast, Maude handed her a tightly rolled up bundle of fabric scraps. “You just tuck those right down in your boot,” she said. “And every time you see those colors in your quilt, you’ll remember Maude Lemay of the Midway Station.”
Annie’s second experience pretending to be a “midnight messenger” was no easier than her first. In fact, the horses were harder to handle, and the pace just as grueling, and the Willow Island station master just as unpleasant. Annie took pleasure in ignoring the old codger when it came time to mount up. She’d only been on the trail for a couple of hours this time, and so she did her best imitation of Frank and sprang unassisted into the saddle.
The rest of the stations passed by in a blur. The Plum Creek station master’s wife provided a meal that Annie ate while moving. At Dobytown, daylight had silenced neither the piano nor the party. As she rode past, Annie wondered where Charlie Pender had spent the winter—and prayed Frank would never again set foot inside one of those saloons.
Once she’d left Fort Kearny, she began to worry about what kind of reception she’d get back at Clearwater. She remembered Billy’s protest. George will kill me. I can’t let you do this.
She was met by a veritable committee and had barely touched the earth when Jake trotted up to take the mochila. “Guess you proved what you said about being at least as good as Emmet,” he said.
“You’re feeling better,” Annie said.
“Right as rain. There’s a new rider come in yesterday, too. Name of Jimmy Bly.” He leaped into the saddle and was gone.
When Billy began to lead the spent horse away, Annie walked with him, hoping he didn’t realize that her steadying hand on the horse’s flank was a subterfuge to keep herself upright.
Frank figured it out and hurried to her side. “Put your arm across my shoulders,” he said, reaching around her waist.
“Just a little wobbly,” Annie muttered. George hadn’t said a word since she’d dismounted. He had, in fact, lingered by the station door with his arms folded across his chest. As Frank helped her toward the station, Annie said, “George looks really angry.”
“Men get angry when they’re terrified.”
“What’d he have to be afraid of?”
“You can talk about that after you rest up.”
As soon as she stepped onto the porch, Annie smiled up at George. “I made it. How’s the mare?”
“Nice little sorrel colt,” he said. “Guess you’re mighty proud of yourself.”
“As a matter of fact, I am.” Annie tried to take the next step, but her legs wouldn’t work. “I—um—I think—” Before she finished the sentence, George picked her up and carried her inside.
“What’s next?” he asked, as he carried her toward her room. “Bronc busting?”
Annie leaned her head against his broad chest. “Sleeping.” When he set her down on the edge of her bed, she croaked, “Please don’t be angry.”
“Get some rest,” he said and left.
Annie gazed after him and then looked over at Frank. “He’s angry.”
Frank shrugged. “He’ll get over it. You need anything?”
“With a sigh, Annie sank down onto her bed. “Sleep.”
With a nod, Frank pulled the door closed. Annie didn’t bother to undress. Exhausted, she wriggled beneath the covers. She was just as done in as she’d been when she reached Midway Station. Just as eager to sleep. Just as glad to be finished. Hoping she’d never have to face the trail again. But something was different, too. Something inside. A new realization that, if she had to, she could ride again.
In fact, she could probably do just about anything—if she had to.
Annie woke to sunlight streaming in her shuttered window and a kind of soreness she’d never experienced. Every muscle ached. Even her hands hurt. She sat up in bed and stretched. Slowly. She smiled, remembering her first day at Clearwater the previous April. Then she’d been worried about what Mr. Morgan would think of a cook who slept half the day. This morning she was a little worried about what George would say when she first saw him. She thought she remembered his agreeing not to be angry. After all, he’d carried her to her room.
Slipping out of bed, she dipped her fingers in the water bowl on the washstand and dabbed at her eyes, wiping away the crust of a heavy sleep before retreating to bed just long enough to warm up a bit. Another leap out of bed and she dragged her petticoats and things back with her, squirming about beneath the covers until she had changed into them. She peeked out. Blew a slow breath, watching as the resulting vapor floated away.
Finally, she threw back the covers, raced to finish dressing, and hurried into the kitchen, skidding to a stop when she came face-to-face with George. For a long moment they stood still, just staring at each other. Annie realized she hadn’t done her hair. She reached up and grabbed a hank of curls at the back of her head.
“Crow’s nest,” she said, and retreated into her room, grateful for the temporary warming effected by the kitchen stove. She took her time doing her hair, trying her best to decipher the expression she’d seen on George’s face. She could hear him moving about in the kitchen. He was grinding coffee. That was a good sign, right? A man couldn’t be too angry with a woman if he was making the coffee for her. Could he?
She lingered as long as she could, folding Frank’s clothes and laying them on her bed, picking up the fabric Maude had given her and setting it atop her trunk. Finally, when she could smell the coffee boiling on the stove, she went back out to the kitchen. No sign of George. He’d left the oven door down. There was a plate in the oven covered with a towel. Beneath the towel, a slice of ham. Annie poured a cup of coffee and sat down to eat.
At midday, when George still hadn’t ventured into the station, Annie walked down to the barn. Frank was standing outside a stall, admiring the new colt.
“George is over in the soddy,” Billy said. “Polishing a harness.”
“He didn’t kill you,” Annie teased.
“Thanks to Frank,” Billy said.
“I told him we should all be proud of you,” Frank said.
Once at the soddy, Annie rapped on the door before going in. When George didn’t answer, she went in anyway. “Thanks for the coffee. And breakfast.”
“You’re welcome.”
She perched on the windowsill, watching as George worked saddle soap into the leather. After a few moments, she said, “I guess you’re really angry with me, hunh?”
He shrugged. “Why would I be angry? Just because you ran off on a fool’s errand? Just because you risked your life? Just because you could have gotten killed over scribbles on bits of paper?”
He hadn’t raised his voice at all. Still, Annie could feel him shouting. “The Pony Express is about the farthest thing from a ‘fool’s errand’ a person could get, and I think you know that. And whatever scribbles I carried locked in those mail pouches, I’d like to think they were important scribbles.”
“There’s a lot of things in life that are important. Plowing’s important. You want to take that over for me? Or maybe you’d rather take over for Hart when he leads the next column out on patrol. What about freighting? You want to try your hand at bullwhacking? A lot of people depend on those supplies getting delivered on time.”
“Now you’re just being silly.”
He sputtered, “Y-you c-c-ould have d-died.” He broke off. Dropping the harness, he stood up. He started to leave. Then he turned back and in one swift movement, gathered her into his arms and pulled her close—close enough that his scruffy beard tickled her cheek. Close enough that she could feel his heart pounding.
“S-see what y-you do to me?” He released her and stormed out.
Chapter 30
Moments after George released her and stormed out of the soddy, Annie made her way back to the station. If ever she needed another woman in her life, it was now. Her mind swirled from George to Lieutenant Hart and even, at times, back to the only other male she’d ever entertained romantic notions about, Luvina Aikens’s brother, Calvin. Of course Calvin had been barely sixteen that time he tried to kiss her, and Annie had pushed him away shouting, “I’d rather be kissed by a horse!” The only thing she’d learned about romance from Calvin Aiken was to
stay away from boys.
She didn’t want to stay away from Lieutenant Hart—or George, for that matter. Did that mean she was falling in love? Was either man falling in love with her? They behaved nothing alike. Wade Hart visited the station, smiled at her a lot, and wrote those pretty notes at the bottom of some of Lydia’s letters. She’d never caught George looking at her—well, not except for that one time at the cotillion when he stared as if she was some odd creature he’d never seen before.
There was something about Wade Hart that made her feel uneasy. Love did that, didn’t it? Until just now, she’d felt—homey—when she was around George. Especially now that she understood his ways. Why he was usually quiet, for example. And that beneath the sometimes-frightening, bearish exterior, there was a gentle side that brought chicks in from the cold to protect them and even named the milk cow. Everything was nice and settled with George—or had been, until a minute ago, when he scooped her up and stuttered about what she “did to him.” What’d she do?
The whole time she swept floors and fixed lunch, Annie pondered the mysteries of men and romance, and by the time lunch was ready, she hadn’t decided much of anything beyond a faint sense of comfortableness with the idea of being snuggled next to George. But love didn’t mean feeling comfortable—did it? Wasn’t love supposed to be wilder than that?
Annie’s ponderings came to an abrupt halt when a gust of wind blew the storeroom door closed with a bang. She’d propped it open while she worked to take advantage of the spring breeze. Now, she realized the temperature had dropped. She went to the door, opened it, and peered west. She’d seen a wall of clouds like that before. While the crew shouted and chased about, closing the barn doors and securing corral gates, Annie shooed the chickens into the coop and closed the door, then hastened to where Elizabeth had been picketed and dragged her toward the lean-to George and Billy had put up.
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