Always, Ransom

by Reina Torres

  The sky above their heads was only starting to show signs of the stars as if the night hadn’t quite bled through the sunlight, but they were in her eyes.

  He heard her voice, saw her lips moving, but it took a few moments for him to connect the two together and hear the words for what they were. “This job means the world to my father, to my family. Levi’s kindness and trust have given him a new beginning. I only hope that what you saw last night,” she didn't look directly into his face, diverting her gaze toward the ground, “didn't give you a bad impression of my father.”

  He knew exactly what she was talking about. After the meeting at the church where Levi had asked all of the men working for the express to follow the oath that the riders swore to uphold, it had been a shock to see her father stumble out of Bender’s Saloon.

  “It was a long day for all of us,” he felt her tense up beside him, “I'm only sorry that you had to sit outside and wait. You would have been welcome to stay at the station.”

  “I don't believe my father wanted Levi to know that he stopped to see his old friend.”

  He heard the plea on her voice and the one in her eyes when she met his gaze. She was a woman who loved her father, but she was also saddened by his actions. He knew how hard it must have been the other night, waiting for him in the dark and the cold. But he also had an idea of how hard it must be for her every day and know that she was now the lone person caring for him when she once had four brothers to help.

  Opening his mouth to speak, Ransom stopped a moment later. What would he say to her? How could he express his own thoughts when he wasn’t quite sure what they were?

  “When I knew my uncle,” he began to explain, the words forming before he could see a clear picture of their intended path, “he was a strong and determined man. Some would say he was hard and inflexible.” He smiled, a soft tentative curve of his lips. “My aunt was as loving as he was reserved, but I did see his anger from time to time. The worst,” his voice softened a bit, quieting as he continued to speak, “was when he found me behind the mercantile with two other boys from school.

  “One of them had purloined a bottle from his father’s cabinet and gave us all a taste.”

  He saw Delia wince and knew she’d heard the truth of his words.

  “A taste turned into another and soon we had only drops left at the bottom of the bottle and none of us heard my uncle approaching, until I felt his hand on my collar.” Ransom reached up his hand and tugged at his banded collar as if it had suddenly become a hair too tight. “I was up on my feet and blue in the face before I realized that I was in danger of losing a layer of my hide.

  “He dragged me down the street and by the time I stumbled past the front gate of the yard, I’d emptied my stomach at the base of my aunt’s rose bush, and lost any interest in drink.” He sighed. “My uncle refused to say a word to me for the rest of the evening, choosing to retire to his room directly after supper. He didn’t even have a cup of coffee after the meal and sit in his chair.” Ransom closed his eyes and drew in a breath. “Just the sounds of his boots on the stairs nearly reduced me to tears.”

  Delia’s hand settled on his arm and he gave her a smile in return.

  “My aunt brought me a cup of tea to settle my stomach and sat beside me at the table. She told me that my uncle had been a different man when he was younger. Wild and angry for his own reasons, he’d turned to drink to escape his troubles and had ended up in a hospital bed, a deep slash across his middle that he didn’t recall how he’d gotten the injury. It took weeks for him to heal and it was the quiet reassurance of a young nurse that brought him back to his full health.”

  He heard Delia’s soft indrawn breath. “Your aunt?”

  Ransom nodded. “He fell in love with her quiet strength and she fell in love with his desire to mend his ways. Together, they were a force of nature. And I knew that the look I had seen in his eyes hadn’t just been anger, it hadn’t been just frustration,” he explained, “he was disappointed in himself. He felt he had failed me.”

  The pain in his chest wasn’t just an echo of his memory, it was a fresh pain that squeezed at his heart.

  “I made a decision that night,” he explained, “I knew I couldn’t change all my ways, but I could keep my wits about me. Drink made me lose myself, even with only a few swallows.” With a soft chuckle he made sure to tell her the whole truth. “I still had a lot of growing up to do. I still made more than my share of mistakes, but when I did them-”

  “You were sober.” He heard the resignation in her tone and lifted a hand to cover her fingers where they laid on his arm, lifting her gaze back to his face.

  “I haven’t ever known the bone deep grief that your father suffers. I can not begin to understand,” he stopped short and then began again. “I can only imagine what it must be like to lose a wife, the mother of my children,” he felt his hand tighten over hers and felt a tremble that he couldn’t quite discern if it began in him or her gentle fingers. “I can only see your love for your father and know he must be a good man to have you for a daughter.”

  He heard her indrawn breath and the way her hand stilled under his. “Thank you.”

  Ransom swore he could have heard the beating of her heart in the silence of that moment, or maybe it was his own, but he felt her gratitude as if it was a physical touch. “You don’t need to thank me for seeing the truth. I wanted you to know that I consider it a privilege to know you, and your father, Miss Burroughs. And I hope that we’ll have more opportunities to speak in the future.”

  She nodded and slowly found her voice. “Me too.”

  Wyeth rejoined them before Ransom could speak again. “We’d best be off, Ransom.” He looked off toward the east and the darkening horizon. “Even if we go now,” he wondered, “I’m fairly sure we’ll be riding in the dark for the last bit.”

  Ransom nodded. “Then let’s be on our way.”

  Wyeth tugged on the brim of his hat. “That biscuit and ham was mighty fine, Miss. And I’m fairly sure it’ll tide us over until supper.” He slid a look at Ransom. “I’m fairly sure Mrs. Hawkins will save us something to eat.”

  Delia laughed, easing the last bit of tension from Ransom’s shoulders. “From one meal to the next, Mr. Boyles?”

  “The only reason to ride, Miss Burroughs.”

  And then he was off to collect the horses from where they’d wandered off to munch on some grass near the side wall of the lean-to, with Ransom tight on his heels.

  Delia looked through the curtains and out toward the corral. The sun had fallen behind the house, barely leaving any light on the ground beneath her father’s feet. He could work for a few minutes more, but that would be all. Looking at the pot on the stove, she felt a moment of pride well up inside of her. The stew would last them a few days. The thick gravy would add flavor to some of the bits that she’d thrown into the mix, and the flour she’d mixed in would thicken the stew so it would glaze the surface of her biscuits and cling when they used them to sop up the last bits in their bowls.

  The scent was something she remembered from her childhood, from her mother. Delia would sit on the rug under the window, keeping her hands busy with simple mending or working on her slate, copying bits of scripture or a line or two from one of her mother’s books, while her mother would cook.

  When she was older, sitting at the table, she enjoyed the sticky biscuit dough on her fingers, deciding to forgo the flour on her fingers to help keep the mess off of her hands. But it was those quiet moments when her mother would walk her through the recipes that her mother had passed on to her. Those precious moments that had seemed just a matter of fun and sharing, had turned out to be a legacy that continued to comfort her, even now.

  A legacy that she would pass on to her own children someday.

  The thought was staggering. Playing with dolls had been a joy when she was younger. And even though her brothers were all older than she was, Delia enjoyed following her mother around and mothering them, n
o matter how much they grumped and groaned about it. The one thing they all drew the line on, was when Delia wanted to feed them like babies.

  The thought brought a smile to her lips. They would complain, she remembered, but they still let her baby them. They loved her in their own gruff way and she loved them in her own giggling maternal way.

  Now, it was just her and her father, and while he ate the food she put on the table and wore the clothes she washed and mended, her father didn’t seem to enjoy any of it the way he’d enjoyed her mother’s efforts.

  She knew she wasn’t as good as mother had been. Delia was the first to wish for just another day or two with her. A day to two to ask her all the things she’d never wanted to ask, or known that she should ask. And she had a feeling that her mother had never thought that her life would be cut short with an illness, an unseen force that took her life and left them all a little empty inside.

  What would she give to be able to ask her mother to remind her of the lyrics she’d forgotten of The Liberty Song. Or how she always managed to make her soap smooth and soft against her skin. And finally, at the heart of the matter, would be love. How to know it, how to grow it, and how to keep the fire kindled.

  Her mother and father had been gifted with a deep love and Delia could only pray that she would find the same.

  The door swung open and her father stuck his head in. “I’m puttin’ the horses up for the night. I’ll be in for supper soon.”

  She nodded and tried to give him a smile, but he was gone just as quickly as he’d appeared. Delia focused on the matter at hand. Plates, spoons, napkins. A pitcher of water on the table and a few wildflowers in a cup off to the side. Something pretty to look at.

  When the door opened again, Delia was halfway between the table and the stove, a plate of biscuits in her hands. “I hope you’ve worked up a fair appetite, Papa. I have stew on the stove and a-”

  “A biscuit or two is fine.” Her father reached for the plate and picked up a biscuit, waving it under his nose with an audible sniff. “I’m sure it’s passably tasty. Your mother,” he stopped himself, shaking his head before he took another sniff, this one longer and more intent, “your mother knew how to cook. You seem to have the right of it, Del.” He looked at the stove. “Keep the stew warm if you can. I’ll take a biscuit or two and go and lie down for a bit.”

  Delia opened her mouth to protest, but she only managed to set the plate down on the table. “I can keep it warm for a bit, papa, but I need to put it up so we may go to bed. The morning comes so quickly.”

  “The morning,” his voice cut hard into her heart, his eyes flared with pain and anger, “comes quickly for those of us left behind, Del.” He drew in a long breath and then another, and then dropped the biscuit back in the plate. “But we must find a way to make this work. You understand what that means.”

  She nodded slowly, as if the motion was a solemn vow.

  “So, eat your supper, girl, put your head to your pillow as soon as you can, and tomorrow, we will work ourselves into the ground and hope to get ourselves ready for the Express.”

  “Yes, papa.” She set her hand on the back of her chair, ready to sit down to the meal, but she watched as her father grabbed up the plate and walked away with it toward his room at the back of the cottage. It wasn’t until the door was shut tight that she realized that was the end of their discussion.

  Taking up her plate, she moved back to the stove and sat down beside it on the chair that James had once occupied at the table. Taking hold of the spoon in the stew pot, she put a helping in her plate and stared down at it. Lifting her gaze, she looked back at the table, set for two. Her family was shrinking, her brothers were all finding their own paths in life, but she was here with her father. She couldn’t leave him, not when she was sure he needed her more than he was letting on.

  And she would stay and hope that he would heal. That the pain would one day be less than his joy in life. She lifted her gaze toward his closed door. Heard the silence in the room as loudly as she heard the hollow echo of her heart beating in her chest. Setting her spoon down on the edge of her plate she sighed.

  That day might come, but it was a long way off. She heard the hollow thud of something in her father’s room and felt a tremor roll through her body. It was the unmistakable sound of an empty bottle on the floor boards, a sound that had only become familiar to her after her mother’s death. Delia bit into her bottom lip, welcoming the sharp twinge of pain as she did. He must have hidden the bottle away in his jacket, bringing it home from Bender’s Saloon. She wondered how long they would be able to struggle through with her father continuing to drink as heavily as he was.

  She could go to Levi, but would he be her father’s friend or act as his employer. She knew that Levi was a good friend to her father, but there had to be a line that Levi would have to draw in the sand at some point. A problem that would be too big to brush aside as her father’s grief. She had to think about what she had to do and who she would turn to. Until then, it was just her and her father. They would have to be enough.

  Chapter 6

  The opening day of the Pony Express was just like the Fourth of July in the town of Three Rivers. Wagons and horses occupied every empty square foot of the town, leaving just enough room for regular business to continue, but the visitors were certainly a boon to everyone. Everyone except Reuben Pierson.

  The older man stood scowling at the livery barn, his arms folded over his narrow chest, his lips pressed into a thin white line beneath his scraggly mustache.

  Olivia stepped out onto the porch and shook her head. “That man is going to frown himself into a fit one of these days.”

  Ransom looked up from the map he’d laid out on the table and nodded in agreement. “He’s worried about his business. I just don’t see what the two have to do with each other.”

  Wyeth leaned back against the wall, his heels digging into the floorboards. “The express only carries a portion of the mail. Most folks that send a letter back and forth don’t have the money to use the Express Service.” He yawned and reached down to fiddle with the cuff of his pants. “And until the train lines stretch all the way to California, people will continue to use the stage. There’s room enough for all kinds of mail delivery.”

  “Not according to Mr. Pierson.” Ransom pinched at the bridge of his nose and muttered the names of the stations to himself, testing his memory. “To hear him talk about it, we’re trying to take food right out of the mouths of his family.”

  Mrs. Hawkins chuckled as she poured glasses of lemonade for the two riders. “Mr. Pierson doesn’t have any family that I know of.”

  “Well, that’s never stopped him from complaining.” Levi stepped out onto the porch with a cup of coffee in his hand. “But let’s leave him to his own devices today, shall we? I’d rather focus on what’s really important. Are you ready for your first ride, son?”

  Folding up the map and setting his hat on top of it to keep it from the greedy sweep of the wind, Ransom gave Levi a hesitant smile. “Ready.”

  “With any luck,” Wyeth added, “you’ll sail right through without any issues and put the rest of us to shame.”

  “I’m not looking to break a record for speed,” Ransom picked up his glass and took a sip. “If all I did was deliver the mail from one point to the other and keep my horse under me and the sky above my head, that’s all I can really ask for.”

  Olivia gave him a sweet smile. “That’s a lovely thought,” she explained, “I think I’ll add that to my prayers.”

  Levi’s sip of his coffee ended in a soft sigh of contentment. “That’s all we can ask of any of you boys. Do your job and come back safe.”

  Wyeth gave Ransom a knowing grin. “And maybe steal a few minutes of time with Miss Burroughs on the way there and back?”

  Ransom turned his head toward Wyeth, his eyes narrowing at the other man.

  “I meant you, Ransom.” Wyeth chuckled aloud. “I certainly wouldn’t dare to try
,” he explained. “Miss Burroughs seems quite taken with you, my friend.”

  Turning away from Levi’s curious gaze, Ransom couldn’t avoid Olivia’s pointed look. She didn’t seem upset at the idea, only curious.

  “How is Delia doing?” She looked at Levi. “With all of the preparations, I haven’t seen her in over a week. I had hoped that she’d come for your sermon, Levi.”

  The station master chuckled. “While most people do tend to avoid the church on the off-weeks that I take the pulpit instead of Reverend Brown, you’re right, Delia usually attends to hear me speak.”

  Ransom’s attention was on his boss, but it was Wyeth that spoke. “Are the Burroughs Quakers like you folks?”

  Olivia shook her head. “No, Frank isn’t much for church regardless of who’s at the front, but Delia and her mother attended meetings with us when they lived here in Three Rivers.”

  Levi smiled and Ransom thought he saw the other man’s chest puff up with a bit of pride. “They said my words made them think and ponder.”

  Setting her hand on Levi’s arm as he sat down beside her on the porch, Olivia nodded before she turned to look at Ransom. “I know Delia has been busy with her father, readying the station. I hope that you’ll take a moment to give her our love before you head down the trail.”

  Ransom struggled to find the words. So many of his thoughts about Delia Burroughs had been based in friendship, but his heart had changed the direction of his feelings. The idea of giving her such a personal message was a bit discomforting, mainly because the same tender feelings that Olivia was asking him to say to Delia, were the same words he would like to give her from his own heart.

  It was hard to acknowledge, even to himself, that it had taken days for him to realize that the almost painful thud of his heart against his ribs when he thought about Delia, was only uncomfortable because it was something new to him. Something, unfamiliar. But when he thought about her, he could remember every word she’d said to him, and the soft look of sorrow in her eyes when she was struggling to lift her chin and shoulder the burden of her father’s struggles. He saw the beauty of her spirit that went beyond the deep burnished colors of the red that hid in the brown of her hair, and the gentle brown of her eyes.