by Reina Torres
“Ransom?”
Olivia’s voice pulled him from his thoughts and when he looked around the small gathering of people on the porch, he saw a smile on every face. A smile aimed at him.
“What?” He swallowed. “I mean, yes, ma’am?”
“If you would be so kind to invite Delia to supper when she has a chance, I would consider it a favor.”
He nodded, gathering his thoughts. “Yes, ma’am. Happy to.”
“I bet you are,” Wyeth was up and out of his chair before Ransom could turn and glare at him, “and I’ll take that as my cue to head to the bunkhouse.” The other rider rubbed his palm over his chin. “I’ve been meaning to shave and I think it best not to have the razor at my throat when Ransom’s around.”
Olivia gave him a reproachful look. “You’re not planning to miss the exchange, are you?”
Wyeth paused at the edge of the porch. “No, ma’am. If the other rider is on schedule, I’ll have enough time.” He gave Ransom a grin. “But just in case,” he tugged on the brim of his hat in a salute, “ride safe my friend.”
Delia had watched the clock all morning until it seemed like every ‘tick’ ‘tick’ ‘tick’ was echoing in her head. It had been almost a week since she’d seen Ransom and unless something had changed in the schedule, she would see him in less than an hour.
It would have been thrilling to see the exchange in Three Rivers. She knew that the town had planned a celebration around the event and that people from miles around were likely to attend. It had been an age since she’d seen Rachel Merrick and she was sure that both Rachel and her mother, Grace, would attend the event with her brother, Captain Merrick.
And she could have attended it herself if the entire ‘crew’ of the Swing Station consisted of more than herself and her father.
Shoving down the frustration that threatened to rob her of her breath, Delia concentrated on finishing her chores so that she could be at the fence when Ransom rode up to change horses. It was an easy enough process and they’d practiced it a few times since the meeting in Three Rivers so she knew what to expect.
The rider would come to a stop near the fence, or the hitching post behind the lean-to. Sliding down from the back of the horse, he’d lift the mochilla, the saddle cover with locked pockets full of mail and small parcels, and move to the fresh horse. A quick lift and the cover would fit down over the wooden frame already affixed to the fresh mount. All that would be left to do is for the rider to swing up onto the cover and he’d be off toward the next station.
From there, the job of the station would be to cool down his mount and check the pony for any injuries. After that, it was going to be a matter of repeating the process for riders in both directions, keeping the wear on the horses to a minimum.
A clatter of sound turned Delia’s head toward the window. She stepped to the front of the room and looked outside. Her father was outside, walking toward the hitching post with the reins of a fine black Morgan mare in his hand. The sound intensified and before she could move away from the window she saw what was making the ruckus. The eight horses leading the stage came to a slow halt beside the fence, heads tossing and necks straining against their tack.
The sight was a curious one. The stage didn’t stop at their station.
But maybe, she pondered, one of the drivers had stopped to speak to her father. After all, the Burroughs family had run the Three Rivers station since it had begun. It would make sense that the driver would know her father.
Another look and Delia felt dread chill her bones. Her father had the reins in his hand, but he was backing the horse away from the front of the stage.
Lifting her gaze toward the men up in the boot, her blood ran cold. The shotgun rider had his gun aimed at her father. His finger wasn’t on the trigger, but the combined tension of the drivers and the tight line of her father’s shoulders travelled down her arms raising little bumps like gooseflesh.
She knew she should leave things alone. Her father was more than capable of handling trouble, but looking toward the clock, she knew that Ransom was scheduled to reach the station soon and she wanted to see him, even for the minute it would take to change mounts.
By the time she reached the gate of the first corral, she heard the raised voice of the stage. Faces of the passengers, peering out from the body of the coach around the edges of the curtains, were marked with confusion and concern.
She felt the same alarming emotion a moment later when the front of the shotgun lifted up from the frame of the coach and swung toward her father.
“Papa!”
Her voice carried across the empty corrals and the shotgun rider started in confusion, turning to the driver. She heard a barked command from one of the men.
Her father remained in place. She could see his hand tightening on the reins of the horse, backing her away from the stage.
He turned slightly and she caught his eye. He started speaking before he turned back to the stage, so even as she heard his words she wasn't sure if he was speaking to her or the men onboard the stage. “Get out of here!”
She saw the response and heard the loud pop of the whip, several times over, even though she was sure she'd only seen the driver’s arm raised just the one time.
Her father flinched, his shoulders raising up as the horse he was holding stumbled. The black’s knees buckled for a moment before he reared back, his front hooves lifting from the ground.
The stage lurched forward and was out of her sight a moment later, but her gaze was focused on her father and the Morgan pony that was now trying to lunge free of his grasp.
She wanted to call out to him, but she was wary of startling the horse any more than it already was. Grabbing a handful of her skirt, Delia moved around behind her father, hoping to help him settle the pony.
That was when she saw the angry gash of red on the black’s beautiful coat. She sucked in a breath, hissing in sympathy for the poor animal.
Her father tried to calm the animal, lowering his tone, gentling his hold on the reins, but when he turned and touched his hand to the gelding’s flank, the animal’s eyes rolled white and the strong muscles underneath the sleek flesh bunched and then flexed.
“No,” her father lost his hold on the reins and the pony lunged free, “grab him!”
She tried, a frantic lunge at the reins only managed to scare him more, the hem of her long skirts flapped in the wind, and the black side stepped her hand and took off through the grass.”
“Dammit, Del!” Her father stumbled after the horse. “I’ll get him back, saddle another horse.”
And then he was gone, lurching through the wild grasses after the gelding that slipped away like a shadow running from the sun.
The clock that she’d followed all day long was hidden behind walls, but she knew Ransom would be there any moment. Grabbing at her skirts she pushed through the grass and darted into the lean-to, grabbing a saddle from a peg on the wall. Rushing over to the front of the structure, she swung the lightweight saddle frame onto a half wall leaving it behind a moment later. The horses looked up at her, nearly in unison. They were lined up in order, intending to take them out one at a time from left to right, and then later as horses were left behind at the station, they’d continue the pattern.
One stall was already empty, the horse leading her father on a merry chase through the tall grasses that surrounded the station. The next was a Palomino mare with a penchant for running and taking nips at Delia’s apron strings. That meant that Delia normally kept her distance from Sugar, but her casual dislike of the mare had to be set aside.
Reaching for the lock on the stall door, Delia flicked it open and swung it wide. “Come on, girl. You’re going to get to prove that Papa was right about you.”
The mare turned its long head to the side as if she wasn’t quite sure she heard the words.
“Don’t play coy, Sugar. I don’t have the time.” Reaching for Sugar’s bridle that hung on a peg within arm’s reach, Delia lif
ted it down. “Please, girl?” Stepping closer to the horse, the mare headed toward her as well, setting her hoof down on Delia’s hem, pulling the fabric tight, straining the hooks at her waist. “That’s not helping.”
The mare paced back, relieving the pressure on her skirt and dipping her head. Delia wasn’t going to argue, especially with a horse. So she slipped the bridle over the horse’s ears, and while she held her breath, she fastened the bridle in place.
With a quick exhale in breath, she gave the mare a soft smile. “Thank you.”
Taking hold of the reins, she led the mare forward and outside the lean to so she could look at the road. With a groan, she realized that the disturbance on the trail was a rider moving west. Ransom, was nearly there.
Cursing her skirts, she settled the blanket on Sugar’s back. “Just stand still.”
The mare felt the swish of fabric on her legs and swung her head toward Delia, her dark eyes watching her work.
“Please,” and as if she had heard Delia’s plea, Sugar stood still and let Delia set the California Tree saddle on her back.
“Hello!”
She heard the steady gallop of sound behind her and felt the spray of dirt and pebbles against her hem. “Just a moment!” Crouching down, Delia reached under the horse’s belly and grabbed the cinch, struggling as all the blood rushed up into her head, knocking her a little off balance. “Almost there.”
She heard the quick sounds of footfalls behind her, and then a hand on her lower back.
“Careful.”
The feel of his hand, coupled with the rush of fear and worry in her middle, made her head swim. “Sorry,” she grasped the cinch and pulled it across the horse’s chest, “we had a bit of a mishap.”
She stood, blinking into the light, struggling to clear her head. Ransom took the cinch from her hands. “Here, let me help.”
Delia felt her cheeks flare with heat, shame. “This isn't your job.”
He made quick work of the cinch and took the reins in his hand. “It's not yours either, Miss Burroughs, but we do what we have to.”
He smiled at her and she felt a strange mix of confusion and elation at the same moment.
“I suppose so,” she began, following him as he made quick time to the hitching post. His horse stood patiently waiting for his return, his sides inflating like a bellows stoking a fire. “I’ll take Jackson and get him brushed down.”
Ransom passed a look at her over the dun’s back as he settled the cover over the saddle. “Thank you.”
She opened her mouth to tell him he didn't have to thank her, but she didn’t. Every word that he spoke was something she could hold on to, a moment to mull over when she felt alone.
“I'm sorry,” she offered, “have we put you too far behind your schedule?”
He shook his head, speaking through the spark of humor in his eyes. “Nothing I can't make up on the trail. We've done this a number of times without issue, I guess we were pressing our luck.”
She wanted to tell him about the stage and the driver with the whip, but he had to get on the trail and he didn’t need to worry. That wasn’t fair to him so she struggled to place a bright smile on her lips.
A moment later he was swinging up onto Sugar’s back, his grin a bright crescent in the shadows of his hat brim. “You take care, Miss Burroughs.”
“You ride safe, Mister McCain. I’ll see you in two days.”
“That's right.” He nodded, the motion only visible by the dark slash of his hat in the sunlight. “Two days.” He turned the horse toward the West with a gentle draw on the reins. A gentle press of his heels into the horse’s flank urged the horse forward. They’d only gone a few strides when Ransom turned his horse back toward the station. Leaning forward on the saddle, Ransom gave her a wave. “Mrs. Hawkins wants you to come to dinner when you can!”
Her heart leapt in her chest and she lifted her hand in an answering wave. “When you get back!”
The sun was full on his face so she could see his smile. “I’ll see you then!”
She watched him ride off down the trail to the next swing station, Sugar’s tail a golden flash of color. An equally colorful spate of words turned her toward the station. Her father was trudging back through the grasses, leading the black behind him.
Delia rushed across the yard to his side. “I sent Sugar in his place.”
Her father lifted his head and she pulled back. His face was drawn, his skin a strange cast of green as if he was on the verge of losing his breakfast. “Take him.” He held out the reins and shook his head, his shoulders flagging along with his confidence right before her eyes. “I’ll get my bag. We need to put something on that cut.”
And as he walked away, Delia did what her father said, because what he did know was horses. And even when he was struggling to care for himself, he put the horses first. It was probably the reason why he and Levi got along so well and why Levi had fought so hard to give him the chance to prove himself. Frank Burroughs would let himself starve before he'd skimp on feed for the horses.
Stroking the black’s long nose, Delia spoke softly to him and felt the hard set of fear begin to fall away. “I'm so sorry,” she gave the horse a sympathetic smile, “you’ll be right as rain in just a few days.”
As she reached the front of the lean to she lifted her hand and set it on one of the posts as she brought the gelding through the open doorway.
“It's going to sting,” she warned him with a little hiccup of sound in her throat. “And then papa’ll put some salve on it and you’ll be just fine. I promise.”
The gelding lifted his head, bumping his nose into her shoulder before he turned and leaned the side of his face against her arm.
She set her hand on the curve of his jaw and felt the solid push of muscle under his hide. “You're a strong boy, aren't you?”
She heard a huff of sound from the doorway and she smiled in answer precisely because he couldn't see her expression from where he stood.
“You talk to the boy like he’s a baby or a doll.” She heard the faint jingle of the metal buckles on his satchel. “They're here to run not follow you about like a mongrel pup looking for scraps.”
“Says the man that will go to the stable during a storm and sing the horses to sleep.”
She watched him twist the cover off a glass canister and set the top aside. Reaching into the bottle with two wizened fingers, he withdrew a dollop of salve and set the container down on a nearby ledge.
Moving closer, Delia leaned down toward the mouth of the container and took in a deep breath. The pungent scent wrinkled her nose and nearly curled her lips. “One day,” she wondered aloud, “I suppose you’ll tell me what’s in the mixture?”
“It’s not like one of the receipts from your ladies magazines, my dear.” Her father dabbed the salve at the lash, gently tapping his fingers against the horse’s hip to calm the animal. “There’s more to healing a horse than just a swish of something in a bowl or the perfect paste to fix a china plate.”
“And yet,” she sighed a little and covered the container with a few twists of her wrist, “they are all important in their own way. Valuable things should be cared for whether they are an item or an animal.”
He sighed loudly and the horse shied a little bit. “Such nonsense. I blame your mother for such flights of fancy.”
She heard the soft catch in his breath as he spoke the words and when he turned away she swore she caught a silvery tear in the corner of his eye. “Mr. McCain,” she longed to change the direction of his thoughts, for her father was easily pulled down into his memories and his depressions, “passed on an invitation from Mrs. Hawkins to have me over for supper in a few days.”
Her father finished applying the salve and wiped the last little bit of the poultice from his fingertips onto the horse’s rump. “I guess I should let you go,” he huffed out the words, but she saw a tremor at the corner of his mouth, as if he was trying not to smile. “I wouldn’t want Olivia wagging h
er finger at me.” He turned his gaze toward the town of Three Rivers. “I’d rather face the wrath of a vengeful God than have Olivia Hawkins give me a talkin’ to.”
Delia let out a silent sigh of relief and gave him a sweet smile. “Thank you, papa. Thank you.”
Chapter 7
Delia hitched up the wagon by herself that morning, eager to be on her way. With a supply list in her pocket for Patty O’Neal to fill at his General Store. While he filled her order she spent the morning with the Hawkins family, trading stories with Olivia and Anna, then a fine midday meal on the porch, enjoying the sun and fine weather. And then after supper, a few of the riders, those that didn’t have early morning chores or the first rides of the day, joined them around Olivia’s piano. She tried not to let on, but she was more than a little pleased when Ransom came in through the door, apparently fresh from the bath house. His hair was slicked down and parted, something that wouldn’t last the first time he set his hat down on his head, but still, it was a nice change, a new memory to tuck away for later.
The piano was tuned, something that Delia had to admire. It was a fine instrument, but things like that needed fine and meticulous care. If she were one to lay odds, she would think it was Levi that spent the time tuning the piano for his family. They certainly enjoyed the evenings together. Brought all the way with the Hawkins from her mother’s home in Philadelphia, it had provided them with many afternoons and evenings of entertainment. Olivia’s fingers were talented and her voice a pure soprano. And sitting beside her daughter, the two provided harmony for the other and on this particular evening, everyone enjoyed their duet of ‘Coming through the Rye.’
Levi sat back on the couch and when the song was through Delia saw him applaud his family with the others, but Delia saw him rub the back of his hand over his eyes where he sat in the shadows of the room.
