Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1)

by T. K. Lukas

  “Have you ever—? Are you a—?”

  “No, I’ve never—. Yes, I’m a—.”

  “Marry me. Tomorrow. I can’t take something from you that you can never get back. If you won’t marry me, then no, I won’t make love to you.” He kissed her again, his body hot and wanting hers.

  “It’s not just a ‘want.’ I’ve discovered what I need. I knew the first time I met you there was something different, something special about you, though many times I pushed you away. Not anymore. Make love to me.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs tighter around his waist, pulling him to her, kissing him, tasting the wine on his mouth. The hot mineral water sloshed around them, over their heads, out of the pool and onto the granite floor as they twirled and splashed, their bodies entangling, clinging to one another.

  Hughes held back, letting Barleigh move at her own pace. Steam rose off the surface of the water, off of their bodies. Barleigh, clutching and gasping, screamed out Hughes’s name while the winds howling through the canyons called out to spirits and ghosts.

  The fire played out. Shadows faded. Snow drifted into the cave from the crevasse above and melted on the warm floor. Hughes lifted Barleigh from the edge of the steaming pool and lowered her onto the blanket. He covered her with his coat before checking on the horses and giving them another handful of oats and warmed water from the melted snow.

  When he returned, she was sitting up. “How can I marry you? People think I’m a boy.”

  “Not everyone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I spilled the beans. I’m sorry. It slipped out. If Mario had any suspicions, I erased all doubt.” Hughes offered an apologetic smile.

  “He can be the preacher. He used to be one, anyway, before hiring on with the Express, but not everyone knows. He felt private about that.” Barleigh yawned and stretched, then sighed a deep sigh of relief.

  “I guess that means you’re going to marry me.” Hughes looked down at her, waiting for an answer, but she was fast asleep.

  *****

  A jolt startled Barleigh from her dreams. She sat up straight. “Hughes?”

  “I’m here. Nightmare?” He moved her off his arm, which had fallen asleep.

  “Sorry, I made a drool puddle.” She wiped away the shallow pool of drool on his chest. “Ouch—what happened here?” She touched his forehead with her fingertips, a fleeting panic seizing her, wondering if it was something she’d done in the heat of delirious passion.

  “I ran into a lamp. Sort of. It knocked some sense into me, though. Made me realize how much I worry about you. That it’s a luxury I look forward to, and . . . that I love you.”

  Barleigh shifted onto her elbow, propping her head in her hand. “I’m sorry—I just now noticed it. I woke up with this thought, and I had to share it.”

  “Are you ignoring that I said I love you?”

  “Yes and no. I’ll have to get used to that word. Is that all right?”

  “Yes. And, if I wake up every morning with you drooling on my chest, everything’ll be all right.” Hughes yawned, then said, “So, what’s the thought you have to share?”

  “It couldn’t have been Quanah that raided our ranch. Papa said he saw warriors watching from the ridge days before Birdie gave birth. Quanah was in San Antonio on those days, according to your encounter with him.”

  “That’s right,” Hughes said. “He was.”

  “The night of our raid, he would have had to have traveled hundreds of miles to have been present for that event. Even if he was there the night of the actual raid, that Friday night the wheels were already in motion. It would have happened anyway, with or without Quanah.”

  “You could be right,” he said, considering the possibilities.

  “Either way, you’re not responsible. Please don’t let that eat away at you. Leave those guilty feelings here in the cave, too.”

  Hughes took her in his arms, his tender kiss growing more passionate, urgent, and deep. “I love you, Barleigh Flanders. You’ll have to get used to hearing that. What did you mean, earlier, that you’ve discovered what you need?”

  “A conversation with Miss Maeve. She told me to keep looking until I found what I needed in life. I’ve found it.” Barleigh felt a rush of happiness, of peace, lying in his arms.

  “That makes me a happy man. What else did Maeve tell you?”

  Barleigh blushed. The memory of that day’s conversation brought a flush to her skin. She’d learned that there were many different ways a man and a woman can find intimate pleasure with each other’s bodies.

  “I had lots of questions for Miss Maeve, and she was generous with her answers,” Barleigh said, a slow smile spreading across her face.

  “Remind me to send her a generous tip and a thank you when we get back.”

  “One day soon, we can explore those ways, but right now I want you to make love to me again.” She pressed her body against his. Her urgent kisses, fingers caressing him, stroking him, teasing him, gave him all the encouragement needed.

  He took her, took what she offered. This time, his hunger for her body consumed him, the urge to please her again driving him wild. What he’d denied himself the first time he’d made love to her in the pool, he would not, could not, deny himself now. Holding nothing back, when he felt the moment of Barleigh’s pleasure, he let loose of his passion with a scorching wave, sending heat pulsing through both of them.

  “My God, woman.” He wrapped Barleigh in his arms as she lay on his chest. “That could send a weaker man to his death. And it wouldn’t be a shameful way to die.”

  Wrapped in each other’s arms, they lay in the darkness of the cave, breathing each other’s breath, face to face, lips brushing, eyelashes tickling. Outside, the snow had stopped, clouds opened to the darkness behind them, and stars took their rightful place in the velvet sky.

  *****

  Barleigh awoke to the whispered words “I love you” spoken softly against her ear, Hughes’s hand stroking her hair.

  “I love you, too,” she whispered.

  “I’ve been watching you sleep, and I’ve been thinking.”

  “Uh-oh. Snoring again? Mama Grizzly in her cave?”

  He laughed. “No—no snoring. I’ve heard it said that love grounds us. I disagree. I say love uproots us. Loving you has caused me to want to change things about myself, to be more like who I know my true self to be. What do you think?”

  What did she think? Barleigh rolled over, resting her head against Hughes’s chest, listening to the sound of his heart thumping, the sound of water dripping down the walls of the cave, to the horses moving about, to the sound of her own breath and pulse combined with his.

  “I think with love, uncertainty is guaranteed—that love offers no guarantees. That’s what makes it valuable, what makes it worth taking a risk at any cost. I’m just afraid.”

  “Love is worth the risk. But, what are you afraid of?” he asked, kissing the tips of her fingers.

  “That the people I give my heart to, the people I love, all die before I’m ready to let go,” she said softly, not wanting to give power to the words or the thought.

  “Cashing in your fear and letting go of your heart is the high cost of hope, my dear. Hope is what fuels the fire of love. Are you willing to cash in your fears, and let go of your heart?”

  Barleigh glanced at the man she lay with, felt his arms holding her close, and she considered this question and all that it meant—the things that she feared, what she might lose if she let go of her heart, what she might gain if she did.

  “I am. And I’m never looking back.”

  *****

  A notice in the Salt Lake City Deseret News, the San Antonio Sentinel, and the New Orleans Tribunal read:

  Hughes Pierce Lévesque of New Orleans, Louisiana and San Antonio, Texas, and Miss Barleigh Alexandria Henrietta Flanders of Palo Pinto, Texas and Salt Lake City, Utah Territory, were married in holy matrimony on Thursday, November 28th,
1860. Officiating was Reverend Mario Russo of the Central Overland California and Pikes Peak Express Company. The bride wore a white lace gown with beaded pearl accents, and surprised her guests with a display of Western boots and spurs as her footwear of choice. In lieu of a bridal veil, she wore a bright yellow Mexican sombrero trimmed in gold and black accents. Official reception to follow at the Menger Hotel, San Antonio, Texas. Details to follow.

  “Get your riding gear ready—I’ve got to get you to Texas” were Hughes’s first words for his bride, after the “I dos” had been said.

  *****

  The stagecoach pulled into San Antonio, Texas, at noon on New Year’s Eve, the town decorated in festive holiday colors. Barleigh pulled the telegram from her reticule, the small decorated bag a Christmas gift from Hughes when they’d stopped overnight in the township of Dallas. She held the fragile paper that was torn at the creases from the wear and tear of folding and unfolding it.

  She looked up at Hughes, feeling the weight of his stare. “I just want to read it again,” she said, casting her eyes down at the telegram.

  Trying to keep the anxiety that had been haunting her from building, she concentrated on each word. Her mother’s condition had worsened, Jameson’s telegram had said, and time was of the essence if they wished to make a reunion possible. The telegram was almost fifteen days old.

  Having said their good-byes to Mario after he performed the quick nuptials in Salt Lake City, Hughes had sent three telegrams, one to Jameson, one to Winnifred Justin, and one to Leighselle. He’d asked all three to respond as soon as possible, and to send their replies to the office in Saint Joseph, Missouri, where he and Barleigh would be catching a stagecoach for San Antonio.

  “If Leighselle still doesn’t want to see you, and I can’t imagine her not wanting to, after I tell her our news, then, we’ll have to accept her decision,” he’d said. “But I’m going to do my damnedest to see that you and your mother are reunited.”

  After one last night at the Salt Lake House Hotel, Barleigh sleeping in the room on the other side of the wall from the room reserved for Express riders, they made a final stop at the Mercantile. While Barleigh purchased supplies, Hughes arranged for a gift to be delivered to Mario Russo, the signature card reading, “I hope these woolies will keep your toes warm for many winters to come.” Then, off they went, riding hard for Saint Joe. They changed ponies at the express stations, retracing backward Barleigh’s and Stoney’s first ride into Utah Territory.

  *****

  Winnifred’s telegram read:

  Congratulations my darlings. I shall head to San Antonio with Starling and be prepared to stay several weeks. Will be leaving Hog Mountain Ranch in Esperanza’s and Julio’s capable hands. Should be in San Antonio by Christmas. Will send telegram to Jameson at the Menger Hotel as you instructed. Love, Aunt Winnie.

  Jameson’s telegram read:

  My best to the happy couple. Unfortunately, Miss Beauclaire’s condition worsens each day. Time is of the essence if a reunion is possible. I’ve received Mrs. Justin’s telegram and have secured a room for her adjacent to Miss Beauclaire’s. Do Hurry.

  Leighselle’s telegram was the one Barleigh lingered over. Reread. Folded and unfolded, over again. She silently mouthed the words “I love you, Mother” to see how they felt in her mouth, in her mind. Each time she spoke the words, they became more a part of her, taking root in her heart, growing a fraction with each beat and pulse.

  Hughes leaned forward, lifting her chin, seeking Barleigh’s eye. “Darling, say it aloud. Practice how it feels to hear them spoken.”

  “Not yet. I don’t want to jinx anything.” Barleigh smoothed the paper on her lap and read it again.

  Leighselle’s message read:

  I’m so happy for both of you. How very perfect. Hughes, I understand why you told Barleigh. Yes, you HAD to! I should never have asked you not to in the first place. I wish for nothing but to get to see her again, to get to hold her again, before I leave this world behind. She sounds like a remarkable young woman. Tell her that I love her, have loved her always, until I can tell her myself, face-to-face. I’m doing my best to hang on. Please do your very best to hurry.

  *****

  The Menger Hotel was congested with hordes of people in town for the holiday season. Hughes took Barleigh’s hand and led her through the crowded lobby full of festive folks in high spirits, past the shiny black grand piano, and toward the back stairwell. Taking them two at a time, he pulled her along with him. The burgundy and pink floral carpeting muffled the sound of their feet as they ran down the hall toward Hughes’s old room, the room Leighselle now kept.

  Standing before the door, Hughes looked at Barleigh and said, “Are you ready for this?”

  She leaned past him and pounded on the door. “What does that tell you?” She smiled at him. “Yes. I’m ready.”

  After a long pause, Hughes knocked again. “Hello?”

  They waited, their eyes meeting, holding, then separating.

  Hughes knocked on the door, more insistent, speaking into the crack of the door frame. “Leighselle? Are you in there?”

  Barleigh stood next to him, a gloved hand pressed to her mouth.

  Hughes put a hand on the doorknob and turned. It opened. He pushed the door into the cold, dark room that smelled of lavender and lye. He stepped inside, looking around, taking note of what he was seeing, of what he was not seeing.

  Easing out into the hallway, he turned to Barleigh, shaking his head. “The bed’s been striped to the mattress. No coals or ashes in the fireplace. It smells of rubbing alcohol and lye soap. This room’s been vacant for a while.”

  “After all we did to get here, and we’re too late.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “Darling, I’m so sorry,” he said, swallowing hard, holding back his own emotion.

  “We didn’t make it in time. I knew it. I knew as soon as I gave in to the notion of loving her that she’d, she’d . . . .”

  Hughes took her in his arms and held her tight against his chest. “I’m so sorry, my love.”

  “I should have said it aloud. I should have set the words free, that I loved her. Then, they would be out there floating around somewhere, and might find their way to her.” Barleigh pulled her face into Hughes’s lapels and sobbed.

  “Let’s go find Jameson and Winnie,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “I’m sorry. I hate that I didn’t get you here sooner.” He closed the door behind them.

  They looked into the room next door, after knocking and getting no answer. Barleigh recognized the coat and hat on one bed, and on the floor was a baby’s doll.

  “Well, at least we know Aunt Winnie and Starling have arrived. I wonder where they are.” Barleigh picked up Starling’s doll, placing it on the other bed.

  “It’s lunchtime. Let’s head down to the Colonial Room, if we don’t find Jameson in his room first.”

  Jameson didn’t answer the knock at his door, so Barleigh and Hughes made their way to the crowded Colonial Room. Tables of jovial hotel guests filled the room with boisterous conversations and bright laughter while dining on a sumptuous feast.

  “I don’t see Aunt Winnie,” said Barleigh, glancing around the room.

  Hughes turned around in a slow, complete sweep of the room, eyeing each table. “Jameson isn’t here, either. Perhaps they’ve chosen the patio.” He put his hand on Barleigh’s back and steered her toward the side door.

  Sunshine poked through thick palm fronds that hovered over the patio, creating a soft and inviting shade, the winter temperature in San Antonio still pleasant for outdoor dining. At the farthest end and away from the door, Hughes spotted a table. White pressed linen cloths and silver butler service gleamed. Crystal glasses sparkled. A floral arrangement was placed in the center, the candle awaiting the need for a fire.

  Jameson, with his back to the wall for observing the comings and goings of others, stood and waved them over as soon as he saw Hughes.

  To James
on’s left and right sat two well-dressed women, one holding an infant, the other sipping from a sugar-rimmed, cut-crystal glass of lemonade, with an infusion of dark amber liquid swirling throughout. Both women looked up and smiled.

  Barleigh’s breath caught in her throat. She reached for Hughes’s hand, but her eyes were on the frail, thin woman sitting at the table across from Aunt Winnie who was sipping the lemonade. The delicate woman, whose smile, fine features, and cat-like eyes mirrored her own, held Starling against her shoulder, patting the baby’s back, a half-empty bottle of milk on the table.

  “That’s her. That’s my mother,” said Barleigh, knowing, not asking.

  “Indeed, she is. Leighselle Beauclaire has surprised me yet again,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled.

  While the crowd of festive holiday travelers dined on their opulent feasts and the wait staff bore plates and trays of food and drink to and from tables, a beaming Hughes Lévesque took his wife by the hand, and together they made their way to the table at the far end of the sun-drenched patio.

  <<<<>>>>>

  Acknowledgments

  While this book is a work of fiction and the characters are figments of my imagination, the swing stations and home stations mentioned are accurate according to the Pony Express route, and two actual riders are mentioned by name, Eagan and Haslan. The experiences my characters endure along the Pony Express trail are fabricated; however, some mirror purported factual events, such as the wolf scene where the rider was saved by bugling his horn to frighten away predators. Efforts to censor the mail, tamper with the mail, and steal the mail were abundant during the prewar years; however, the conspiracy specifically targeting President Lincoln’s letters to California began as a seed of my imagination and grew into an actual plot.

  Research for this book was made easy by two valuable and enjoyable resources: The Pony Express Trail: Yesterday and Today, by William E. Hill, and Orphans Preferred, by Christopher Corbett. I kept Mr. Hill’s book open and on my desk for three years and would refer to it many times for his invaluable insight regarding particular stations and trail conditions along the route. And, in an NPR interview about his book Orphans Preferred, Mr. Corbett’s words fueled my imagination when he said: “The history of the Pony Express is rooted in fact, but layered in fiction.” Hearing his interview spurred me to do two things: purchase his book, which was a fun and fascinating read, and then it motivated me to throw my own hat in the ring and add another layer to the fiction and the myth of the Pony Express.