“I hadn’t mentioned that yet.” Martin had no business sharing her situation, and she lifted her chin. “I came to Chelan hoping to find him. Only I’ve learned he left before I arrived. Do you have any news of him, Pastor Saunders?”
At that point, the two oldest children got into an argument that required their father’s intervention. After that, Mrs. Saunders called them in to dinner. Before they sat down, Pastor Saunders took Caroline aside. “We’ll talk about your father after we eat.”
Caroline’s heart pounded, wondering how she could follow dinner conversation while she waited for the pastor’s news. Martin smiled at her, and she knew what would occupy her mind.
Pastor Saunders led the children in a review of what they learned in Sunday school, the story of Jesus at the home of Mary and Martha. The eldest, a girl, said, “Sometimes housekeeping isn’t the most important thing.” She raised her gaze to her mother as if asking a question.
“Memorize the first Psalm and you don’t have to do the dishes that day.”
The girl, who would be a pretty little thing in a few years, beamed. The next child, a boy, said, “If I memorize Psalm 1, what do I get, Papa?”
“The knowledge of the Lord.” His son’s face fell, and his father said, “If you learn it word perfect, without a single mistake, you won’t have to muck the stalls for two days.”
Frowning, his sister flounced in her chair. “Why does he get two days off and I only get one?”
Curious, Caroline waited for his answer.
“I can guess,” the other daughter said. “He’s younger than you are. Besides, you like to memorize stuff. Stevie has to work hard at it.”
“And aren’t you the smart one.”
The younger girl squirmed with pleasure at her father’s praise. He had rewarded each child differently, each suited to their personalities.
What might her father have said? Would she ever know?
Sunday afternoon flew by. Martin never did get time alone with Caroline as he had hoped. Pastor Saunders had a soft spot for young lovers, but Caroline was more interested in learning about her father than in talking with Martin.
All too soon, Martin had to leave to allow for winter’s shortened daylight. Caroline followed him out of the parsonage. “Are you faring well? Have you had any more riders?”
“Three, in spite of the snow.” Martin took great pride in the success of the Pony Express. “But no word of your father. I did ask them to pass the news up and down the line.”
“Thank you.” She nodded, appreciation shining in her eyes. “And I can’t thank you adequately for your hospitality over Christmas. You treated me very kindly at a difficult time. Without you and Sally, I’m not certain what would have happened to me.”
“It was my pleasure.” His eyes searched hers, seeking an answering spark that would give him hope. Not finding it, her eager appreciation would have to satisfy him for now. “Your father’s handwriting is difficult for me to read. I’m copying it so that I can gain a better sense of what he wrote. And to make it easier for you.”
“Next week, perhaps?” Her eyes lit up like a child’s does when begging for candy from her mother.
“I’m sorry. Look at each day lost as an opportunity to prepare for your meeting. Is the journal helpful at all?”
Unwilling to meet his eyes, she glanced away. “I don’t know the answer to that yet. Ask me next week.”
Something troubled her, but the journal might reveal truths better left hidden. Once again Martin questioned his decision to give her the book. They said their goodbyes and he departed.
No business awaited Martin at the station, so he continued copying the journal. The thought of a delivery system to carry mail from coast to coast in ten days had enthralled Adams.
Martin glanced at the map, and at the thin strip that made up the original thirteen colonies. When they arrived, they faced untouched wilderness and unfriendly natives before them and the sea at their backs. How long did it take for a ship to cross the Atlantic? Weeks? Months? Perhaps in another two hundred years, Kansas and the even wilder land crossing the plains and the mountains would be equally settled. What a thought.
George Adams bought himself an appointment as stationmaster by providing the Pony Express with a dozen well-bred horses, promised to be sturdy and fast. What had happened to the horses? Where had they gone? Had that prompted George’s abrupt departure in some way?
Martin had read the same description of the Chelan Station that George had. George had improved it, turning the lean-to into a building appropriate for housing people and horses. He added sketches of the station as he built it, along with accounts of the busy times and the doldrums of everyday life. George had a New Testament, but wished he also had Psalms and Proverbs. Each time he went to church, he copied a psalm.
Then he skipped a Sunday service, and the next record sent shock waves through Martin’s chest. Curse the day I ever stumbled upon Dan Dawson.
Martin slammed the book shut and climbed a ladder to set it as far away from him as possible. If not for Caroline, he would have burned it. He couldn’t read another word, not without risk to his own soul.
Dan Dawson must be the root of the answer to “Where is George Adams?” If so, it was a story no daughter should have to hear.
Martin would rather ride the Pony Express through a blizzard than face the demons that the name Dan Dawson let loose in him. Martin had fled Dawson’s presence when the Lord got ahold of him. If he’d stayed, he would have been caught in his traps as soon as he drew his next paycheck.
Dapper Dan’s laugh followed Martin after their last meeting. “You can run, boy, but you can’t hide.”
Dawson slipped from Martin’s mind as the station got busy. As each of the five riders passed through, Martin spoke with him about Caroline’s father. One of them recognized the name, but couldn’t place the time or place. They all promised to ask along the route.
A different rider—an older man, with some hard years behind him, Jimmy Dewitt—stopped by on Thursday. “I thought you’d like to know that Dapper Dan Dawson was up at Fort Kearny, looking for after that Adams feller you’re asking about. He’s heading this way.”
Martin thought about warning the townsfolk, but decided against it. Rumors suggested Dawson had been in town before but didn’t stay long. The thought of the man chasing after Caroline scared Martin. But before he could help her, before he confronted the man who had dragged him down, he had to finish George’s diary.
Martin’s stomach twisted as he read George’s account of Dawson’s arrival in Horse Flicker. Apparently the two men had met before.
If that was true, George should have kept his distance. But all too soon he succumbed to the lure. He lost some, won more, then lost twice as much. He wrote with the ardor of a man who believed his luck would turn with the next card—promising this was the very last time.
Dawson reeled him in, money on the hook more tempting than a worm to a fish, until the highest-stakes game so far. George hadn’t written the details, only the result: a staggering twenty thousand dollars in debt. He’d left his journal, grabbed his horse, and run, the debt unsettled.
Martin reached the end of the journal and made a neat pile of the pages he had copied. All the while he brainstormed ways to settle the debt, to make a new life possible for Caroline and her father.
At last the solution came to him. So simple, he laughed.
So why was he terrified?
Chapter Seven
Caroline closed her father’s journal. If only she could ride to Chelan and grab the last section from Martin. She clung to tendrils of hope that they would contain clues to her father’s whereabouts, although her hopes had dwindled with each page.
Plans to return home filled the early pages. His sadness at missing her sixth birthday made her cry. He expressed regret when she turned seven. On her tenth birthday, he mourned the mess he had made of his life, how he had missed half of his daughter’s life. He promised hims
elf to return before the year had passed.
His good intentions fell in the dust of another horse race, a deck of cards, a steamboat. He was the handsome hero of his own melodrama, caught in the evils of cards and rum. In fiction, a heroine saved him through her love and her faith. Poor Papa. Only Mama had tried.
As the years passed, Papa had enjoyed the company of a few ladies, pages that Caroline skipped as her face flamed. She thanked God Mama had never known the truth. But none of them had helped him change his ways.
The journal also revealed a man who enjoyed the world God had created. He described places and animals so clearly she could see them in her mind. He recorded Bible quotes along with his gambling debts. Oh, Papa.
Around her eighteenth birthday, Papa mentioned young women he encountered, wondering what Caroline might look like. Had her hair remained the carrot-top color of her childhood? Had her eyes as blue as the ocean changed shades? How tall had she grown? Perhaps she resembled her mother at her age.
Caroline slammed the journal shut before her tears smeared the ink. At least he was thinking about her. She had her mother’s figure—she prayed she also exhibited her mother’s sweetness, grace, compassion, strength of spirit. Her features marked as her father’s child, an Adams. A blessing, Mama said, because they couldn’t deny her.
As Caroline’s twenty-first birthday approached, Papa seemed to have a genuine change of heart, where God intervened and took up residence. That’s when he took the station at Chelan—and that’s where her portion of the journal ended.
Martin expected to finish reading his pages this week. If he did, he would bring it to her on Sunday if not earlier. Several times a day she glanced out the windows, hoping to catch sight of Martin.
The days had settled into a pleasant routine. During the noontime rush, Caroline waited on tables. The locals, especially those attending the same church, had become familiar faces, good folk for the most part.
After Caroline carried plates to the sink, she dived into the sudsy water. The kitchen door opened, delicious aromas teasing her with Sally’s latest soup. “Look at you, up to your elbows in dishwater. The Lord blessed me the day He brought you into my life.”
“I’d hug you if my arms weren’t wet. The feeling is mutual.” She loved Sally, liked her job, and thanked the Lord daily for providing both work and a place to live. If only she didn’t feel the need to find her father or wish that Martin showed up in town more often.
“Looking out that door ain’t goin’ to bring him to you,” Sally said.
“Bring whom?” Caroline shook her head, and a copper curl fell into her eyes. She wasn’t fooling anyone. “I’m just looking around while I’m drying the dishes.” When she finished stacking the dishes and headed back to the dining room, Martin was waiting at the counter.
Nonplussed that she hadn’t seen him enter the restaurant, Caroline grabbed her order pad. “Take a seat wherever you like. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Sally called to Caroline from the kitchen. “Take a break and sit with Martin.”
Heat rushed through Caroline’s face faster than the heat from the stove. “I can’t do that. We’re too busy.” Nonetheless, she peeked through the swinging door. Martin had chosen a booth.
Not only that, but he reached inside his coat and withdrew a small book, her father’s journal. His face looked colder than coal in the scuttle. Her hand went to her mouth, and she didn’t move.
“Go ahead, dear. The two of you need to talk.” Sally gave Caroline a comforting hug. “My prayers are with you.”
Fear squeezed Caroline’s heart as she approached his table, a cup of coffee in each hand. “Do you have news for me?” She slipped onto the seat across from him.
“I do.” The words came out chopped, forced through his teeth. He cleared his throat. “Do you mind if I order lunch first?”
“Oh, of course.”
Before Caroline could stand, Sally appeared at the table. “I brought you a bowl of stew. It’s the special of the day. And save room for dessert.” She winked. “Just give me a wave if you need anything.”
Martin bowed his head to say grace and started on his stew. “Are you hungry?”
Caroline shook her head. Even if she had missed her midday meal, her nerves wouldn’t allow her to eat. All she could think about was the pages Martin kept firmly under his hand.
Eventually he slowed down and set the bowl aside. “So.”
She rolled coffee around her mouth for a moment and swallowed before speaking. “You don’t have to worry about hurting my feelings. I already know my father is a gambler and he’s had other women.” In spite of the coffee, her voice was as dry as parched dirt. Her throat hurt from pushing such awful words from her throat.
If Caroline hoped her words would help Martin relax, they didn’t. He nodded in acceptance, but still didn’t speak. He turned the pages of the journal over twice before pushing them to her.
“Did they give you any idea about where he might have gone?” He must have learned something new.
He shook his head without looking up. When at last he raised his eyes, pain laced his irises, pain that struck deep into his soul. “I didn’t learn where he went. But I did learn why he left.”
Gentle heat crept up Caroline’s face. “Gambling debts again?” Or something worse? Why was Martin so hesitant?
Martin blew out his breath. The earlier pages of the diary had probably mentioned Dawson, but he couldn’t bring himself to say the name. Martin rationalized his decision because Dawson’s arrival only explained why George had left Chelan Station, not where he had gone. Since she already knew so much, why add unanswered questions?
Instead, Martin reached inside a mochila for a thick sheaf of papers. “Since the handwriting deteriorated, I copied your father’s pages, my best interpretation of what he wrote. I thought it might make it easier for you to read.”
“Thank you.” She reached for the pages as if he might toss them to the wind. Which version would she read?
The secret connection between Martin and George weighed on his heart. The words threatened to spill out, but why relieve himself of his burden when it couldn’t bring Caroline’s father back?
Martin looked into those blue eyes, trusting, hopeful, and cursed himself for even thinking about it. “I have one piece of news, if you’ll promise you won’t run after your father in the middle of the Kansas winter.”
Eyes widened and mouth flattened, she raised her chin. “If I don’t follow him, how can I be sure he won’t leave before the snow breaks?”
Martin bit back a laugh. “Because the same weather that keeps you close to home affects him. He is no young rider ready to brave the elements in spite of the weather.”
“So you do know where he is?” She had caught up with the implication of what he said.
“Not an exact location, but one of the riders heard rumors.”
Her eyes brightened as fierce as a ray of sunshine. “What did he hear? Where? Tell me.”
Martin flattened his hands on the table. “I am seeking confirmation on the rumor before we take action.”
She started to protest, then she repeated the word. “We? This is my search, mine alone.”
“I don’t know who allowed you to travel halfway across the country because you thought your father was at Chelan Station. But I won’t let you leave Horse Flicker to follow a tumbleweed.”
The restaurant had largely emptied. Sally buffed the counter and cleaned the tables, but Martin bet she could repeat every word of their conversation. “Sally, how about some coffee and a piece of cake?”
Sally bustled in their direction with the requested items. “Sweetest Caroline, if you try to leave in the middle of winter, there’s be a line down Main Street to keep you here, starting with Martin and ending with Pastor Saunders. We want to help you, but you have to wait for the right time.”
Caroline’s back stiffened. “I got this far on my own. You can’t stop me.”
“By
the grace of God. Don’t test Him by this foolishness.” Martin’s heart lurched at the possibility of Caroline leaving. Every instinct in him wanted to tell her to stay put and be sensible and let him take care of her.
But when he remembered why she shouldn’t trust him as much as she did, his angry shell shattered. “No, I can’t stop you. You’re like your father, leaving everyone who cares about you behind.” He kept his voice harsh on purpose.
Caroline sank against the back of the bench.
Sally’s eyes threw daggers at Martin. “I must ask you to leave. Don’t come back until you’re ready to talk sense.” She twisted and spoke to Caroline. “You’d better come to your senses, too, young lady, if you know what’s good for you.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll wait until you’re ready to talk sense.” Martin grabbed his hat, shrugged on his coat, and headed out the door. Once on his horse, he stared up and down the street. Duty told him to get back to work.
The storm-cloud sky taunted him. God seemed as distant and cold as the weather, but Martin needed His help now more than ever. With the storm looming, he should head home soon, but first he must go to church. God might not seem so far away in His house.
Freezing temperatures had kept snow in the yard and ice frozen in ruts in the streets. Two giants stood by the parsonage, a man and a woman. The thought of the preacher building playful figures brought a smile to Martin’s face. Saunders was a good father and an even better man, one who inspired others to good works by example and by words.
Martin slipped into the church. White light slipped through the windows, casting shadows on the empty cross at the front of the church, a reminder of the risen savior and new life in Christ.
Put off the old life. Put on the new. Paul said something like that, as if doing God’s will was as easy as changing clothes. The laundry already’d been done, clothes made pure and clean by the blood of Christ.
Compelled by the cross, Martin walked forward one pew at a time. O wretched man that he was. He didn’t think he’d be struggling with the old temptations like this again. He paused at the front pew, thinking of the day he’d arrived in Chelan Station. The four months here was the longest time he had stayed away from the poker table in his life. He’d begun to dream he could enjoy an ordinary life—a solid farmer, with a wife and family and growing things. Until the prettiest little thing he’d ever met and the first to tickle his interest turned out to be a gambler’s daughter.
The Pony Express Romance Collection Page 17
