“Do I look all right?” Sadie twirled slowly in front of Greta, smoothing the blue fabric of her dress.
“It brings out the color of your eyes. Beautiful.” Greta clapped her hands. “I look like a daffodil.”
They had taken one of Greta’s former profession dresses and did their best to make it modest with lace and fabric from other dresses. She did indeed look like a daffodil sitting on top of a violet, but the contrast of colors wasn’t unpleasing and was sure to make Eagle lose his breath. “You look lovely.”
“Mama.” Ruth thrust out a handful of wildflowers. “I picked these for you.”
Sadie bent low and kissed her cheek. “How thoughtful.”
“I got some for Greta, too.” She held them out. “Everyone is ready. You take too long.”
“The preacher hasn’t arrived yet, sweetie. It will be a bit longer.” Which worried Sadie. The coach was an hour late. She’d already peeked out the window and spotted Luke pacing. He seemed as nervous as she.
What if the threat of Indian dangers wasn’t over? If Luke stayed, giving up the safety of the city, and something happened to him, she’d never forgive herself.
“Don’t worry, Sadie.” Greta hugged her. “The stagecoach will come and we’ll be married today. I hope the preacher doesn’t have anything against performing the ceremony for an Indian.”
“If he does, we’ll have an Indian ceremony.” Sadie turned. “You, too, will be married today.”
The rumble of wheels outside lifted Sadie’s heart. The preacher had arrived. Within minutes, Dr. Stetson waltzed into the room.
“That boy of mine is carving a new path in the ground. We’d best get you hitched.” He crooked his arm for Sadie to slip hers through. “You, too, Greta. The preacher has no qualms about Mr. Eagle. I’m the proudest man in Kansas, giving away two beautiful women. If you find an older woman half as brave as either of you, mention my name.”
Sadie giggled. “Will do…Father.”
He clasped a hand to his chest. “You do this old man good, Sadie. I’ve always wanted a daughter. Now I have two, and a lovely granddaughter and a fine grandson.”
Cheeks hurting from her large grin, Sadie hugged his arm and let him lead her to where the others waited in back of the house. She’d chosen the spot by the creek. At that time of day, the sun dappled the ground with rays of gold and the water sparkled.
Dr. Stetson placed her hand in Luke’s and Greta’s in Eagle’s, then joined the children and Mark as witnesses.
Already tears filled Sadie’s eyes, and the pastor had done nothing more than welcome them to God’s church. She raised her face to meet Luke’s shimmering eyes.
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you,” she replied.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered…”
Dear Reader,
Two miles east of Hanover on SR243, Hollenberg Pony Express Station State Historic Site is the only unaltered Pony Express station remaining in its original location. This most westerly Pony Express station in Kansas, 123 miles west from St. Joseph, was also called Cottonwood Station because of its proximity to Cottonwood Creek. Past this site ran the Oregon-California Trail, which was also the road to Fort Kearny, Nebraska. It was one of the most traveled routes to the West. It was here that Gerat H. Hollenberg erected a building in 1857 or 1858, believed to be the first house built in the county. It became his family home, a neighborhood store, a tavern, a stage station for the Overland Express, and in 1860 a station for the Pony Express.
The station was a long frame structure with six rooms on the ground floor. In one of them Hollenberg kept a small stack of groceries and dry goods and operated as an unofficial post office. Another room served as a bar and tavern. The rest of the rooms were used for family living. Upstairs a loft ran the length of the building where stagecoach and Pony Express employees had a common sleeping room. Nearby was a large stable where fresh mounts were kept for the riders.
For the sake of my story, I kept this as Cottonwood Station and made the place a trading post and home for the family. I hope you enjoyed the story and this jaunt into history.
Sincerely,
Cynthia Hickey
Cynthia Hickey grew up in a family of storytellers and moved around the country a lot as an army brat. Her desire is to write about real but flawed characters in a wholesome way that her seven children and five grandchildren can all be proud of. She and her husband live in Arizona where Cynthia is a full-time writer.
My Dear Adora
by Maureen Lang
Chapter One
San Francisco Spring, 1862
Chip Nolan tied his horse to the hitching rope then stepped to the sidewalk in front of the tall post office door. A breeze whipped up, and Chip’s hand went to the breast pocket of his shirt, a habit he’d developed to protect its contents. The pages of the letter might be tissue-thin, but even San Francisco’s sandy wind couldn’t rip it from beneath his pocket flap.
Instead of going inside, Chip turned to peruse the area. San Francisco was the last stop on his honor mission, and as eager as he was to meet the last recipient, he couldn’t deny other reactions pooling inside: impatience, anticipation, pride, and dismay. It wasn’t just because this was the only personal letter he’d promised to deliver from his little brother’s stolen mochila; it was the letter itself. The life in it, the obvious love, not to mention an implication that might very well change this particular recipient’s life forever.
He’d never been to San Francisco, despite having visited California on more than one occasion. He supposed his old days with the wagon trains—guiding fortune seekers of one kind or another—had been the real start of this latest journey. If the adventures of his own youth hadn’t inspired that same wanderlust in his brother Lewy, none of this would have happened.
Enough delay. It wasn’t as if Chip would spot her on the street, just as easy as that. He didn’t even know what she looked like. San Francisco was a big city now, even if most of its residents were as transient as he. In any case, Chip wouldn’t find her just standing there.
The post office was an impressive building with its stone facade. This town being so big meant he’d have a harder time than he expected in finishing his task.
Stepping inside, he took a place in line. He was surprised at the number of women and children. Those gold seekers must have been busy sending for wives and daughters! Tales he’d heard of this town only a few short years ago sure didn’t fit now.
“Help you?”
Chip stepped up to the counter, by habit tapping the folded letter still warmed at his chest. “I wonder if you could help me find someone here in town? I’m looking for a woman by the name of Adora. Adora Denley.”
The man tilted his head, staring at Chip as if trying to determine if he were sane. Well, perhaps he wasn’t. But this wasn’t any fool’s mission, that much he knew.
“You got more than a name, mister? You got an address?”
If I had that… He held back the retort. “She lives in a boardinghouse. That’s all I know.”
At first Chip thought the clerk’s laughter had echoed off the high ceiling, but it wasn’t an echo; it was a chorus. At least two of the customers behind Chip had joined in.
“Half the town lives in one kind of boardinghouse or another,” said the clerk. “You’re gonna need more than that if you expect to find her any time quick.”
“What happened, mister?” cut in a younger man from the line. “You lose your girl to the gold mines? Kinda backward if you ask me.” He laughed at his own quip.
“I have a delivery,” Chip said. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to know where to find some of the boardinghouses you’re talking about. Respectable ones.”
Another snicker from the youth. “Well, that cuts the list.”
“By half!” said another customer, an older man, farther down the line.
The clerk scribbled something on a slip of paper. “Here’s directions to Kearny Street,” h
e said. “That’s respectable enough. Just south of Market. Stay away from the Barbary Coast; those houses either aren’t the kind you’re looking for or they take only sailors.”
Chip accepted the note, extending his thanks before turning on his way.
My dear Adora. The opening words of the letter from his pocket sang once again through his mind. I’ll find you—and soon!
Adora Denley slid the bacon-and-oyster-laced omelet onto a plate barely big enough to hold it. Then, gripping it at each side with the towel already in her hand, she left Roseleen’s small kitchen to deliver this one herself. It wasn’t every day she made a Hangtown Fry, and Roseleen’s newest boarder had already won her heart.
Cheers erupted in the boardinghouse dining room the moment she entered. Jed Malone was near sixty if he was a day, and he’d been among the first of the forty-niners who came west in search of gold over a dozen years ago. According to Roseleen, he more than anyone had seen other miners give up or cave in and go to work for one of the bigger mines. But Jed had stuck with it and just yesterday had come back to town with a small fortune—not in gold but silver. He’d be a rich man, at least for a while, as long as his findings weren’t gambled or swindled away. Jed didn’t look the type to be so foolish.
Adora sighed, watching him devour the meal to the cheers of what were surely new friends. Until today, Adora herself had only heard of him and couldn’t call herself a true friend. He’d stayed at Roseleen’s place off and on for years, though not since Adora had arrived only five months ago. Roseleen liked to talk about all of the boarders she’d taken in over the years, the nice and the no-good, the kind or the coarse, but Jed was among her favorites. That had made him a favorite of Adora’s before she’d met him. Since he’d introduced himself earlier he’d proven both kind and generous, paying double for his meal and insisting Adora keep the difference for herself.
For the first time in a long while, she didn’t struggle to feel happiness for a fellow human being. She couldn’t help but believe things were looking up for her, too. She may not have struck gold, but pleasant thoughts of recent weeks made her feel as though she had.
She glanced at the grandfather clock that stood in the boardinghouse foyer, visible because the pocket doors of the dining room were pulled aside. Nearly four o’clock. Dirk had promised to take her to dinner tonight, at no less than the elegant supper room at the brand-new Occidental Hotel. She’d never even peeked inside, and tonight she would go as a guest. It was the nicest thing to have happen since the hopes she’d brought with her had been dashed. Her dreams hadn’t been as grand as those carried by forty-niners like Jed, but seeing them crushed was surely just as hard.
“Got another pork chop order,” called Roseleen from a table in the corner filled with the most raucous of the afternoon crowd. “Four!”
Adora hurried back to the kitchen. It was a good thing no one seemed to mind her simple cooking, or she wouldn’t be able to afford her rented room. Meat, fish, potatoes, eggs, bacon: she could handle all of that, despite the fact she hadn’t cooked a single meal in her life before her arrival. Thankfully Roseleen preferred serving the city’s sourdough bread, already made at Boudin’s, sparing Adora from conquering a new baking frontier. Roseleen herself created an occasional cake when they had the ingredients; it was the one thing that could get her into the kitchen without a scowl.
By the time eight bells chimed on the clock, Adora was scrubbed and changed into her best dress, having forgotten her fatigue after nearly twelve hours in the kitchen. She came downstairs in expectation of Dirk’s arrival—he was never, ever late—and found Roseleen in the parlor with Jed. The older man stood when she entered, reminding her of the manners she so rarely saw since leaving the Midwest.
“My, don’t you look pretty, Miss Denley,” said Jed. “Guess I can’t hope you got all gussied up for the benefit of a coot like me.”
Roseleen’s laughter beat any response Adora could conjure. “No, sir. She’s got herself a beau!”
Adora’s cheeks warmed, and once again she was thankful the Lord had led her to Roseleen’s place after her disastrous first few weeks in town. “He is rather…attentive,” she admitted, studying the stitches on her handbag instead of meeting anyone’s gaze.
Just then she heard footsteps on the porch, but before any knock could be heard Roseleen rose from her chair and whisked Adora from the room—not, however, toward the foyer but to the hall that led to the rooms she called her own, directly behind the parlor.
“Your hair needs a little fixing,” she said in a whisper then ushered Adora along.
“But—Dirk—”
“Is a gentleman and will wait,” said Roseleen as she went to the dresser in her room and took up a comb. It was odd to think her hair might need tending. Adora had inspected herself in the mirror above her dresser three times while she waited for the right time to come downstairs.
Still, Roseleen fussed with the back of her hair whether it was needed or not. Adora had pulled some of her light brown hair back and tied it with a ribbon, letting the bulk of it flow free over her shoulders. Roseleen combed it lightly.
“Won’t be any harm in making him wait for once,” said Roseleen. “You take it from me, Adora. I don’t care how eligible Mr. Dirk Stanford might be. He shouldn’t think you’re all his just yet.”
Now it was Adora’s turn to laugh. “I’ve never met such a man! It’s as if we share the same memories, since he grew up in Indiana. That’s right next to Ohio, you know, and when he talks of his family they sound just like my own. He always had a dog, just like our family. He rode horses, just like I did. He lived near water, just like—”
Roseleen turned Adora around again, taking her chin between her thumb and forefinger. “You listen to me, young lady. He’s an eager one—I can see that from how often he comes ’round. But there’s no reason you need to hurry into anything serious now, is there? You’ve got a roof over your head, all the food you want. Take your time; that’s all I’m saying.”
Roseleen had taken Adora under her wing when Adora hadn’t a friend and very little money left. The days in the kitchen were long, it was true, but she owed the older woman a debt of gratitude. Besides, part of her was in full accordance with Roseleen’s words. After what happened to Adora here in San Francisco—with a school board member no less!—she wasn’t eager to trust any man yet.
“I will, Roseleen.”
“All right.” She twirled Adora around again, but instead of pointing her to the door she continued tending her hair. “He can wait just a tad bit longer then.”
Chapter Two
On Sunday morning, Chip woke with a start. Instinctively his right hand went to where his breast pocket should be, but he wasn’t on the trail, sleeping in his shirt. He’d left his shirt with the boardinghouse landlady to be laundered.
That dream again! Surely he would put an end to all of this within the next few days, one way or another.
Still, as he lay back upon the pillow in the Arlington boardinghouse, he couldn’t resist dwelling on the images that wakefulness should banish. He’d never seen Adora; how could he dream of her? And yet somehow he possessed an image of her, as obscure as if seeing her through a famous San Francisco fog. First as a little girl frolicking with her family and their dog, then as the young woman riding her favorite mare or enjoying a crisp winter day skating on their family pond, or in summer dipping her toes in the cool spring water.
No sense trying to sleep again. He sat up, reaching for a candle to light at his bedside. The room was as small as a closet, but it was private and that was enough for him. In the light of the candle, he reached for his saddlebag and withdrew the letter.
Unlike all of his previous deliveries, Chip had read this one. Honor would have forbidden him doing so, just as he hadn’t read the other impersonal business correspondences once entrusted to his brother and the Pony Express delivery system. But this one had a torn, nearly destroyed envelope—no doubt a victim of the violent thieves
who had stolen the entire load and left Chip’s brother for dead. There simply was no other way to deliver this one except to read it in hopes of figuring out where it should go.
This was different in every way from the other missives he’d rescued. Those had been sent by businesses. Professional documents, contract proposals, news pertaining to one enterprise or another. Each and every business owner had been impressed, astounded even, that Chip had hunted down his little brother’s stolen mochila, the saddle pack filled with mail he’d been carrying as a Pony Express rider. That robbery had crushed Lewy’s pride since he was one of so few riders to lose his packet. Lewy was too young to live with that kind of shame, and so Chip sought to restore his honor by completing the deliveries.
Chip ought not read the letter again. Learning what he needed—the name and a reference to her location—should have been enough. On this three-month journey, he’d read the letter a half-dozen times. Indeed, he could practically recite from memory the three tissue-thin pages. But he unfolded it anyway, treating the sheets as if they were sacred. In a way, they were.
My dear Adora,
How your father and I have missed you! Yes, I surely include Father because your departure has reminded him of the love he’s always carried in his heart for you. Do you recall, my dear, dear Adora, how you sat upon his shoulders when you were little? Goodness, how Maxie barked for fear he’d drop you! How you and little Maxie loved to cool yourselves by the lake on a hot summer afternoon. And when the water froze, you’d go skating with Maxie slipping along behind. Remember how you loved those metal runners Father fashioned that attached to your shoes? And who could forget Father teaching you to ride even when I lost my breath each and every time your horse soared over a hedge? I had to hold Maxie back for fear he’d try jumping impossible heights.
The Pony Express Romance Collection Page 26
