The Pony Express Romance Collection

by Blakey, Barbara Tifft; Davis, Mary; Franklin, Darlene

  “Look out!”

  The shouting above her caused Kimimela to let go of the beam she held and jump back. Two pieces of lumber clattered to the ground.

  “My apologies, Miss Hansen,” said one of the hired hands. The stocky man did better breaking wild mustangs than he did nailing boards into place, but she held no ill feelings toward him.

  “It’s all right, no harm done,” Kimimela replied. She reached for the beam, but the sound of someone approaching made her jump. Since Rayford Montgomery’s notorious visit, the rattling of horse’s reins and hoofbeats often startled her.

  A Pony rider loped into the barnyard. She exhaled the breath she’d held. She went to help the lad make the exchange. When he leaped down from the horse, she grabbed the mail pouch. Besides the missives locked in the mochila, the kid had several pieces of mail from town.

  “Here’s a fresh horse.” Marcus threw a saddle on a new mount. “I’ll pass out these letters. You get going.”

  “Thank you,” the rider replied. Kimimela placed the pouch onto the back of the fresh horse and the rider climbed on. She took a step back as he whirled the animal around and took off down the trail.

  “Here’s two letters for you.” Marcus handed her the envelopes. One was from Greta, but she opened the one from her family first.

  News from her parents caused a warm feeling to radiate through her. She tore open the letter from her father. Her grandmother was sick again, but worse yet, some of the men in the tribe were talking war. They had her mother in quite a stir. He wished she could move back to the reservation, but he thanked her for the money she had sent.

  “I might need to go home, Marcus. Things aren’t well with my family.” Kimimela choked at the lump in her throat, and her eyes smarted with tears. The loss of her sister taught her how much family should be cherished. It saddened her that they never mentioned her in their letters. Sometimes she wished they would. She missed her sister so badly sometimes it felt like her heart would burst from the ache.

  Kimimela read the letter from Greta. Everything was well in Sacramento. She said she’d be back in the spring. That news seemed to buoy her spirits. She’d have to write back to both parties later that night, if she could find the time with all the added chores. Her responses might have to wait.

  Marcus tore open a letter he said was from the company owners and then shared the news with the group. “Seems a reporter will be on the next stage, a woman named Cynthia Dixon from some paper in Chicago. She wants to write a series of articles about the Pony Express.”

  Apprehension wiggled in Kimimela at having a cultured female around, especially one from back east. What would the lady think of their primitive conditions here in the barren lands of Utah Territory? She imagined the woman would bring a measure of refinement to the station. She hoped Miss Dixon wouldn’t stroll around with her nose pointed at the clouds.

  The men finished jawing about the mail and went back to work. They had to be a tired lot, and thirsty, too. Kimimela traipsed to the water pump and drew a bucketful for the workers. When everyone consumed a dipper of the cool, refreshing liquid, she passed the bucket to a smaller rider. He made his way to the water pump, and she went to her room to write a letter to her family.

  Her grandmother was old. What if she didn’t recover? And what if the men in her tribe went to war? All Kimimela could do was mail her letter and wait for a response.

  One week later, the stage arrived and off stepped Miss Cynthia Dixon. The blond woman possessed eyes as blue as two pools of fresh rainwater. A part of Kimimela wanted to get to know this intriguing lady. She feared risking her heart. After all, she still mourned for Louisa. What if she allowed herself to befriend another female? If she died it would crush her, but she was so lonely. Since Gabe had left, she had yearned for companionship. It wouldn’t do any harm to just think about lowering the fences around her heart, right?

  “Good afternoon.” Miss Dixon clasped her gloved hands together and looked straight at Kimimela. The woman sounded so sincere that Kimimela knew she’d have a hard time keeping her feelings reined in. She had pushed Gabe away, and look where that had landed her. Maybe she shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss this smiling dove in blue-flowered calico.

  “Welcome to the Weber Pony Express Station, Miss Dixon,” Kimimela said.

  “Call me Cynthia, please.” The woman’s smile warmed the bitterly cold afternoon.

  Cynthia turned and aided a portly woman from the stage.

  “This is my traveling companion, Mrs. Tressmont. We’re pleased to be here.”

  “Allow me to show you to your room in the main bunkhouse. It’s right next to mine. The hired hands can see to your luggage,” Kimimela said. She marveled at how sweetly Cynthia treated Mrs. Tressmont, guiding her along and fussing over her. Kindness seeped from Cynthia. She even spoke in warm tones to the hired hands and thanked them for helping with her trunks.

  Over the next week, Miss Dixon slowly thawed the ice around Kimimela’s heart.

  “Hello, Cynthia,” Kimimela replied one afternoon while using a tin can with the bottom cut out to make biscuits. Over the course of the afternoon, Kimimela told her new friend how Louisa died from diphtheria, contracted after visiting some white settlers who were sick with the same disease. Sweet Louisa. She had always cared for others and had tried in vain to nurse the sick family back to health.

  The room had grown noticeably colder, and Kimimela placed more wood on the fire in the cookstove. It needed to be hot anyway to bake the biscuits.

  “My sister died, too.” Cynthia fingered the ends of her shawl and then pulled it tighter around her.

  “I’m so sorry,” Kimimela said. And she was sorry. Losing a sister, a best friend, cut one’s heart to shreds. That she was sure of. “What happened? If you don’t mind sharing.”

  “Some poor tormented man shot her during a bank robbery. Killed her right then and there, before I had a chance to get to her and say good-bye. I struggle every day with forgiveness. Part of me wants to hate the man, but that won’t bring my sister back.”

  Tears gathered in Kimimela’s eyes like moisture in a thundercloud. She gulped hard and blinked to keep them contained.

  Cynthia continued. “It will only hurt me in the long run. You know, a wise man once said that harboring bitterness is drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. I don’t want to be so full of hate that I wish someone else to die.”

  Kimimela tried to ignore the hitch in her friend’s voice. A heaviness formed in her stomach like she’d eaten rocks at her last meal.

  “I miss her so bad, some days I don’t know how I’ll go on.” Cynthia dabbed at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief.

  Kimimela stopped cutting biscuits and stared at Cynthia. Her friend understood what it was like to lose a beloved sister? And to the hands of cruel men? All these months Kimimela had considered heartbreak her only companion, one that would stay with her forever. Now Miss Cynthia had given her a whole new perspective on things. Would letting go of hate and bitterness really give her peace, like Cynthia said it would?

  “I need to get these in the oven.” Kimimela placed the pan inside the compartment and shut the door.

  Later that night, after the supper dishes were washed, dried, and put away, Kimimela and Cynthia went for a walk outside. In spite of the cold, a creamy moon hung low in the sky and bathed the backyard in a soft glow. Cynthia shared more about her sister. To Kimimela’s way of thinking, this common loss somehow strengthened the bond between them. She didn’t know how or when it happened, but she considered Cynthia her friend and trusted her.

  Right there under the moonlight, with a bit of nudging from her new friend, Kimimela decided to open her heart and trust God, too.

  The world didn’t look very different after she prayed, but the wisdom Cynthia possessed took time to develop. She did feel a calming peace, though. Cynthia hugged her and then they chatted a few moments about the scriptures. “You know, one verse that really helps me is R
omans 5:3–5. ‘We glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience; And patience, experience; and experience, hope: And hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us.’”

  Kimimela shut her eyes and reveled in the healing words.

  Thoughts of Gabe came to the forefront of her mind, and she asked the Lord to keep him safe. Happiness would flood through her if he came back, but if God saw fit to keep them apart, so be it.

  Kimimela tried not to let that painful possibility cloud her mind, but it did anyway.

  “Whoa, Chance,” Gabe called as he leaped up into the saddle. A recent rainstorm had left everything slicker than a greased pig. Gabe hoped the animal could make the run without tripping and breaking a leg. The mochila he sat on slipped a bit and nearly dumped him to the ground. When Chance regained his footing, they rode off at a pace that wouldn’t win any races but would at least get them to the next station.

  Much as Gabe hated to admit it, he cared deeply for Kimi and missed her. A letter had arrived from Marcus stating that he was needed back at Weber Station. It also contained hints of Kimi, that she might be headed back to Sioux country to be with her people. He had to get back to Weber Station. Maybe she had simmered down since the fire. He hoped so. Going through life with a trunk load of anger and pain would only wear a body, and soul, out.

  He would miss his friends Billy and Daisy Cook, but his friend Johnny agreed to take some runs that would bring him out to Utah Territory someday.

  Five miles outside of the Cold Springs Station, Gabe happened upon a stagecoach stuck in the mud. He wasn’t supposed to stop for anything along the route, but he felt the Lord’s nudging and knew it should only take a minute.

  “Afternoon, looks like you folks could use a hand.” Gabe tied the reins of his horse to a nearby tree. The stage driver had told everyone to exit the vehicle to lighten the load for the horses. The men, along with Gabe, got behind and pushed. After three hearty attempts, the caked mud gave way and the coach rolled free.

  “Thank you kindly,” said a man in a business suit with a stylish gray cravat. “The name’s Webster—pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “I best be getting on.” Gabe hurried toward his horse, but the man followed him and rambled on.

  “I’m a politician from Washington, DC, and several of my colleagues and I are on our way to San Francisco. We work with Indians and well, you’re Indian, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Gabe said slowly with his suspicions rising.

  “I specialize in helping the Indians transition onto the reservations. You seem like a helpful fellow. I’d like to consult with you, get your thoughts on how to make the transitions go smoother.”

  Gabe climbed on his horse. He thought reservations were a bad idea. A white person could settle anywhere he wanted, but an Indian had to settle where the government told him to. He was doing his best to make an honest living. Why should he be forced to abandon his job and go live on some chunk of land and live in poverty?

  “You can usually find me at Weber Station, in Utah Territory. If you ever stop by, and I’m not on a run, I’ll share my thoughts with you, but for now, I really need to go. Yah!” Gabe kicked his horse and they were off. He couldn’t waste any more time, and besides, he was anxious to get back to Kimi.

  She had been so hurt the last time he’d spoken with her. What if she really had decided to go back home to her reservation, to her people? He hoped he would make it back in time to see her before she left.

  Two days later, Gabe rode hard into the station’s barnyard. The barn was finished. That was good. Kimi stood at the water pump, filling up a bucket of water, her back to him. Would she be pleased to see him?

  Chapter Six

  Don’t worry, Gabe. I’m not leaving, at least not for a while. And I wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye anyway.” Kimimela tried to soothe her friend as he saddled a new pinto and prepared to take a run east. He’d been at the station for two days, and she’d had shared her newfound faith with him, but they hadn’t had much chance to talk with each other and explore what that meant to the both of them.

  “Okay,” Gabe said. Judging by the longing in his large dark eyes, he didn’t think it was okay. He took her hand in his.

  “Promise me you won’t leave without saying good-bye.”

  “I promise. Now promise me when you get back you’ll tell me about all those Bible stories that are so close to your heart.”

  “Agreed.” Gabe’s calloused fingers stroked hers. “Here comes the rider. I’ll be back soon.”

  “I look forward to it.” Kimimela squeezed his hand in return. “I need to get back to the kitchen.”

  A horse and rider skidded to a stop at the front of the barn. Gabe and Thomas switched places at a speed that would do the company owners proud. Then Thomas headed for the bunkhouse. After watching Gabe ride off, she turned to go back inside.

  The following afternoon, Kimimela hummed “Amazing Grace” while kneading the bread dough. Cynthia carried in an armload of firewood. The lady proved herself quite adequate as far as prairie chores went. She plucked chickens, hauled buckets of water indoors, and split kindling without losing her feminine sensibilities.

  “You adjust quite well to prairie life.” Kimimela chuckled as she added more flour to the sticky dough.

  “Pardon me?” Cynthia dropped a few chunks of firewood into the box beside the stove and then tucked a strand of errant hair behind her ear.

  “You aren’t afraid to roll up your sleeves and get your hands dirty. You don’t shy away at hard work.”

  Cynthia’s joyous laughter filled the kitchen and warmed the room like no hot oven could.

  “My parents traveled everywhere for their missionary work. I’ve seen some pretty dismal places. Places where one had to work hard in order to survive. It would break your heart to see the conditions some folks are forced to live in.”

  Kimimela watched Cynthia shake her head then head back outside for another armload of wood. With Greta gone, it was nice having someone to help with chores.

  But Cynthia contributed so much more than that. She had also brought a stack of books out west with her. Not only did she loan them to the others, but she offered to teach the younger riders to read. It went without saying—Kimimela cherished her new friend. But all too soon, the woman’s research would be done and she’d go back to Chicago to write her articles.

  Somehow, that didn’t frighten Kimimela as much as she expected it to. Then again, she trusted they would be friends for a long time.

  Spending hours talking with Cynthia about God had been a heartwarming and enlightening experience. Forgiveness meant letting go of the bitterness she felt toward those who had given Louisa diphtheria. She had battled with her desire to seek vengeance but now realized they hadn’t meant to make her sister sick. How could she have thought otherwise? Maturity in Christ was a work in progress, not a simple task that one accomplished overnight.

  “I’ve met with a deputy in Salt Lake City regarding Rayford Montgomery,” Marcus said as he strolled into the kitchen.

  Kimimela gave the bread dough a solid punch and then immediately asked God to help her rein in her ill feelings. Maturity in Christ, she reminded herself.

  “I hope the law is looking for him, and I hope they arrest him as soon as they find his sorry hide,” she said.

  “Told me they couldn’t do much until they catch the man. Something else, word from the west is they’re having trouble with Indians, so Gabe might be gone a while. By the way, a jackrabbit’s hanging in the pantry. That’s all the meat we have until I can get back from town with more supplies. The weather looks bad, but we’re about out of food, so I have to go.”

  “I’ll pray for your safe return and for those farther west,” Cynthia said.

  “Much obliged.” Marcus plopped a hat on his head and left.

  Kimimela went back to humming her hymn and kneading her
bread dough. She wasn’t about to let the crook and his band of no-accounts dampen her mood. Cynthia excused herself to her room, likely to pray for the situation.

  After setting the bread dough to rise, she went out to the pantry and retrieved the freshly shot jackrabbit. After peeling the skin of the creature, she chopped him up and set a cast iron skillet on the stove to heat. She placed a blob of grease in the pan, coated the meat in flour, and then placed it in the pan to fry.

  Prayers for Gabe were on her lips. She wondered about the additional dangers he faced, but she wouldn’t let that sadden her. She believed he’d come back.

  She switched from humming her hymn to singing it out loud as she peeled and chopped a heap of potatoes. The frying meat began to sizzle and pop, so she turned it over.

  The noise from a stagecoach rattled in her ears. Usually they passed on through without stopping, but this one had halted in the front yard. Kimimela placed the skillet to the back of the stove and went to investigate.

  A mass of charcoal-colored clouds hung low in the sky. A distant rumble roved through the cold atmosphere. She rubbed her arms and wished she had brought her shawl.

  Several men in fancy dress stepped down from the coach.

  “Afternoon, ma’am. I’m Mr. Webster, from Washington, DC. Is there a Gabe Jackson here?”

  “No, he isn’t here. He’s on a run west of here and there’s been Indian trouble, so I’m not sure when he’s coming back.”

  “Well, he aided my associates and me when our stage stuck in the mud. We spoke with him about coming east to work in politics with us. He said we could find him here. This is Weber Station in Echo Canyon, isn’t it?”

  “It is, but if a rider got killed, or quit, he’d have to fill in for him. That could delay him for a while yet.” Kimimela tried to ignore the man’s words about Gabe going to Washington, DC. Instead, she focused on her hopes that he was probably headed back to her.

  “Yes, my colleagues and I would have made it here sooner, but we were delayed ourselves. First we spent some time speaking with a soldier who spoke some Cherokee and worked as a translator, and then the axle broke on the stage.”