Had she heard correctly?
Her head swiveled, and her gaze covered the entire yard. The only person in sight was Mr. Troudt as he talked to a horse.
Such a strange man. Compassionate and caring on the one hand, and now telling his horse what he really thought about her.
What was wrong with him? Didn’t he have the courage to speak to her directly?
She waited, wanting to hear more but not wanting to, either.
“—help her find a way to leave. Heal up Mrs. Simpson fast, so they can all go together.”
Catherine huffed, her bangs lifting with the exhalation. So much for him being a kind man. He wanted to get rid of all four of them as soon as possible.
She hefted the basket to her other hip. Fine. No matter what he said or how nice he seemed, she planned to be gone in two weeks or less.
Chapter Four
Catherine’s hands stilled in the hot dishwater, her thoughts drifting back to Mr. Troudt.
She didn’t appreciate the near silence from the man who was now paying her to leave.
Or his angry words from the previous evening when he paced before the large stone fireplace in the great room. “I don’t care what the advertisement says. I never said I was seeking marriage.”
She had looked up from her sewing. “You spoke of our life together. Of raising children.”
She’d turned her attention back to the shirt she mended. One of the riders had offered to pay her two bits to sew buttons on his shirts. Every penny she made would go toward returning the packet of stolen items.
He’d halted, wheeled about, and limped across the room again. “I don’t know who wrote those letters.” He gestured to the great room, quiet except for the crackling fire. “I don’t own this station. I simply operate the Pony Express station.”
A fire rose in her at his words. “Why are you being so cruel? If you don’t own it, who does?”
“Gerat and Sophia Hollenberg.”
She’d shaken her head. “Never heard of them. Where are they?”
“In Wichita. Mrs. Hollenberg’s father is ill.” He’d stopped pacing and faced her. “What kind of woman travels hundreds of miles to marry a man she’s never met?”
His words came like a slap in the face. What kind of a woman indeed? A desperate woman. A woman too old for marriage. A woman deemed suitable as mistress but not wife. A woman who took on the identity of her best friend. A woman likely sought by authorities for theft.
But she would voice none of this. Her words would only betray the blackness of her situation.
He had turned on his heel and strode up the ladder to his sleeping quarters in the loft, leaving the great room a darker and colder place, even though the lanterns still glowed and the fire still burned in the hearth.
She returned her attention to the dishes. In just a few days, her hands had turned red and raw, and each night she rubbed in a lotion she’d concocted of beeswax, honey, and chamomile.
There was a lot of work at the station and too few hours in the day. Breakfast for up to a dozen people, depending on the number of travelers who’d spent the night. Always at least five, including Mr. Troudt, the Simpsons, Jake the stockman, and herself. More for the midday meal and dinner—sometimes numbering around twenty—again depending on what stagecoaches came through at mealtime and if the east and westbound riders were present.
And then there was cleaning, laundry, the garden, and the hens.
Catherine turned back to the large cast-iron pot in the water. The biscuits and gravy this morning had been a big hit with Jake and the four travelers who’d spent the night. She worked at a burnt spot with a rough fingernail.
Satisfied, she stacked the pot on the rough wooden table. Time to think about the midday meal. She exited the kitchen to the great room beyond where Mr. Troudt sat at his desk, staring at a pile of papers.
“Mr. Troudt?”
He jumped as though she’d startled him.
She wrung her hands in her apron and stared at the floor. “Sorry to disturb you. Just wanted to know how many for midday meal today.”
He turned his chair, the springs squeaking. She cringed. Wouldn’t a man who cared put a little oil on that?
Then again, he wasn’t a man who cared.
“Don’t know for sure.”
Squeak.
She looked up.
His back faced her, effectively dismissing her.
An ache, much like when her father’s old cow pinned her against the barn wall when she was a child, filled her chest.
Unlike that experience, this was one she feared never recovering from.
She turned on her heel and retreated to the kitchen, then sank to the bench at the table. Burying her face in her hands, she did what she should have done before.
She prayed.
“Lord, I don’t know what to do. I thought You were bringing me here to start a new life. I thought You were giving me a chance to redeem Margaret and myself. I’m sorry for the lie I’ve been living. Please forgive me.” She drew a deep breath and let it out. “Help me get along with—”
“—this horrible man.”
Benjamin stepped back from the doorway.
Miss Thomas’s voice, low and filled with despair, carried from the kitchen to his ears as though on a divine wind.
She hated him. She thought him horrible. Well, fine. He’d show her—
He tossed the papers with their illegible scrawl onto the desk and strode toward the kitchen. He’d set her straight. She’d know who was the boss here and who was—
He stopped.
She slumped at the table, shoulders heaving.
This wasn’t what he expected. She was hard, intractable, like an elm tree, bending with the storms but never touched by them. Immovable as a mountain. Able to fend for herself in any situation.
And instead she wept like a delicate flower.
His hard heart melted, stealing his breath away, leaving him gasping for air and for more of her presence. His harsh words to her over the past few days flew in his face like sand in a summer storm.
What was this feeling stealing over him, clamoring for attention, demanding obedience or destruction? The desire to close the distance between them, turn her to face him, and encircle her with his arms, to protect her, to brush away the tears, to thrash the one who had caused this grief in her to erupt like a volcano.
Except that man was him.
A wave of hopelessness washed over him.
She couldn’t stay.
And he didn’t want her to go.
He stepped silently back into the great room and returned to his chair to stare at the papers.
Three days after her near breakdown, Catherine crossed the station yard on her way to the woodpile. Today was laundry day, and she’d need more than her usual allotment of wood, which Jake replenished daily for her. Sheets from the sleeping room beds, towels from the washstand, as well as her own clothes, the Simpsons’ laundry, and dirty diapers lay sorted into piles near the outdoors laundry cauldron. A brisk wind from the east promised quick drying, the breeze ensuring the wrinkles would be blown to the Rocky Mountains, as she’d overheard one of the emigrants saying the other day.
Maybe the breeze could carry her far, far away, too.
She gathered an armful of cottonwood sticks and headed for the washtub. The fire hissed and sizzled as droplets of water from the tub splashed over. The hens and the single rooster pecked the dry ground, keeping insects clear from the station. Moths and spiders around this area seemed as big as teacups, and she shuddered to think what their population might be if unchecked by the voracious chickens.
Catherine dropped the armload of wood and went back for another. As she rounded the end of the station house, Jake fell into step beside her.
He tipped the brim of his hat to her. “You seem to be workin’ mighty hard there.”
She forced a smile up at him. “Just doing my job.”
“Well, I think the boss works you too ha
rd.” He stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop or run into him. “’Specially for a pretty lady like you.”
She ducked her head, not wanting to meet his gaze. Fear only encouraged men like him. “I need to get back to work.”
He ran an index finger up her arm, starting at her wrist and not stopping until he reached her shoulder. “That’s not very neighborly.”
She sidled a half step away. “I don’t have time to be neighborly right now.”
He closed the distance again. “How about later tonight?”
She shook her head, a sour taste rising in her throat. Would she never be free of men like this? Or perhaps all men were lascivious at their core, and some simply had better manners. “I’m busy.”
“You can’t be busy all the time. I see you prancing around, strutting your stuff for the cripple.” Jake puffed out his chest, almost touching her as he stood so close. “He’s not man enough for you. I am, though.”
She raised her gaze and met his full on. His dark eyes scorched her soul, and although she didn’t want to show him any sign of weakness, she stepped back.
His lips curled into a snarl. “If you won’t have me, no other man will want you either by the time I’m done with you.”
His gloved hand drew back with lightning speed, a blur like a hummingbird at a honeysuckle flower. The frayed seam between the thumb and forefinger revealed his calloused skin, worn rough from years of hard work. She was transported back to the master’s house in Boston, but here and now, Jake towered over her as she cringed and tried to cover her face.
The sting of leather on her cheek caught her off guard, and she crumpled to the ground like a newborn calf. A stick of wood dug into her hip, and she rolled over to avert his next slap. She had traveled thousands of miles to start a new life but had simply come full circle.
Catherine shuffled away, scrabbling like a crab on a beach, until her back pressed against the henhouse. The lathe and mud siding dug into her skin like a crown of thorns. A dragonfly flew past, sunlight glinting on its wings, bidding her follow. At the metallic taste of blood, fear left her, replaced by the surety that she would survive.
She would not go back.
His fingers gripped her shoulders, pulling her to her feet. He pressed full-length against her, and she stepped back to break the contact. She stared into his eyes as a matador challenges the bull, defying him to do his best. Repulsed by his body odor, she drew her lips into a snarl. If he so much as tried to kiss her, she would bite a chunk out of his lips.
He raised his hand to strike her again, and as he did, she stomped on his foot and twisted away. He hopped and howled like a banshee. His boot sole was worn through, revealing his bare foot. She wanted to laugh at this big man who couldn’t even afford to repair his footwear, but instead, she gritted her teeth and stalked toward the kitchen door.
She’d won this time, but she wouldn’t let her guard down again. She paused at the door and risked a look over her shoulder.
Jake had recovered and tossed her a nod. “I like my women spunky. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
He turned and walked away, his silver spurs jangling at his heels, small puffs of dust left behind with each footstep.
She shivered despite the heat of the day.
The metal clinking reminded her of prisoner’s shackles.
Benjamin stood in the shadow of the barn door, the collar and traces slippery in his sweating hands. His vision blurred, and he swiped at the dribble of perspiration running down his forehead.
Jake’s words hung in the air, mocking him. “I’ll see you tomorrow night.” Sounded like they had plans.
Well, what did he expect? He’d told her to leave. He’d told her he didn’t want her.
And he was right to do so. After all, a person’s reputation, once gone, was near impossible to retrieve or rebuild.
Isn’t that what his father always said?
Miss Thomas had every right to focus her attentions elsewhere.
He’d made that crystal clear to her.
Then why did the sight of them standing so close renew the ache in his chest?
Chapter Five
The sun bore down on Catherine’s back as she leaned into the hoe, hacking at the thick, dark soil. She straightened and swiped a hand across her brow.
The rear of the station house was plain when compared to the more public front, and several mismatched boards created a patchwork look to the wall. Behind her and to her left, the barn stood in stark contrast to the rolling hills and gentle sway of the tall prairie grass. Cicadas, grasshoppers, and a host of other insects sang in perfect harmony.
Under other circumstances, she could have enjoyed their music.
The circuit doctor still hadn’t made an appearance, and she was concerned about Mrs. Simpson. In the room next to hers, the child constantly cried, never seeming to get enough milk to satisfy, while his mother wasted away in bed, unable to get up because of infection from the traumatic birth.
Catherine had tried making a poultice for the woman, but she was in such pain, Catherine hated to continue the treatment. Soon the stench of infection filled the bedroom, and unless the doctor arrived soon, Mr. Simpson would be a widower. Perhaps she could find some wild honey to make a salve.
Several times, Catherine had caught Mr. Simpson staring at the wagon trains passing, a seemingly unending river of wagons, horses, oxen, and people. Day in, day out, the emigrants merged from the two trails into one, causing congestion, accidents, foul language, and sometimes fistfights. Once or twice gunshots pierced the night, causing her to huddle beneath her quilt.
The riders kept her sane with their good-natured teasing and obvious enjoyment of her cooking. Dakota and John John seemed drawn to her, hanging around the kitchen as much as they could whenever they were at the station.
She avoided Jake as much as possible. Changing her hairstyle and allowing several tendrils to hang over her face had covered the marks. Already yellow and green streaks were the only physical reminders of their encounter.
Tonight she would teach the boys their letters. Mr. Troudt agreed the night leg of their route could employ a longer break at the station, but no more than thirty minutes. She had told the riders about a book she enjoyed, and both confessed they could neither read nor write. She doubted she’d be there long enough to see them read, but at least they’d be able to sign their names and sound out some basic words.
“Education is the true release from bondage.” Her father’s words rang in her mind. He’d made certain she’d obtained a good education, and she enjoyed sharing her good fortune.
She dug the hoe into the tough claylike soil again. And again. Dig. Pull. Push. Break up the clumps. Repeat. She straightened again and swiped her perspiring palms against her dress. She’d have blisters tomorrow, but she’d also have a garden.
Not that she’d see the harvest. But the next woman to come along would have an easier time and perhaps would lift a prayer on her behalf.
She bent to her task again. While God wasn’t paying any more attention to her prayers than He had in the past, perhaps He’d listen to someone else’s.
Benjamin lounged in his chair, feet propped on the stone hearth as the evening fire crackled in the fireplace. Warton was late this week, and he had reports that needed completing, letters that needed reading, and riders that needed paying.
None of which Benjamin could do unless Warton read and wrote for him.
Miss Thomas sat at a small battered table with the Pony riders, their heads bent over a book she’d opened in front of them. Teaching them to read, John John had declared, his peach-fuzz cheeks pink with delight.
Hmph. He’d like to see how much she could accomplish in half an hour.
As hard as he tried not to, Benjamin liked having her here. She sang and hummed when she worked, which brightened up the place considerably. She cleaned better than he could, and her cooking was delicious. All in all, the men appreciated her talents.
And h
e wasn’t wasting away, either.
In fact, while he harnessed a team this morning, he’d caught himself whistling.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that.
He glanced at the trio then shifted his chair in their direction. Miss Thomas looked up, her head tilted in question.
He cleared his throat. “Getting too warm over there.”
She nodded as though satisfied with his words. Although why he felt it necessary to explain himself, he couldn’t explain that either.
What was it about this woman? Ever since she arrived, his thoughts had twirled like a tornado, giddiness welling up within him.
He settled into the chair and listened.
“This letter is called bee.”
The boys repeated the sound, nudging and jostling each other.
“And this one is called see.”
John John repeated the sound. “See. But what words can you make with these letters?”
“That’s a good question. See. Aay. And then this letter, that sounds like tea. That spells cat. See. Aay. Tea.”
Benjamin’s brow drew down. See. Aay. Tee. That should sound like see-aay-tea. Not cat.
Apparently, Dakota wondered the same thing. “But Miss Thomas, how come the letter is called see and sounds like kuh?”
“Just one of the strange rules about the English language, Dakota. The name of the letter and its sound aren’t always the same. Just like a pig oinks, but it isn’t called an oink. It’s called a pig.”
Dakota jabbed John John in the ribs. “And a dog barks, but it ain’t called a bark. It’s called a dog.”
John John pushed back. “I got it. I ain’t stupid. I just can’t read.”
Benjamin eyed those young pups with envy. When they talked to her, she responded in that gentle manner, and a longing grew in his soul to be the one sitting beside her with his elbow brushing hers. His fingers touching the same paper. His lips sounding out the letters and words she spoke.
If she stayed much longer, he’d never want her to go.
The Pony Express Romance Collection Page 40
