The Pony Express Romance Collection

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

  Benjamin stood and retreated upstairs to his sleeping quarters, unable to remain in the same room. His boot heels echoed on the wooden floor, and he closed the door behind him. A moonbeam shone in through his window, illuminating a place beside his bed as though focusing his attention on that particular spot.

  He sighed. He couldn’t fight his feelings any longer.

  He knelt beside the bed and bowed his head. “God, please do something. I can’t stand this hole in my heart that’s eating away at my soul. Please, give me leave to love this woman, and open her heart so she can love this crippled man, or close that door forever. If I can’t have her, I don’t want anybody.”

  “—I don’t want anybody.”

  Mr. Troudt’s words echoed in Catherine’s heart all that night and into the next day. She finished drying the final chipped enamel plate from breakfast and returned it to its shelf over the dry sink. True, she shouldn’t have eavesdropped at his door, but shortly after he left the room, she thought she’d heard Mrs. Simpson call for her. Was it her fault she’d been passing his room at precisely that moment?

  If he didn’t want her, she would leave. But not before she took care of one thing eating away at her soul.

  The stolen property.

  She untied and hung her apron on the nail beside the back door then stepped outside into the morning air. Already the sun was bright, warming the soil and the seeds she’d carefully sowed. No rain last night meant she’d need to water today if she expected a crop.

  Except she wouldn’t be here to see it.

  She checked the sun. Almost eight o’clock. John John, riding the eastbound leg today, would pull into the yard at any minute if he was on time. Racing into the yard much like on the day she arrived, he seemed to thrive on the hard life he’d chosen. Perhaps he’d been one of the riders who had passed her stagecoach, doffing their hat to the passengers, sometimes with a ballyhoo and sometimes with a gunshot. While their appearance at first had scared her, she’d soon learned they were not to be feared. Once she learned who the riders were, she’d understood where they were headed in such a hurry.

  She checked the western horizon for the telltale puff of dust that heralded an incoming rider. There it was. She only had two minutes. Long enough for the rider to pull in, dismount, pull off the pouch carrying the mail, and jump back on the next horse Mr. Troudt would have ready.

  She hurried into the station and down the hall to her sleeping quarters. She wasn’t sure how Mr. Troudt managed to know when the riders were near. Perhaps a sixth sense. Maybe he felt the rumblings in the ground the way some people heard the buffalo. She dug into her satchel and pulled out the small drawstring bag containing the damning evidence of Margaret Thomas’s crime.

  Now her crime. She had taken on Maggie’s identity, so she should assume her guilt as well.

  She was doing the right thing. Soon John John would have the evidence, and she would be free.

  She returned to the yard and waited as the boy barreled into the yard, yanking his horse up hard at the last moment. She smiled as he did a running dismount, not waiting for the pony to come to a complete stop, lifting the leather mailbag called a mochila from the saddle with one hand and flipping the reins over the horse’s head with the other.

  Mr. Troudt stood at the corral fence holding the bridle of the fresh horse, his ever-present scowl evidence of his displeasure at John John’s antics. Although the boy assured him the horses loved to run, Mr. Troudt always countered with “one of these days, either you or the beast will be injured by your stunt. You I can replace, but the beast costs me money.”

  Catherine was fairly certain he didn’t really mean what he said, but there were times—like now when his look shot daggers at the youth—that she wasn’t so convinced.

  She crossed the yard once the stockman had regained control of the incoming horse and waved a hand to the rider. “John John. Can I see you a moment?”

  The boy glanced at the stationmaster. “Need to use the facilities, sir.”

  Mr. Troudt nodded. “Make it quick.”

  Catherine ducked around the corner of the building and waited, and John John soon appeared. She held out the bag, along with the note she’d made with the address in Boston. “Here is the package. You’ll make certain to take it to the post office in St. Joe’s, won’t you?”

  He accepted the package. “I’ll tuck it inside my shirt.”

  “And here’s the money I promised.”

  “I don’t need your money.”

  “For the postage, then.”

  He studied her, and for a moment, she wondered if he would decide the mission wasn’t worth the risk. If the Pony Express found out he was doing a job on the side—even if he wasn’t getting paid for it—they’d fire him, no questions asked.

  Then he nodded. “Okay. Postage money only, though.”

  She handed him the coins. “Thank you.”

  Mr. Troudt rounded the corner. “John John, time’s up.”

  John John cast a frantic look in her direction. She shook her head and took back her packet, tucking it into her apron pocket. He nodded, splayed his hands in apology, and trotted out of sight. A minute later, the pounding of pony hooves heralded his departure eastward.

  She’d been so close to returning the stolen property, releasing her from that indebtedness.

  Well, she would try again.

  And as soon as she had her debt to Mr. Troudt paid, she’d be completely free.

  Benjamin knew his face was beet red. He hated that he wasn’t able to hide his true feelings. “What’s going on?”

  Miss Thomas stepped back. “N—nothing.”

  She might say nothing, but the guilty expression on her face told him otherwise.

  He stepped closer. “What did you want with John John?”

  “N—nothing.”

  Her pale face pained him because he suspected he was scaring her. Well, if that’s what it took to get the truth—

  “You called to him. He came a-running. Said he needed the facilities. But he didn’t go there. He came straight to you.”

  When she opened her mouth to speak—most likely another lie—he cut her off with a wave of his hand. “I could see from where I was standing. He never went back there.”

  She clamped her mouth shut. “It was private.”

  He lifted one side of his mouth in a sneer. “Private, she says. With one of my riders.” He closed the distance between them until he loomed over her. Her eyes, the pupils so black and large they almost blotted out the hazel he’d noticed the day she arrived, held his gaze. “Tell me.”

  “Or what?”

  He clenched his fists at his side. A good question. Would he hit her? He’d never struck a woman in his life. Would he pin her to the wall with his hands, shake her, rough her up a little to scare some sense into her?

  He would do none of those things.

  What he really wanted to do was take her in his arms, hold her safe, and kiss her until they were both breathless. But he wouldn’t do that, either.

  No, God had answered his prayer and closed his heart to her.

  So why did his chest hurt so much?

  Chapter Six

  Catherine lifted the edge of the faded cotton curtain at the kitchen window for perhaps the fifth time in as many minutes and peered outside. The sun told her the time was well past three in the afternoon. John John was late. By at least five hours. The last time she remembered him being so off schedule, his horse had thrown a shoe. She turned back to making biscuits for dinner.

  Dakota, pausing for a quick bite to eat, had been quiet. “Never knowed John John to miss a meal.”

  His remark seemed to hang in the air. The four stage passengers—all men—bent their heads to their meals. They had but a couple of minutes left in their break and would soon pile back into the stage. They didn’t know the Pony rider from Adam and couldn’t care less about his welfare.

  Mr. Troudt, usually gruff with everybody, had been quiet, but she
knew he was worried as well. Ever since noon, he’d spent at least ten minutes each hour scanning the horizon for his rider.

  The passengers pushed their bowls away and stood, scraping chair legs on the wooden floor. One headed for the privy while the others made for the front porch. Soon the smell of a pipe and cigars wafted in through the open door. Jake, Dakota, and Mr. Troudt filed past her and exited the station. Within minutes, the sound of a horse’s hooves pounded on the grassy turf of the trail.

  One westward. Dakota continuing his run.

  The other eastward.

  Despite his nonchalant demeanor, Mr. Troudt had sent someone looking for the boy.

  She rolled out the dough and set the rolling pin to one side. Using an empty bean can, Catherine cut out the biscuits and set them on the baking sheet near her elbow. When she’d created a pan full of round circles of raw dough, she slid the biscuits-to-be into the oven and flicked droplets of water onto the burner. A tad hot. She closed a damper to lower the heat a few degrees.

  Back at the table, she pounded the holey dough back into a ball. And although it required no more kneading, she continued grinding her fists into the sticky white stuff. After several minutes, she sighed and, using the back of her hand, pushed a stray tendril of hair out of her eyes. If she wasn’t careful, the next batch of biscuits would be tough and flat.

  Wiping her hands on her apron, she checked out the window again. A dark speck on the horizon moved. Was that John John? She rinsed her doughy hands and dried them, then headed for the front door.

  The boy would be hungry now. She had a fresh meat stew with plenty of carrots and potatoes simmering on the back of the stove, benefiting from her use of the oven. A fresh loaf of bread. A hard-boiled egg from breakfast. And milk, fresh from the cow and chilled in the larder.

  Should be enough.

  She reached the front door at about the same time as Mr. Troudt climbed over the corral fence, and they stood within ten feet of each other. She hadn’t made eye contact with him in the past three days, not since he’d caught her talking to John John.

  The memory of his name sent a wave of longing through her. Ever since her interrupted rendezvous with the boy, Mr. Troudt had treated him overly harsh.

  But that hadn’t kept the stationmaster from sitting close and listening to the boys learn their letters and simple words whenever they had the night leg. Oh, yes, he might deny it, but he was paying as much attention as the boys to what she said.

  Why, she couldn’t figure out. Unless he was checking up on her, making sure she did it right.

  Because the only other reason to listen in on a reading and writing lesson was—no, that was ludicrous.

  He must be able to read and write.

  Catherine waited on the porch, her eyes glued to the approaching figures. Two horses, two riders.

  Although one seemed ready to fall from the saddle.

  Jake’s large gray gelding pranced at the pressure on the rope connecting John John’s wiry pony to the saddle horn as they reached the yard. John John’s pony sank to its knees and toppled onto its side. John John, flopping like a scarecrow, collapsed into the dust with a thud.

  Forgetting she wanted to stay as far from Mr. Troudt as possible, she strode beside him toward the boy who lay unmoving in the dirt.

  Mr. Troudt, despite his shuffling gait, reached the boy first and knelt beside him. He touched a hand to the rider’s forehead then peeled back the boy’s leather vest and felt inside his shirt.

  Catherine knelt opposite Mr. Troudt and touched John John’s hand. So cold and clammy. She placed her ear near the boy’s mouth. “He’s barely breathing.”

  Mr. Troudt clambered to his feet. “Let’s get him into the barn.”

  Benjamin grabbed John John’s shoulders and Jake his feet. Catherine hurried ahead and peeled the blanket back from Jake’s mattress. Once they set the boy down, she covered him. He shivered and moaned but didn’t open his eyes.

  She looked up at the men gathered around her. “Get me some hot water and clean cloths. I’ll get the wound cleaned.”

  Mr. Troudt nodded and exited the barn, returning in a couple of minutes with a steaming kettle.

  She lifted the boy’s vest. A hole in his shoulder oozed blood. The cotton material around the wound was almost brown. “This happened a while back. Where did you find him?”

  Jake removed his hat and swiped perspiration from his forehead. “About five miles back on the trail. He was still in the saddle, but he was lying across his horse’s neck. I knew he was in bad shape, so I got him here as quick as I could.”

  Catherine tossed him a quick smile. “He’ll live, but I’d feel better if a doctor looked at him.”

  Jake glanced at Mr. Troudt, who nodded. “Might take until tomorrow to find him.”

  The stationmaster bent over and removed the boy’s boots. “Get back fast as you can. And if you see Warton, the route manager, tell him what’s happened. I don’t know what’s holding him up. He should have been here three days ago.”

  Typical. One of his riders shot, and all Mr. Troudt worried about was his reports.

  She shooed the men away. “He needs rest. He’s not on death’s door, so I’ll tend to his wounds as best I can.” She turned back to her patient then called out. “Someone watch the pan of biscuits and the venison stew simmering on the back of the stove.”

  She sighed. Now she sounded just like Mr. Troudt.

  The men filed out silently, leaving her alone with John John. Her nimble fingers pulled off his vest and inside shirt. She dipped a cloth into the warm water and washed the boy’s face, neck, and chest then probed the hole with a finger. John John moaned again, and she paused. The bleeding had slowed almost to a trickle. Good. She half rolled him onto his side and checked his back. A larger hole just above his shoulder blade indicated the bullet had gone all the way through.

  Judging by the angle, the damage seemed limited to flesh and muscles.

  He had been very lucky.

  Perhaps God was looking out for somebody today.

  Perhaps the boy would benefit with more of God’s attention.

  She bowed her head and closed her eyes. “God, if you can hear me, please save this boy. He is somebody’s son. Perhaps somebody’s brother. God, I know You—”

  “—love him. Please don’t let him die.”

  Benjamin paused outside the barn door. He had been correct all along. Miss Thomas didn’t have feelings for him. How could she? She was too busy philandering with Jake, and now with John John, a mere boy. Was Dakota next?

  Benjamin turned and shuffled to the station house. He was done with her.

  When he rounded the corner of the station house, an unfamiliar horse stood hitched at the rail, its nose buried in the water trough. He studied the beast, dusty from many miles on the trail.

  He pushed through the front door and paused at the sight of the stranger inside. Removing his hat, he extended a hand. “Benjamin Troudt. Stationmaster.”

  The man, dressed in a fashionable jacket, string tie, his pants clean but worn, returned the gesture. “Paul Davidson with the Pinkerton Agency.”

  Benjamin waved the man into a nearby chair then tossed a couple of logs into the low-burning fire before sitting in his favorite chair. The one he’d occupied while Miss Thomas taught her boys to read and write. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for a woman.”

  The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on Benjamin. Every man west of the Mississippi was looking for a woman. They were scarcer than hen’s teeth out here.

  Well, not every man.

  Not him. Not anymore.

  He shifted in his chair, trying to get comfortable. “Any particular woman?”

  Davidson chuckled, but the expression didn’t quite make it to his eyes. “Jane Chapman, although she goes by several other names as well, including Jane Charles and Mary Jane Charleston.”

  “Sounds like she gets around.”

  The agent nodded.
“That she does.”

  “What’s she wanted for?”

  “Theft. She lures men to her hotel room, knocks them out, and steals their valuables. Most are too embarrassed to admit they’ve been taken in. Compromising situation and all. Don’t want the wife to know.”

  Benjamin nodded. He’d not fallen victim to the soiled doves, but he knew several men who had. Always to their detriment. “Got a description?”

  Davidson shook his head. “Nothing much. Nice-looking woman. Sometimes she has dark hair and sometimes she’s a blond. Travels the stage lines town to town.”

  Benjamin quirked his chin toward the door and beyond. “Lots of women fitting that description pass here every day.”

  “We just don’t have much information.”

  “How far have you tracked her?”

  “All the way to Boston. And then I lost her. I’ve been back and forth over this country three times in the past year.”

  Boston.

  Miss Thomas was from Boston.

  And she’d been acting mighty peculiar lately. Secret meetings with his men and riders. Desperate for a new name and a new home. Maybe she was—no, that wasn’t possible. After all, if she were the woman Davidson was looking for, she wouldn’t stay put in one place, would she?

  Well, he’d keep his eye on her. If she made any more suspicious moves, he’d alert Davidson.

  But for now, he’d keep his conjectures under his hat.

  He stood. “I’ll let you know if I see a woman matching that description. Need a place for the night?”

  Davidson shook his head. “No, I’m fine. Brought my own bedroll and grub. I’ll head on down the trail.”

  “Is there a reward?”

  “Fifty dollars.”

  “That’s a month’s wages. They’d turn in their own mother for that kind of money.”

  Davidson chuckled, clapped his hat on his head, and walked onto the front porch. “Well, I don’t want her unless she’s the right one. Had one man offer me his mother-in-law.”

  Benjamin limped behind him. “Like I said, I’ll let you know. Can’t let her get away with stealing what isn’t hers.”