The Pony Express Romance Collection

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

  “Can’t let her get away with stealing what isn’t hers.”

  The words froze Catherine in her tracks, and she paused at the corner of the station. The long day had drained her like a leaky bucket. But she would do the work she’d promised Mr. Troudt. She would earn her keep if it meant she had to work through the night to get everything done.

  She’d hoped if she worked hard enough, he would change his mind and ask her to stay.

  She’d prayed if she did enough good, God would forgive her lies.

  The irony of her situation wasn’t lost on her, and her mother’s Bible lessons reminded her that she could not work her way into God’s graces.

  Nor Mr. Troudt’s, apparently.

  A horse whinnied, and she peeked around the corner. Mr. Troudt nodded to a stranger who mounted a horse. “We can’t let criminals run our territory.”

  The stationmaster’s words hung on the air, burning a hole in her heart.

  “Can’t let criminals run our territory.”

  As the stranger passed the corral, Mr. Troudt called out, “Good to meet a Pinkerton man.”

  The stranger waved and loped toward the trail leading east.

  Catherine stepped out of sight.

  A Pinkerton man.

  Looking for a woman who stole things that weren’t hers.

  And even though she wasn’t a thief, she was an accomplice. Or as good as.

  Panic rose hot and sour in her throat, and she glanced around. Nobody else was visible in the yard. Maybe none of the other men knew about this. She had to get away. Tonight.

  Leaving another debt unpaid.

  Benjamin lay on his bed in the dark, listening to the night sounds. Crickets and cicadas continued their never-ending song. A horse snorted in the corral. A ways off, a couple of coyotes called to each other.

  Peace and quiet.

  So why couldn’t he sleep?

  He turned onto his side, punched down his pillow, and sighed. The house was quiet. No need for him to be on high alert. He let his eyes drift shut until a scuff outside his door alerted him that he wasn’t the only one awake.

  He sat up in bed and stared through the dark. Probably Mr. Simpson going to the privy. He listened again, his ears straining. Footsteps scurried down the ladder and across the great room toward the front door.

  That wasn’t the way to the facilities.

  He slipped his boots on and crossed the room, listening at the door. Nothing.

  Whoever it was, was gone. But where? And why in the middle of the night?

  He eased the latch open and peered out. Nothing.

  Moving as quietly as he could, he inched down the ladder and into the great room, pressing his shoulders against the walls. Across the room, the front door emitted a tiny squeal as the leather hinges seemed to protest opening at this ungodly hour.

  The light from the waning fire cast enough light across the room to illuminate the open doorway.

  Enough to identify the person.

  Miss Thomas.

  He pulled back. Perhaps another clandestine meeting with one of the men.

  The clink of metal reached him when her satchel bumped the doorframe. She froze in place. Not the actions of a woman seeking a lover’s tryst. No need to take her bag with her.

  Unless she was leaving.

  And she wouldn’t be leaving in the middle of the night unless she felt she had no other choice.

  Waiting until she exited and closed the door, he crossed the room as quickly as his crippled leg would allow then peered through the crack between the door and frame.

  She stood on the bottom step and looked around.

  He opened the door, took the two steps in one stride, and winced at the hard jolt of the ground beneath his injured leg. He grabbed her wrist.

  She struggled against his grip.

  He pulled her close, noting her heaving bosom and pale skin. “What are you doing here?”

  “Let me go.”

  He peered at her. “Why are you sneaking about?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You were trying to hightail it in the middle of the night.”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  Still gripping her hand, he shook his head. “Why are you running away?”

  She wrenched her hand from his grip, turned, and ran. But she didn’t get more than twenty feet or so before she tripped on the hem of her dress and fell to the ground. She scrambled to her feet and continued running across the yard until she disappeared from the circle of light cast by the full moon and into the darkness, heading east.

  Benjamin stared after her a long moment before he noticed the bag lying on the ground. He picked it up and shook it. The tinkle of metal on metal confirmed this was what he’d heard hit the doorframe. He returned to the great room and sank into his chair, trying to find a logical explanation for Miss Thomas’s behavior.

  Finding none, he peered inside the cloth bag.

  Several watches, bracelets, rings, and a couple handfuls of coins winked back at him. He held a king’s ransom in valuables.

  Sounded like the items the Pinkerton agent said were stolen from various men.

  By a mysterious woman traveling the country.

  He shook his head. No, it couldn’t be Miss Thomas. She had come here under the mistaken impression he was looking for a wife.

  So she said.

  A woman intent on stealing from men wouldn’t have worked so hard at menial tasks. Wouldn’t have sewn buttons on shirts. Wouldn’t have taught boys to read and write.

  Unless she figured that was the best way to go unnoticed.

  She wasn’t capable of such subterfuge.

  Was she?

  Only one way to find out.

  He shuffled to the barn, flung open the doors, and roused his stockman. “Come on, Jake. Up and at ’em.”

  The man moaned and complained but eventually sat up then pulled on his dungarees and boots. “What’s up, boss?”

  “We got to find us a woman.”

  Chapter Seven

  Catherine sank to the ground, her lungs bursting for air and her mouth parched for water. Whatever had she been thinking? Stealing out in the middle of the night, not prepared to walk the fifteen or so miles to the next way station? And when she got there, what then? A horse could cover in an hour what would take her all night.

  And she wasn’t even certain she was running in the right direction.

  Tears bubbled up, threatening to spill over as she considered her situation. Alone, unarmed, with nothing but her shawl to protect her from the chill night air.

  She buried her face in her hands. How had she fallen so far?

  She raised her head at a rustling noise in the grass nearby. The distant howl of a coyote raised a shiver from the top of her head to the tips of her very sore toes. Her house slippers were no fit footwear for the prairie, but heels wouldn’t have held up on the hard ground. Not for the miles she had to cover.

  But none of that mattered now. She had no money to pay for a stage, even if she knew where she was going or could find her way to the next way station. She stared at the night sky above, lit by the full moon. Stars twinkled like fireflies dancing in the dark.

  She needed to get moving.

  Catherine stood and brushed off her skirt. She could do this. She would figure out what to do once she got somewhere safe.

  She stepped forward, her foot coming down on a fist-sized round rock that rolled out from under her. Pain shot up through her foot and calf, and she went down to the ground once more.

  Arms flailing, she fell heavily, knocking the wind out of herself. More pain radiated up her leg, and she rolled over. Grabbing at the muscle, she rubbed and tried not to cry out.

  Because the unmistakable sound of horse’s hooves neared.

  She huddled into a small ball, wishing for a large rock or a bush—something, anything to conceal her. But there was nothing. Perhaps the dark would provide enough cover. Perhaps the rider
was going fast enough that he wouldn’t see her.

  As the thought crossed her mind, the clouds that previously obscured the full moon drifted away, driven by an unseen and unfelt wind, leaving her as exposed as though she were on a stage.

  She stared into the night sky. Would nothing—and nobody—help her tonight?

  Tiny pinpricks of light twinkled against the velvety darkness of space, and one of her mother’s favorite Bible verses filled her thoughts. “He telleth the number of the stars; he calleth them all by their names.” In Psalms, she thought.

  Did God really know her name? Her thoughts? Her situation?

  If so, would He help if she called to Him?

  There was only one way to find out.

  As the hoofbeats grew louder, mimicking her heartbeat that pounded in her ears, she closed her eyes.

  “God, if You hear me, please help. I’ve been stupid. If You’ll give me another chance, I’ll do my best to set things right.” She opened her eyes, but the darkness mocked her words, swallowing them like the great fish swallowed Jonah. Another story her mother believed. She swallowed hard. Believing what she couldn’t see was hard work. She closed her eyes again. “Amen.”

  The muscles in Benjamin’s legs and back ached with the effort of controlling his mount. He hadn’t ridden in many months and, if the doctor was correct, he shouldn’t be riding now. He gritted his teeth against the jarring lope of the roan he’d chosen from the corral, one that seemed gentle enough but apparently hid a high spirit. While the rest of the riders rode like they’d been born in the saddle, he flopped and jerked like a rag doll tied to a bucking bronco.

  Jake took the lead early on at Benjamin’s suggestion. He knew the area better than Benjamin did, so he ranged out about a half mile then circled back, rejoining him. Each time he returned with the same report: nothing.

  Benjamin’s head snapped back as the stupid beast he rode spooked at a quail they’d flushed. He tightened the reins in one hand, grabbed the saddle horn with the other, and dug his heels further into the stirrups. The roan settled down once more, shaking its head against the added restraint.

  Several times over the past hour, he’d almost lost his seat when the horse stumbled—accidentally or on purpose, he wasn’t certain—shied, or simply gave a hop, skip, and a buck for no apparent reason. Not a man to swear, he kept the words he wanted to speak inside, but each time his heart pounded like a drum.

  Benjamin relaxed again into the saddle, his eyes scanning the countryside, looking for her.

  In reality, he’d spent his entire life looking for her. A woman who would look past his outside and see who he really was. Truth was, even before the accident, he wasn’t any great prize for a woman. Not like the other men who seemed to populate the land west of the Mississippi. Brave. Tall. Strong. A commanding presence.

  No, he was not like those real heroes. And to try to make himself into one of them was simply deluding himself.

  So when Miss Thomas had looked at him—really looked at him—he’d hoped, for a brief moment, that maybe she was different.

  Jake looped back again, and Benjamin slowed his mount to a walk.

  His stockman swiped his face with a faded bandanna. “No sign of her out here. We’ve come further than she could have walked or even run in the time since she’s been gone.” He stared off at the horizon. “She could be anywhere by now.” He waved a hand into the darkness. “She could be d—”

  Benjamin’s heart raced. “Don’t say it. We need to keep looking.” He pointed to the north. “Let’s work our way back around the station in a circle. We’ll stay in sight of each other. No point having to go out looking for anybody else tonight.”

  Jake grumbled something he couldn’t catch but did as he was told. They’d covered a lot of ground in the last hour, maybe as much as seven or eight miles. She couldn’t have gotten beyond them.

  Not unless she had help.

  His breath caught in his throat. Perhaps her escape hadn’t been as random and poorly executed as he’d imagined. Maybe she’d arranged to meet someone, and his own appearance had simply been a small snag in a larger plan.

  Which is why she was taking her ill-gotten gain with her—to finance their new life together.

  He was better off without her.

  If only he could convince his heart.

  Ahead, lights pierced the darkness, and Catherine heaved a sigh of relief. The tired horse she rode clip-clopped into the station yard. John John rose from his seat in the rocker on the front porch, a rifle in his hands, until the man in the saddle in front of her announced them.

  “It’s Tom Clark from the Rocking C Ranch. Got Miss Thomas with me.”

  John John leaned his gun against the railing and limped down the steps to meet them at the corral. He had made a remarkable recovery over the past few days. Good food, rest, and the honey salve she’d mixed had done the trick, as it had for Mrs. Simpson.

  He peered up at her. “Miss Thomas, sure am glad to see you here safe and sound.” He scanned the yard behind them. “Did you bring the others with you?”

  She looked over her shoulder. “What others?”

  Tom dismounted and held up his hands to catch her as she slid down from the horse. She landed lightly, his hands still around her waist. She ducked her head to acknowledge his help, but when he didn’t release her immediately, she took a step forward. Pain ran up her leg again, but she was able to bear her weight long enough to step onto her good foot.

  John John released the horse’s bridle and came to her side. “Let me help you into the house.”

  She needed help. “Thank you, John John. Thanks for the ride, Tom.”

  He doffed his cap for her. “My pleasure, ma’am. Glad to see you’re in good hands now.”

  John John smiled. “Seems only right, seein’ as how she helped me when I was all shot up.”

  Catherine took another step, then another toward the station house. She would soon be able to rest in her own bed and forget this night had ever happened. Maybe she’d wake up tomorrow and learn it was all a bad dream.

  No, this pain in her foot and leg wasn’t a dream. It was very real.

  Which meant that tomorrow she’d have to explain herself to Mr. Troudt—

  She looked around. Nobody else had made an appearance but a boy recovering from a gunshot wound. No stockman, no rider—and no Mr. Troudt. The corral seemed short a few horses, too. “Where is everybody?”

  “That’s what I was a-sayin’. They went lookin’ for you. About an hour ago. I thought maybe they found you.”

  She paused and leaned against the boy. “I never saw the others.”

  Tom led his mount to the water trough. “I didn’t see anybody, either. I was out looking for a wolf that was pestering my herd, and I almost ran right over her. She was just a-layin’ there on the ground. If it wasn’t for the fact I kind of nodded off in the saddle and my horse went off the trail, I wouldn’t have seen her. Must have been the grace of God.”

  Catherine’s head snapped up at the boy’s words. Grace of God indeed.

  If—no, when—Mr. Troudt returned, she would tell him the truth.

  All of it. So help her God.

  Chapter Eight

  The moon looked like a china plate hanging low in the western sky when Benjamin and Jake rode into the station yard. He judged the time at near four in the morning, even though he was so tired it felt past sunup.

  When they’d first spotted the lights at the station, his initial thought was home.

  Except, if Miss Thomas wasn’t there, the station might never feel like home again.

  Maybe he shouldn’t fight the inevitable. Perhaps he should just admit he wasn’t cut out to be stationmaster. Work out the remainder of his warning period, tell Warton he wouldn’t continue. Maybe Jake would like to stay on. Get promoted.

  Either way, he was leaving.

  There was nothing keeping him here.

  John John hobbled out to meet them, holding the bridle as
he dismounted. Stiff, sore, sweaty, exhausted to the point of not being able to formulate a complete thought, let alone an intelligible sentence, Benjamin needed a hot bath, but wanted nothing more than to tumble into his bed and sleep for a week.

  That wasn’t likely to happen.

  He acknowledged the boy’s assistance. “Thanks. Sorry to haul you from your bed at this hour.”

  “Haven’t been abed yet.” The young man led the horse toward the corral and looped the reins over the top rail. “I’ll unsaddle him and turn him loose for the night then see to him in the mornin’.”

  Benjamin headed for the house—and his bed. His foot touched the top step before the lad’s words sank in. “Haven’t been to bed yet? Why not?”

  John John shrugged. “Seemed when y’all took off in such an all-fired hurry, someone should keep watch.” He loosed the cinch and slid the saddle off, hanging it over the second rail. “And I sure was glad to see Miss Thomas.”

  Surely he’d misheard. “She’s back?”

  “Yes, sir. About an hour ago. Tom Clark from the Rockin’ C Ranch found her. She’s inside making coffee and biscuits and I don’t know what-all.” The boy slid a smile toward Benjamin, his white teeth standing out in the early dawn light. “She sure seemed worried when I told her y’all was gone lookin’ for her. Said she wouldn’t go to bed until she knew you were safe. She’s been in there ever since, a-cookin’ and a-praying up a storm.”

  Benjamin shuffled across the porch and pushed through the door, his heart racing. She was safe. Thank You, God. He halted, unsure whether God really deserved the praise for her safe arrival.

  Still, there was no explanation for her miraculous return.

  Maybe God was listening after all.

  Catherine looked up at the sound of the front door opening, her hands deep in the dough of yet another batch of biscuits. She’d heard the horses ride into the yard. Heard John John’s voice and several others. Knew the search party had returned.

  But she wasn’t ready to face Mr. Troudt yet.

  Wasn’t ready to tell him the truth about her identity, her subterfuge. How she’d hoped to convince him she was Margaret Thomas, the woman he wanted to marry. Had fallen in love with through her letters. How she loved him. And would marry him in a heartbeat if he would have her.