But he was here, now, before she had her thoughts organized. The drag of his injured foot gave his presence away. Most of the time she forgot about his impediment, but she doubted he ever did.
“Miss Thomas.”
At the sound of his voice in the doorway, she drew a calming breath, wiped the flour from her hands, and turned to face him. “Mr. Troudt.”
The sight of him took her breath away. She was overjoyed he was safe, that God had chosen to answer her prayers.
He hurried across the kitchen, his eyes locking hers. She dropped her hands at her side, uncertain what to expect. Until he towered over her, and a single tear slipped from the corner of his eye, and she knew.
She relaxed her rigid back and allowed him to gather her into his arms. They fit together perfectly, like teaspoons in a tray, and she melted at his touch and inhaled the smells of horse, leather, dust, sweat.
And something else.
Fear.
The thought jumbled her tongue and her mind.
She buried her face into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Troudt.”
He pulled her closer. “Never mind that. I’m just glad you’re safe.” He held her at arm’s length for a moment. “You are safe, aren’t you?”
She nodded.
He pulled her close again. “Oh, Margaret, I thought I’d lost you. I couldn’t imagine what my life would be like without you.”
She pushed away. “No. You don’t understand.”
He stared into her eyes. “Oh, but I do. I almost made a big mistake, Margaret. Please forgive me.”
She had what she wanted. He believed she was Maggie. She could take on a new identity and nobody would be the wiser.
No. She would know.
And God would know.
She shook her head. “I’m not Margaret Thomas. I’m Catherine Malloy.”
His brow pulled down. “I don’t understand. Of course you’re Margaret. You have her letters.”
“My friend Maggie couldn’t read or write, so I wrote what she wanted me to say.”
He released her, and she staggered back a step. The dark look on his face made her want to run much farther.
But no. She’d promised God that she would tell the truth. All of it.
She rubbed her arms, which only moments before Mr. Troudt had touched, warming her from the inside out.
He stepped back. “So it’s all been a lie.”
“Not all of it.” She licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. Why should the truth be so difficult? “Maggie developed feelings for you through your letters. And so did I.”
He waved off her words. “You’re nothing but a—”
A what? Could he call her anything worse than she’d already called herself?
She pressed on. “When Maggie died of cholera, I saw a chance to make a new start for myself. And once I met you, got to know you, I started having even deeper feelings for you.”
When she stepped toward him, wanting to plead her case, make him see reason, he put another step between them.
He shook his head again. “Stay away from me.”
He turned and left the kitchen.
The implication of his words hung in the air long after the echo of the slamming door.
Benjamin paced the yard from the well to the chicken house to the privy and back to the well until he thought he’d pass out from exhaustion and dizziness. There was no way he was going back into the station house until he was certain that woman had gone to her room. The lantern still lit the kitchen. She was still there. Baking biscuits and making the place all pretty and homey like she belonged there.
Well, she didn’t. He’d been right about her from the beginning. Something hadn’t sat well with him the first time he’d seen her. Something about the way she hesitated when he called her name. The way her cheeks flushed each time he called her Miss Thomas.
Well, no wonder. She wasn’t Miss Thomas at all.
And to think he’d almost fallen for the woman who was a liar. Perhaps a thief, too, given the bag of loot she’d dropped. Surely not a woman of good reputation.
He paused as he neared the well again. In fact, she sounded a lot like the woman that Pinkerton agent was looking for. Maybe she’d stopped here and assumed the role of Miss Thomas, hoping to slip into a role. But for what purpose? Surely not because she thought he’d be an easy mark. No, more likely she was simply taking on another disguise.
He checked the kitchen again. The window beside the door stared back at him, dark this time.
He rounded the house, slipped in through the front door, and shuffled to his desk. Frustration mounted in him once again. If he could only write—but that problem wasn’t going to be solved tonight. Not without Warton—where was the man? He was due last week. Paperwork continued piling up. Reports and payroll were due.
The only other person at the station who could help him with the reports was Miss Thomas—no, Miss Malloy, was it? Is that what she called herself now?
He thumped the desk, wishing the telegraph had come this direction instead of heading north into Nebraska. He’d send a rider to the Pinkerton agent. Let the man know he’d found the woman he sought. The soiled dove who lured men to her room then robbed them. A bitter taste rose in the back of his throat. He’d thought her so kind, virtuous, and all along she was—no, he couldn’t even think the word.
He checked the clock on the mantle over the fireplace, where the embers from the evening fire simmered, ready to be rekindled in the morning. Five o’clock. Had but an hour passed since he’d returned so dejected to find that the woman he sought—no, not just sought, but truly wanted—was safe? Such joy had filled his heart, only to be ripped out and trampled underfoot.
He headed for the barn and called out, “Jake, I need you to take a message.”
A couple of heartbeats passed, long enough that he thought perhaps the man was asleep already. But then he appeared in the doorway, buttoning his shirt. “What now?”
“I need you to ride west until you find the Pinkerton man who was here a couple of days ago.”
Jake rubbed his eyes. “Now?”
Why must his every request be questioned? He drew a deep breath and exhaled loudly. “Now. I’ll give you an extra two dollars.”
“I’ll grab my coat and be back in a jiff.”
“I’ll saddle a horse for you. Be quick. There’s not a moment to lose.”
Within minutes, the man had hightailed it out of the station yard, leaving behind the echo of thundering hooves and a cloud of dust.
Benjamin headed for the front porch, wearily dragging his foot along so the dust from the horse and the trail mingled on the early morning breeze. He’d show her. Yes, indeed.
He’d show her that lying was wrong. And if the Pinkerton agent was right, that wasn’t all she was guilty of.
He paused. She’d lied to him about who she was.
He froze, his hand on the latch, the metal as cold as his heart.
Because clear as daylight, he understood something else.
She hadn’t done anything worse than he had.
He hadn’t told her the truth, either.
Catherine lifted her head from her tear-soaked pillow. Had she heard a noise at the front door? Yes. Step. Drag. Shuffle.
Mr. Troudt had finally come in. He climbed the ladder, his poor foot clumping awkwardly on the rungs. She held her breath when he paused outside her door. Would he knock? Would he give her another chance to explain herself?
His door closed. The latch clicked in place.
Effectively locking her out.
Away from him.
And away from any chance to redeem herself.
She rose and lifted the thin lace curtain at the window. The sun would soon be up. If she moved quickly and quietly, she could do what was needed and be gone.
The sooner she was away from Mr. Troudt, the sooner he would be able to find the woman he really wanted and needed.
And she would be able to start anew—agai
n.
East or west. North or south.
Somewhere. She didn’t know where. Without him, it didn’t really matter.
Truth was, she was tired of running. Tired of being debased.
That’s not who God created her to be. She wouldn’t live in a mansion where a man could take advantage of her whenever he chose. And she wouldn’t stay here to marry a man who obviously didn’t love her.
She turned from the window and packed her few belongings in her carpetbag, making sure to tuck the drawstring bag of stolen property deep inside, then she paused. She had to pay for her passage on the stage.
She dumped the contents on the bed and sorted through the pieces. Just over two dollars in coins. Too little to take her where the ache in her heart wouldn’t be so great.
The opposite side of the world wasn’t going to be far enough.
She swallowed hard and chose a cameo brooch. That should be enough. She pinned the piece to her dress. Best to make it look like she actually owned it.
Down the hall, the baby whimpered, followed quickly by shushing sounds from Mrs. Simpson. Perhaps God had answered someone’s prayers.
Or perhaps the honey was the miracle they needed.
She hurried down to the kitchen. She would soon be gone, but she wouldn’t leave her morning work undone.
She might be many things, but a shirker she wasn’t.
By half past six, Catherine had finished her chores. She’d milked the cow and set it out to graze. She’d fed the hens and collected the eggs. Biscuits and gravy were warming, and coffee was boiling.
She wrapped a couple of biscuits in a piece of linen and tucked the package into her bag, pulled her shawl from the peg in her room, and took one last look around. The note she’d penned to Benjamin rested on the table. The one apologizing for her deception and asking him to forgive her.
She released the latch on the front door and the metal clicked into place; then she turned and walked to the yard and checked the horizons east and west. With any luck, an eastbound stage would take her back to Marysville. She had stopped there on her way here, and she’d met a nice woman named Jillian who worked at the Pattee Hotel. Maybe she could get a job there.
No such luck. A plume of dust marked the westbound coach. Although only a mail stage, they should have room for one passenger.
Shading her eyes with a hand, she waited in the shadow of the cottonwood tree until the stage pulled into the yard. Jake trotted out from the barn, still shrugging into his suspenders. The driver jumped down and went to the water barrel, taking a long drink. She’d chosen a good place. The stockman couldn’t see her from here, and as long as Mr. Troudt didn’t come out the front door, he likely wouldn’t see her, either.
The driver returned to the stage and watched while Jake backed a new team of four horses into place. “Looks like it’s gonna be another hot one.”
“Sure does.” Jake buckled the harness to the tongue then looped the reins back and around the hand brake. “You’re ready to go.”
The driver lifted his nose and sniffed the air. “Don’t smell any good cookin’ here this mornin’.”
Jake paused on his way back to the barn. “They had a late night.”
“Well, I’ll be seein’ ya.” The driver climbed up the step, a toe on the wheel, then plunked onto the seat and gathered the reins before releasing the brake. “Let’s go, boys.”
Catherine stepped out from behind the tree and squared her shoulders. “Wait.”
The driver’s brow drew down, but then he broke into a smile. “Good mornin’, ma’am.”
“Do you have room for me?”
Her heart pounded. She hadn’t thought this through carefully. What if he refused her?
Oh, God, please help me.
The driver squinted at her a moment, glanced toward the station house then back at her. Another long stare. Then a quick nod.
Before he could change his mind, she hurried toward the stage, unpinning the brooch as she went. “I don’t have any money, but I can give you this—”
He waved off her words. “Don’t worry about that. Climb in.”
She opened the door, tossed her bag onto the floor, and stepped in, using the doorframe for support. Before she settled into her seat, the driver cracked his whip, and the horses strained into the harness.
She flopped back in her seat, dust creeping in and settling on every surface.
She was gone.
Chapter Nine
She was gone.
Benjamin cursed his stupidity. What had he thought? That she would stay on after what he’d said to her last night? After what he’d implied?
Exhaustion translated into a late rising for him and the others. It wasn’t until almost eight o’clock that the sunlight streaming in through his window awakened him. Another twenty minutes to rouse Jake and Mr. Simpson.
Ten minutes after that, a search of the station confirmed what he already knew. He paced the kitchen. Gone. But how?
A piece of paper tucked behind the spoon cup on the table caught his eye.
He crossed the room in three awkward strides and picked up the envelope then tore it open. A single sheet of paper with what he assumed were words stared back.
She might as well have left nothing for all the good it was to him.
He sank to the bench. Pain rose in his chest, cutting off his breath, and tears spilled over. Tears of anger that he wasn’t the man she could really love. Tears of frustration that he couldn’t simply accept the facts as they were and not always try to kick against the goads.
He paused. Was God trying to get through his thick head?
He closed his eyes. “God, can You hear me? I need Your help. I don’t want to live another day without You in control of my life. And I don’t want to live without Miss Thomas—I mean, Catherine.”
He waited another couple of moments, peace settling in his heart and mind.
He knew what he had to do.
Benjamin tucked the letter into a shirt pocket, rose, and headed for the corral, pausing to grab a gun and belt from the hook inside the front door. He picked out a fresh pony, attached a lead rope, and tied it to a post. The bridle, the saddle blanket, then the saddle. Using the bottom rail of the fence, he hoisted himself onto the horse’s back. Gathering the reins, he sidled the beast to the post to release the lead rope then jabbed the animal with his heels.
The doctor had told him he would never ride again, but he’d already proven the old medic wrong. He had ridden. Not well. Full of aches and pains today.
But to regain the woman who had captured his heart, he’d ride to China and back if necessary.
The pinto, well rested and full of oats, was eager to run, and Benjamin let it have its head. After about three miles, he slowed the beast to a mile-eating lope then settled into the saddle, finally finding the rhythm needed to keep from jarring every tooth out of his head.
Another five miles, and he rounded a bend in the trail. The sun was well up over the horizon, warming his back as he rode west. Ahead, the mail stage stood in the middle of the path. Three men on horseback, guns drawn and pointed at the driver, completed the scene.
Benjamin yanked his pony to a stop. The pony pranced a few steps as Benjamin rode off the trail and behind a cluster of sumac bushes. His heart in his throat, he considered the situation. Seemed to him these three men were holding up the stage. So far they hadn’t shot anybody, but that could change in an instant.
He glanced over his shoulder. About eight miles back to the way station on a half-winded pony. He could go on to the next station, about the same distance.
He drew a deep breath, held it a moment, and then released it softly. He had to ride in there and save the woman he loved. If she died, he might as well join her.
He clamped his legs around the pony’s sides, yanked on the reins to get its attention, then patted its neck. “Come on, boy. We got work to do.”
He kicked hard, and the beast took off like a shot. He pulled his pist
ol from the holster as he rode, yelling at the top of his lungs.
A sound like a strangled banshee carried across the dry ground. Catherine leaned forward and peered through the window of the stage. Could this morning get any more bizarre than it already was?
A man rode toward them, brandishing a gun and screaming like his tail was on fire. While only moments before she’d been shocked when the stage pulled to a halt and a man wearing a badge and holding a gun had opened the stage door, now it appeared she’d need his protection after all.
Mr. Davidson, the Pinkerton agent, was now her new best friend.
Along with the other two men with him, the head agent wheeled his horse to face the oncoming rider.
Davidson gestured with his pistol. “Halt. Or we’ll shoot.”
Catherine sat back inside the stage, closed her eyes, and prayed. Lord, what to do?
Oncoming hooves confirmed the rider wasn’t stopping. Was he crazed? She slipped to the floor and huddled into as small a target as she could, her nose touching the dusty floor, her arms wrapped around her head, fingers laced at the base of her neck.
Within two breaths, a horse neighed and the hoofbeats halted. Men’s voices. Stern at first. Commanding. That would be Mr. Davidson. Another man’s voice in response. The stage rocked. Perhaps the driver dismounting. Then a laugh.
No, not just a laugh. A guffaw.
The door yanked open. She raised her head and peeked through a space between the floor and the crook of her elbow.
Mr. Troudt.
She must be dreaming. Maybe she’d been shot and didn’t know it. Died and went to heaven. He was smiling at her. Holding out his hand. Beckoning to her just like she’d heard in stories of angels meeting folks at the pearly gates.
She raised her head. Over Mr. Troudt’s shoulder, Mr. Davidson and his two men stood beside their horses, laughing with the driver and clapping each other on the shoulder.
She pulled her gaze back to Mr. Troudt, blinking rapidly. Was he talking to her?
The Pony Express Romance Collection Page 43
