They headed out, and Mercy closed her eyes. A stiff breeze out of the northwest loosened a few strands of hair from her braid and blew them across her face. For a moment she could imagine herself and Daisy galloping full speed, the sun and wind in her face, carrying the mail to the next relay station.
Her string of mustangs tugged at their tether, yanking Mercy back to the here and now. Best she pay attention to her task. Later, after they’d made camp and bedded down, there’d be time for daydreaming of what could never be. She tucked her hair back under her hat and nudged Daisy with her heels.
Cold Springs Relay Station, Nebraska
Fletcher Mead rubbed his eyes and refocused on the list in front of him. One of his jobs as the Cold Springs stationmaster was keeping records and shuffling paperwork. How he hated it. Besides the Overland Stage coming through twice a week, carrying a few passengers they occasionally had to accommodate, he had to order supplies and feed and oversee the maintenance of the buildings and fences. Adding Cold Springs to the string of Pony Express relay stations meant recording each rider’s time of arrival and departure and supervising his two employees. But what he hated the most was figuring out the Express riders’ schedules.
Fletcher’s heart galloped at the very thought of tearing across the prairie at breakneck speed, taking risks, and tasting adventure. But being told he was too tall and too heavy to qualify as one of the small, wiry riders stirred an ache in his gut. His younger brother, Harlan, grabbed every opportunity to brag that he got to ride but Fletcher didn’t.
Just last week word came through that the telegraph lines had reached Fort Kearny from the east. That meant with the lines stretching to Fort Churchill from the west, the entire length of the Express ride now took only seven days instead of the original ten, requiring adjustments in the rider schedule.
Fletcher finished his paperwork and headed toward the kitchen to speak to Enola, the Cheyenne cook. The woman never complained, regardless of how many mouths she had to feed. Enola never said much of anything, though she spoke English just fine. She just chose silence over conversation. Nothing wrong with being quiet.
Smitty, his stableman, on the other hand, rarely shut up. Fletcher didn’t know Smitty’s full name, but supposed it didn’t matter. The man did an adequate job of taking care of the stock—when he wasn’t drinking. He’d warned the hostler a time or two about putting the cork back in the bottle, but he feared Smitty’s habit might one day lead to real trouble.
He entered the kitchen and found Enola at the stove.
“Enola, what do you need to order for the kitchen?”
She barely looked up at him. “Cornmeal. Bacon. Flour. Coffee.”
When she said nothing else, he pressed. “Is that all?”
She grunted and kept stirring. They truly didn’t need much except staples. A large garden out back supplied them with vegetables, and the chicken coop provided eggs and the occasional stewing hen. Bessie, the cow, ensured they had milk for making biscuits and butter to slather over them.
Fletcher jotted down Enola’s requests and headed to the barn to make sure Smitty had a fresh mount ready for the westbound rider due in shortly.
But Smitty wasn’t in the barn.
A screeching whinny pulled Fletcher’s attention to the corrals. As he rounded the corner of the barn, Smitty’s slurred curses filled the air.
“You stinkin’, snake-blood nag. Get over there.” Smitty’s contentious bellow was punctuated by a horse’s shriek.
Fletcher quickened his steps. In the back corral, Smitty wielded a whip in one hand and a machete in the other. He lashed first one horse, and then another, the whip leaving wicked welts on the flesh of the animals.
Horror clogged Fletcher’s throat, and he shouted at Smitty to stop, but his words were drowned out by the horses’ frantic neighs. Fletcher dove between the fence rails and ran across the corral, but before he could reach his drunken stableman, Smitty slashed the machete across the chest of another horse.
Fletcher lowered his head and barreled his shoulder into Smitty, both men crashing to the ground. The impact knocked the machete from Smitty’s hand. Fletcher leaped to his feet and yanked the whip from the man’s grasp.
“Get up or so help me, I’ll use this thing on you.”
When Smitty could barely stagger to his feet, Fletcher was sorely tempted to let the horses finish him off. Instead, he seized the man’s collar and britches and heaved him toward the fence, letting him roll under the bottom rail by himself. Fletcher climbed through the rails and hauled Smitty upright.
“You sorry piece of trash. Get your things and get out.”
Smitty swayed and stared, bleary-eyed, at Fletcher. “Wha’ ’bout my wages?”
Fletcher clenched both fists. “I’m not paying you to brutalize these animals. Now get out of my sight before I change my mind and do what my instincts are telling me to do.”
He turned back to the corral. Blood ran from the gashes on two horses, and from what he could see, two more bore angry welts, no doubt from Smitty’s whip. The horses stood huddled together, wild-eyed and heaving like they’d just come in from a run.
Something had to be done about their wounds, but what? He was a good rider and knew the basic care of a horse, but how was he supposed to doctor animals with injuries such as this? Judging by their current fearful state, Fletcher wasn’t sure now was the best time to approach them. Should he just put them down?
No, he couldn’t do that. At least not without trying to do whatever he could for them.
He ran to the barn and found a couple of buckets. He scooped grain into each and returned to the corral. Easing in through the fence rails, he spoke to the quivering horses, coaxing them with the grain. Two of them approached with wary eyes but refused to come close enough for Fletcher to grab their halters.
One of the Express riders jogged to the fence. “What happened?”
Too angry to explain, Fletcher directed the lad to saddle one of the horses in the front corral to get ready for the incoming rider. The rest of his day would be spent here, asking God to tell him how to take care of these poor, abused horses.
Chapter Two
Mercy shifted in the saddle and stretched out the stiffness in her back. The mustangs trotted alongside, eagerly picking up their feet as if to tell Mercy they were ready to be loosed from their tether.
She called out to Sawyer in the lead. “We must be close. They smell the water.”
He called back over his shoulder. “Just ahead.”
True to his word, they crested a low rise and the Platte River stretched below them—a murky, brown ribbon to the east and west. Mercy’s first glimpse of the Cold Springs Relay Station was a mighty welcome sight. Perched on a bluff, the station wasn’t impressive, but it meant food, water, and rest. The barn to the left of the station separated two large corrals: one close by the barn’s gaping front doors, and the other behind the barn, obviously added to accommodate the extra horses needed by the Pony Express.
Jesse pulled up beside her and dragged his sleeve across his forehead. “Chicken livers, I’m starved.”
Mercy grinned at her brother’s favorite expression. “You mean you’re tired of eatin’ Sawyer’s jerky?”
Jesse snorted. “Hope they’ve got a cook. C’mon, let’s go.” He nudged his horse forward.
The mustangs pricked up their ears and danced with impatience. Mercy couldn’t blame them. It had been a hot, dusty ride. She wouldn’t mind plunging into the water herself, but the Platte was a shallow, muddy river. Not exactly the refreshing bath she craved after two days in the saddle.
She followed Jesse and Sawyer down the slope to the water’s edge. The horses tossed their heads and pulled at their tether, but Mercy tugged at the rope. “You don’t want to drink that muddy water.” She clucked her tongue at them. “They’ll have cleaner water at the barn.”
They pulled their mounts to a halt in front of the long water trough in front of the barn. But when the horses
crowded around to slake their thirst, the trough only offered a measly couple of inches of water. Mercy scowled.
“Hey, Smitty!” Sawyer stood in his stirrups and leaned to look inside the barn. “You old crow bait. Get out here and fill this water trough.”
If this was the way the Cold Springs hostler took care of the horses, Mercy had a thing or two to say to him.
A filthy wheelbarrow filled with a morning’s yield of mucking out stalls exited the barn, pushed by a man far too handsome to be called crow bait. His sweat-stained blue chambray shirt bore evidence of his labor as he set down the wheelbarrow and pulled off his hat.
Sawyer let loose a deep-throated chuckle. “As good as it is to see you breakin’ a sweat, Fletch, where’s Smitty? There’s no water in this here trough.”
The man in the blue shirt squinted up at Sawyer. “If Smitty was here, you think I’d be mucking stalls?” He fanned himself with his hat. “I’d be obliged if you could carry a few buckets of water. Pump’s beside the barn.”
Jesse headed off to haul the water, and Mercy slid off Daisy. “Where is your stableman? I want to tell him about these strings of horses. They’re broke and trained to neck rein, but they’re inexperienced. They need riders who—”
“Weren’t you listening?” Mr. Blue Shirt plunked his hands on his hips. “I said he’s not here.”
A deep scowl crept across Sawyer’s brow. “Why isn’t Smitty here? What happened?”
Mercy fastened her gaze on the man her brother called Fletch.
“I fired him. He took to the bottle once too often.” He blew out a breath. “But this time he abused some of the horses.”
“Abused how?” Mercy sent her scrutinizing gaze skittering left and right. But the horses that meandered around the near corral seemed fine.
The man called Fletch went on as if he’d not heard her. “Stupid lush. Used a bull-whip and a machete on—”
“What!” Indignation churned through Mercy, but Fletch barely flicked a glance in her direction.
“A couple of them are hurt pretty bad. I don’t know what to do for them. Might have to put them down, but they won’t even let me get close.” Fletch slapped his hat back on his head. “Now I have to do all the barn chores on top of all my other work. I don’t suppose one of you fellows would be willing to hire on as a stableman.”
Mercy had heard enough. The man was complaining about taking care of the very animals that helped provide his wages. She tied Daisy to the hitching rail and turned her string of mustangs into the front corral while Fletch continued to yammer with Sawyer about all the work he had to do.
She shot him a glare of disgust and went in search of the injured horses. The man’s grumbling attitude reminded her of Cliff Rutledge, and his arrogance resembled Lester Waring. She shook her head and muttered to herself.
If all men were like that, it was little wonder she preferred the company of horses and was a complete failure when it came to men.
Fletcher counted out the cash into Sawyer Winfield’s hand. “The horses look like prime stock, and you couldn’t have brought them at a better time—with four horses injured.”
Sawyer stuffed the money into his pocket and sat at the long table in the middle of the sparsely furnished room. “You say Smitty got drunk and used a machete on the horses?” Disbelief rang in his voice.
Fletcher nodded and sighed. “I should’ve fired him months ago.” He looked from Sawyer to his brother, Jesse. “Either of you know how to tend to flesh wounds on a horse?”
Jesse stuck his thumbs in his belt. “A little, but our sister, Mercy, is the one who has a special way with horses.”
Fletcher glanced through the window. The new mustangs milled around in the front corral, but he didn’t see any sign of the young blond woman who had accompanied the two men. “You mean that little slip of a thing that rode in on the pinto mare?”
“That’s her.” Jesse leaned and looked out the front window. “Don’t see her out there, now. Where’d she go?”
“Two of the four horses have some pretty bad wounds.” Fletcher straddled a chair. “But every time I try to go near them, they kick and rear up. The gray one keeps trying to bite me. Even if I knew what to do, I can’t get close enough. I put food and water out, but the gray barely eats anything.” He shook his head. “I dread having to put him down.”
Sawyer’s brow dipped. “That’d sure be a shame, all because of a drunken fool.”
Enola brought bowls of stew and a plate of biscuits and set them on the table in front of the men, pulling Jesse’s attention away from the window.
Jesse sent her a nod of thanks. “My belly’s so empty I could eat a whole cow.” He shoveled a bite of stew into his mouth.
They made quick work of their meal and downed cups of coffee. When they rose from the table, Sawyer retrieved his hat and batted off some of the dust. “Thanks for feedin’ us, but we need to get back on the trail. I want to stop at Fremont Spring and North Platte before we circle on back to the Tumbleweed.”
Fletcher nodded. “That offer still stands for the stableman job.” The prospect of continuing to do all the feeding, grooming, and saddling as well as mucking stalls on top of all his other duties did not appeal to him at all.
Sawyer grinned. “Sorry, Fletch. We have our own horses to take care of.”
“What’s this?”
Fletcher looked over at Jesse, who stood examining the strips of deer hide he’d been braiding. He’d been so busy the past week he’d not had a chance to pick up the soft, pliable strips. “It’s a deer hide lariat—or at least it will be. It’s a craft my grandfather taught me.” He picked up the thin strips and demonstrated how he braided them into a workable, supple length.
Jesse tossed a doubtful look at Fletcher. “Chicken livers. Why go to all that trouble when you can just use a rope?”
Fletcher shrugged. “I like to do it in the evening to relax. Lately, there’s been no time. Since I’m doing all the barn chores and caring for horses during the day, I have to do paperwork at night.”
Sawyer took the braided piece and turned it over in his hands. “I think you might have somethin’ here, Fletch. I’ll bet Mercy would like to use somethin’ this soft workin’ with the young horses.” He handed the deer hide back to Fletch. “Speakin’ of Mercy, Jesse, go see if you can find her. We gotta get goin’.”
Jesse jogged ahead calling his sister, and Fletcher scowled as he followed Sawyer out. How could he convince one of them to take over Smitty’s job?
Lost in cogitation, he nearly collided with Sawyer’s sister when he rounded the corner of the building. But before he could mumble an apology, her eyes sent fiery darts at him.
“How could you let those horses suffer like that?” Her accusatory tone railed. “It doesn’t look like you’ve done anything for them, aside from tossin’ some hay over the fence.” She pointed toward the far corral behind the barn. “Their wounds are covered with flies and dried blood is stuck to their hide. How would you like to be left in such a condition?”
Fletcher sputtered. “Th—they won’t let me come near—”
Sawyer intervened. “C’mon, Mercy, we gotta go. Get mounted.”
She vehemently shook her head. “You and Jesse go on. I’m stayin’ here and takin’ care of those horses.” She jerked her thumb in Fletcher’s direction. “He obviously doesn’t want to take the time to treat these animals. If he won’t, I will.”
Ire rose in Fletcher’s throat, and he opened his mouth to retort, but Sawyer beat him to it. “Mercy, you can’t stay here. It ain’t proper. Now mount up.”
She stood as tall as she could and thumped her fists on her hips. “It’s not proper to let those horses suffer.” She cocked her head toward the station. “There’s a Cheyenne woman who stays here and cooks. I met her, so it would be entirely proper. Besides—”
“Mercy—”
She crossed her arms, and her chin lifted. “I’m not goin’ anywhere when there are injured horses that ar
en’t bein’ cared for.”
Fletcher groaned. She was joking, wasn’t she? He eyed the stubborn set of her jaw. She wasn’t joking.
He sent her what he hoped was a scathing glare, meant to intimidate. “I can’t have a girl hanging around here. I have enough to do without having to look after you.”
Jesse tugged his hat down over his eyes and muttered, “You shouldn’t’ve said that.”
Mercy stalked over to the hitching rail and untied the reins of her pinto. “I’m not leavin’ here until I’ve done all I can to see those horses recover. As soon as I’ve stabled Daisy, I’ll be tendin’ to ’em.” She halted in front of Fletcher. “Don’t get in my way.” She led her horse to the barn.
Fletcher turned to Sawyer. “Do something, will you?”
“What she says is true?” Sawyer lifted his chin in Mercy’s direction. “That Cheyenne woman stays here?”
“Yes, but—”
Sawyer smirked and mounted his horse. “You wanted a stableman, Fletch. Looks like you got one.” He paused while Jesse swung into the saddle. “We’ll be back through in about three days. Maybe she’ll be over her pigheadedness by then—but I doubt it.”
Fletcher stared after the pair as they nudged their mounts into an easy lope. He glanced toward the open barn doors where Mercy had disappeared with her horse. Now what was he going to do?
Chapter Three
The sun crested the trees to the east on Mercy Winfield’s second day at the Cold Springs Relay Station. Fletcher had to admit—if only to himself—she had lightened his load even while he groused about her being “underfoot.” She treated the injured horses’ wounds and had pretty much taken over the care of all the horses. She’d already done a far better job than Smitty ever had. Feeding, watering, grooming, saddling, checking the horses’ feet. Even the barn was cleaner.
Enola squawked at two of the riders whose arm wrestling threatened to knock breakfast dishes off the table. She rescued the crockery before any more damage could be done, muttering in her native language. Fletcher shook his head. If the boys weren’t competing over who was strongest, they argued over who was the fastest rider or who boasted the most harrowing adventure. Annoyance scratched a raw place in his gut. He gulped his coffee and headed to the corral to give Mercy a schedule of the incoming and outgoing riders for the day.
The Pony Express Romance Collection Page 45
