The Pony Express Romance Collection

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

  He rounded the corner and halted. His breath caught. Mercy sat on the ground in the middle of the far corral, her back to the four injured horses. She held a few carrots she’d no doubt pilfered from the kitchen garden. Her voice crooned like the hum of a cicada.

  Fool girl. She’s gonna get herself killed.

  The chestnut horse twitched his ears and stamped one hoof. Fletcher’s stomach clenched. He wanted to holler at her to get out of there, but feared the horses would spook at the sound of his voice.

  His heart in his throat, Fletcher watched. The chestnut lowered his head and took a cautious step in Mercy’s direction, and then another. The horse’s ears responded to her voice as it fixed wary eyes on the girl. When the horse drew close enough that he could have stomped her to death, she calmly fed him a carrot. Then she slowly rose, strolled to the gate, and let herself out while the horses observed her quiet retreat.

  Her expression hardened to one of pure resentment as she approached him. “You need somethin’?”

  Hmph. She spoke to the horses with more civility.

  “Here’s today’s schedule.” He thrust the paper toward her. “Wiley Sterne will take the eastbound this morning. No rider change for the westbound this afternoon, but a fresh mount needs to be ready.”

  She bit her lip, and Fletcher caught a momentary flicker of wistfulness fleeting across her face. “The horses’ll be ready.” Whatever emotion he thought he’d glimpsed was replaced by an accusatory glower.

  He turned to walk away, but her sarcasm-laden challenge stopped him in his tracks.

  “Aren’t you the least bit curious how these horses are doin’, or do you even care?”

  He pivoted on his heel and planted his hands on his hips. “Can you tell me why you’ve decided I’m such an unfeeling brute?”

  She mimicked his stance. “I never said you were a brute. That label belongs to your drunken stableman.”

  “So that leaves unfeeling.” He nailed her with a scowl that dared her to deny what her attitude screamed.

  “I can only draw conclusions based on what I see and hear.” She stepped toward him and folded her arms. “The day we rode in, you did nothin’ but complain about all the extra work you had to do. Every horse owned by the Pony Express provides your wages and yet you resent havin’ to take care of ’em.”

  He opened his mouth to retort, but she wasn’t finished. “Furthermore, you hadn’t lifted a finger to tend to those horses’ injuries.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “Between the dried blood, dirt, and flies, I could barely see the wounds. It took hours to coax those poor horses into lettin’ me touch them. Other than tossin’ a few armloads of hay over the fence, I didn’t notice anything you’d done for ’em. I guess you were too busy bellyachin’.”

  “Now see here—”

  She brushed past him, headed toward the barn. He watched her until she rounded the corner. There was some truth in what she’d said. He had complained about the extra work. But she didn’t know the whole story.

  The only thing that calmed Mercy’s temper was brushing down the horses and tacking them up. She trotted a black pony named Bull’s-Eye around in front of the barn to limber his muscles before the rider came barreling in.

  “You do your best now.” She patted his neck. A cloud of dust to the east indicated the westbound rider was on time. She dismounted and led the horse to where the man could fling himself into the saddle on the fly. Bull’s-Eye snorted his impatience.

  Moments later, horse and rider thundered in, waving the mail pouch in the air. He vaulted aboard the fresh horse, the transfer completed before Mercy could draw a breath. A couple of other fellows watched and shouted encouragement as the horse bolted from the yard.

  Through the dust, the rider grew smaller in the distance. Mercy snagged the reins of the weary, lathered-up horse that had just come in and caught sight of Fletcher standing in the doorway. A furrow appeared between his brows before he returned inside.

  Mercy shrugged. She had enough to worry about without trying to figure out Fletcher Mead. She cared for the tired horse’s needs first, and then walked to the far corral and slipped inside. The horses pricked up their ears at her approach, but they didn’t retreat from her presence. She pulled pieces of carrot from her pocket and held them out.

  Two of the horses, Dusty and Thistle, approached willingly, albeit cautiously. Dusty even allowed her to rub his nose. Jasper only ventured close enough for a treat when he saw the others crunching theirs.

  The dark gray horse, the one that had sustained the worst injuries, still hung back, reluctant and distrustful. She’d been able to coax him into the barn twice with a bucket of grain. Only then could she cross-tie him in a stall and put poultices on his wounds. But out in the corral was a different story.

  She held out more carrots. “Come on, Lobo. I won’t hurt you.” She clucked at him, but he still lingered at the back of the corral. She climbed to the top rail and sat. The other three horses returned to their hay, but Lobo simply watched her.

  “Whenever you’re ready, boy. I won’t rush you.” She left the pieces of carrot perched on the railing and stepped away to the rear door of the barn. After a minute, Lobo ambled over and nibbled the treats. She smiled and entered the barn.

  Mercy upended the wheelbarrow onto the manure pile just as she caught sight of her brothers dismounting. She pulled in a deep breath. They weren’t going to like what she had to say. But she knew her own mind, and what was more, she knew where she was needed.

  Jesse greeted her with a bear hug. “Whoooeee! Chicken livers, Mercy, you smell like the south end of a horse.”

  “Is that so?” She poked his sweat-stained shirt. “You don’t exactly smell like roses yourself.”

  “Hey, little sister.” Sawyer took off his hat and dusted his trouser leg with it. “Go get your horse saddled up so we can get back on the trail. I want to get back to Tumbleweed by tomorrow.”

  She dragged her sleeve across her forehead. “I’m stayin’.”

  Jesse and Sawyer looked at each other, and Sawyer followed her into the barn. “C’mon, Mercy.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not gonna leave these horses in the care of a man who resents havin’ to look after ’em. And besides, right now, I’m the only one who can go near ’em.”

  Sawyer shook his head and muttered under his breath. “Y’know, you’re about the most pigheaded woman I’ve ever met.”

  She grinned. “Runs in the family.”

  Mercy slipped the loop she’d made out of feed sacks around Lobo’s neck. He still wouldn’t tolerate her putting a halter on him, so she improvised the soft noose and tether, designed not to irritate his healing wounds. As long as he was distracted with an armload of prairie grass, she could secure the tether rope to the side of the stall.

  Lobo tossed his head and emitted a sharp whinny.

  “Shh, it’s all right now.” She gently ran her hand down his neck and over his withers. “Yes, you’re a handsome boy.”

  Lobo turned his head and looked at her. She showed him the layers of cloth with the gooey preparation on it. He sniffed it, but apparently decided the prairie grass was more interesting.

  Mercy laid the poultice on the horse’s shoulder where the machete had cut into his flesh. He snorted and his flesh quivered, but he allowed the ministrations.

  She patted the horse and began to talk to God. “I don’t know if I’m important enough for You to listen to, but if You have time to hear this prayer, Lord, please heal Lobo. I’ve done everything I can think of, but I need help.” If she wasn’t sure she mattered to God, why did she think the horse would?

  “What are you doing there?”

  Mercy startled at the nearness of Fletcher’s voice, and Lobo threw his head up and kicked his back hooves. Mercy threw a glare at the stationmaster.

  “Shh.” Her droning hum soothed the horse.

  Keeping her tone quiet and even, she looked back at Fletcher. “It’s a poultice made from crush
ed cattail roots and goldenrod. Enola’s been very helpful.”

  He stepped back. “Didn’t mean to upset the horse. You can see now he won’t let me near him.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I know we got off to a bad start when you arrived, but I think you misunderstood.”

  Was that supposed to be an apology? She shook her head. With gentle fingers, she held the poultice in place.

  “Why is he tied with that cloth?”

  “Because I can’t put a halter on him.”

  Fletcher grunted. “He head shy?”

  She shot him a hard look. “You’d be head shy too if a drunken fool slashed you with a machete.” She returned her attention to Lobo. “Dusty and Thistle are comin’ along. Jasper will take a little more time.”

  She slipped out of the stall and moved back to where Fletcher stood. “I don’t know if Lobo will ever be able to be ridden again. His injuries are bad enough, but he barely tolerates anyone comin’ close to him.”

  Fletcher smiled. “You named them?”

  She wiped her hands on a mound of clean hay. “You have a name, don’t you?”

  He gave her a look she couldn’t define and left the barn. Not for the first time, she shook off the attempt to understand Fletcher Mead.

  With a prayer still on her lips, Mercy returned to check Lobo’s poultice. Voices filtered through the shadowy depths of the barn. Near the back, three riders Mercy hadn’t seen before gathered.

  “Ain’t nobody can ride from here to North Platte faster’n me.”

  “Put your money where your mouth is.”

  “I’ll wager a whole month’s pay that—”

  The trio spied Mercy.

  “Well, look what we got here.” The ogling youths circled her, lecherous grins on their faces. “Why don’t you an’ me go for a walk, you perty thing.”

  Mercy’s stomach knotted as anger and fear tumbled through her. Their leering eyes chilled her. She’d grown up tussling with Bowie, but there were three of them. She wasn’t sure she could fight them all. Her eyes slid left and right, searching for a weapon. The pitchfork leaned against the wall just a few feet away.

  Chapter Four

  A growl rumbled in Fletcher’s throat as he walked up behind Mercy. Her hand twitched in the direction of a nearby pitchfork. It wouldn’t have surprised him one bit had she poked the thing in the direction of the three Express riders, given their predatory posturing. And he wouldn’t have blamed her. He felt like knocking all three of their heads together.

  Despite his instincts, however, he figured he’d best step in to prevent bloodshed, especially since one of the young bucks was his own brother.

  “What are you boys doing in here?” Fletcher clenched his jaw and fought to rein in his temper. Brother or no brother, if any of them had laid a finger on Mercy, they’d deal with him. He stepped between her and the boys, and leveled a glare at the trio intended to make them quake in their boots.

  His brother gave a nervous laugh. “You know we was just funnin’, Fletch. Besides, she ain’t no lady. She’s wearin’ men’s britches.”

  Fletcher curled his fists at Harlan’s disrespectful reference to Mercy.

  The other two riders, Red Hogan and Pee Wee Lloyd, exchanged glances. Pee Wee spoke up. “We was just talkin’ to her. Ain’t no law against that.”

  “Just a friendly conversation, huh? That’s not what it looked like when I came in.” Fletcher turned to Mercy. “Did they…did any of them…”

  Mercy lifted her chin. “Do you think they’d still be standin’ upright if they had?”

  Fletcher bit his lip. Her bravado didn’t fool him, especially when he’d caught the soft exhale of relief from her lips a few moments ago. He gave her a single nod and faced the boys again.

  “I’m only going to say this once.” He nailed each one with a look that he hoped communicated his ire. “You keep your distance from Miss Winfield. The only reason you need to be anywhere near her is if you’re riding in or out. If I catch you boys or any of the others bothering her, or speaking to her with disrespect, I promise I’ll teach you some manners.” He planted his fists on his hips and leaned slightly forward. “Have I made myself clear?”

  He stared, unblinking, at each one, waiting for them to nod in response. Fletcher finally let his hard gaze linger on his younger brother. “I expect better from you, Harlan.”

  “You’re not my pa.” Harlan crossed his arms and stared back at Fletcher. “And we didn’t mean no harm.”

  Fletcher narrowed his eyes. “I’ll just bet you didn’t. Since you three seem to have so much time on your hands, go get your rifles and go hunting. We need fresh meat.”

  Red Hogan snorted. “Fletch couldn’t hit the barn door if he was standin’ ten feet away from it, so we’d best bring in a deer.”

  All three laughed as they passed Fletcher, and Harlan released a parting shot. “We’d all go hungry if we had to depend on Fletch’s huntin’ skills.” Their echoing laughter hung in the air as they exited the barn.

  He turned to Mercy, hesitant to ask if she was all right. She might try to use that pitchfork on him if he implied she’d needed rescuing. But an inkling of satisfaction fell over him at the idea of acting as her protector, despite his suspicion that she could take care of herself.

  Instead, he simply shrugged. “They’re right. I’m a lousy shot.”

  Mercy looked away. “I s’pose I should thank you for comin’ in when you did.” She wiped her palms down the sides of her trousers.

  Her momentary vulnerability prodded him, and admiration crowded out the animosity he’d felt during her first few days at the station. Were he honest, he’d have to admit those initial indignant feelings were nothing more than wounded pride because she’d proven herself proficient at something he’d been unable to do. Her special skill with the horses was a God-given gift, unlike anything he’d ever seen.

  And her honey-brown eyes framed with windblown blond hair weren’t exactly hard to look at, either.

  He cleared his throat and touched the brim of his hat. “If everything is all right here, I’ll just get on with my work.”

  He paced with a measured tread toward the gaping barn doors, resisting the urge to linger in her presence. Before he reached the corner, however, he glanced back over his shoulder and caught her watching him. Suppressing a smile, he continued toward the station, a nonsensical lightness in his step.

  Mercy silently rebuked herself for dropping her guard—not because of the three riders, but for allowing Fletcher to see her show the slightest bit of interest. Why had she stood there like a ninny watching him depart? Twice burned, she’d not let another man have the chance to trample on her heart again, least of all the stationmaster at Cold Springs. His attitude was no different from Cliff Rutledge’s or Lester Waring’s.

  She reinforced the wall she’d built around her emotions. She didn’t need Fletcher Mead or any other man for that matter. Even her own brothers couldn’t understand the deep longing that groaned within her to race the wind across the prairie mounted on a fast horse and carrying the US mail. No doubt Fletcher would ridicule her heart’s desire, just as the others had.

  She set about the feeding chores. “He’s just like all the rest—all ate up with pride and ego.” Even his so-called apology sounded as if he thought the friction between them was her fault, insinuating that she’d “misunderstood” him.

  Pushing the conflicting thoughts from her, she plunged the wooden scoop into the grain bin to measure out each horse’s supper. She lingered with Lobo, speaking quietly in a singsong voice. The wounds on his shoulder and chest were healing slowly, but would leave ugly scars. She could only imagine the scars left on the horse’s spirit.

  She dumped his grain in the feeding trough and patted his neck. As she turned to leave his stall, Lobo nickered after her. She jerked around with a gasp, eyes wide. There he stood, his head swung around, looking at her with doleful eyes.

  Heart skipping, she reached in her pocket and pul
led out a couple of pieces of carrot. She eased back into Lobo’s stall, unwilling to let this moment slip away—his first inclination toward friendship. She offered the treat on her flattened palm.

  He hesitated, snorting softly.

  “C’mon, sweet boy. You have to learn to trust again.” She slowly extended her hand closer. “I know you’ll never forget what that horrible man did to you, but he’s gone and I’m here, and I’ll never let anyone hurt you.”

  She hummed a hymn she remembered her mother singing years ago. Lobo pointed his ears toward her, as if listening to her off-tune rendition. Finally, he reached out and nibbled the nuggets from her hand.

  Mercy wanted to shout hallelujah, but instead she crooned to him. “Oh, you’re such a good boy. We understand each other, don’t we, Lobo?”

  The horse blew out a breath and returned to his feed trough.

  Mercy laughed softly, delight dancing in her middle as she ran her hands gently over Lobo’s neck and shoulders. “Yes, we both know how heartless men can be, don’t we? Horses are much better company. They don’t make promises they don’t intend to keep. They don’t make fools of themselves boastin’ and darin’ each other, or wagerin’ hard-earned money on somethin’ as stupid as who can ride faster than the other.” She gave him a pat. “I’d rather trust a horse any day than a man.”

  Lobo didn’t disagree.

  Her own encouraging words to the horse echoed in her mind. Learn to trust again. Could she? She pushed away the unwelcome challenge and leaned against a support post at the corner of Lobo’s stall.

  Was the horse’s new acceptance of her an answer to her prayer? She lifted her eyes heavenward. “God, were You really listenin’ to my prayers? Thank You for helpin’ Lobo get better. I’d tried everything I knew to help him heal, but it wasn’t enough. I didn’t know if I mattered enough for You to listen to me, but You heard me. You really heard me.”