The Pony Express Romance Collection

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

  From the tack room, Fletcher stood peering at Mercy through the crack in the door. The way she worked and moved around the injured horses—horses that kicked or tried to bite every time he came near—intrigued him. He’d wanted to tell her what a good job she was doing, and try to clear up the misunderstanding between them. He felt he should apologize for his gruffness and what certainly must have sounded like resentful complaining. Standing behind the tack room door, listening as she talked to the horse made him feel a bit foolish. Was it eavesdropping if one talked to an animal?

  He’d almost cheered when the gray horse took the treat from her hand. She’d made remarkable progress with the horse in a short time.

  But her words stopped him cold. Why did she believe men weren’t to be trusted? What had happened that destroyed her ability to be at ease and comfortable around a man? Dread twined through him as he imagined the worst. Perhaps Mercy and the gray horse both suffered from the same kind of distrust at the hands of a dishonorable man.

  But it was her soft prayer of gratitude and wonderment that sliced through his heart. How could she think God wouldn’t care about her or hear her prayers?

  Fletcher scrubbed his hand over the two-day growth on his jaw and stared at the calendar hanging by the kitchen door. The numbers mocked him. He’d dreamed so often of getting his chance to ride for the Pony Express—just once—but he knew the opportunities were slipping away faster than he could blink. Nearly every week he received notice that the telegraph wires were stretching farther west. Soon they would bypass Cold Springs, and the Pony Express’s glory days would end—at least for him—without ever getting the chance to ride. Just one leg of the relay, that’s all he wanted.

  He heaved a sigh and returned his attention to the despised paperwork in front of him. He recorded the payroll for each rider, frowning at his brother’s name. He still hadn’t found a moment to speak to Harlan privately about the confrontation in the barn. His younger brother’s reckless conduct irked him, but as Harlan so often reminded him, he wasn’t the boy’s pa.

  The last name on the payroll was Mercy’s. Fletcher paused as he counted out the twenty-five dollars for the stableman’s salary. Had he followed the instructions he’d been given the day he took this job, he would have sent word to Express headquarters in St. Joe that he needed a new hostler the day he fired Smitty. But Mercy was doing such a good job, and the days of the Pony Express were numbered. Why not talk her into staying until the Express met its demise?

  Fletcher snorted. Not likely she’d stay a day longer than necessary. Once all four of the injured horses were sound, she’d head for home faster than her own shadow. She didn’t hide the fact that she disliked him. Besides, her brothers needed her. He could offer her more money, but he doubted a raise in pay would be incentive. What kind of young woman would want to stay at a remote relay station indefinitely with only rough-edged riders, an ill-tempered stationmaster, and a Cheyenne woman who rarely strung more than two sentences together for company?

  He scratched his head. What if he convinced her the horses needed her? That might keep her at Cold Springs.

  Chapter Five

  Fletcher paused by the kitchen window while sipping his coffee. Out behind the station, he spied Mercy on her knees in Enola’s garden, pulling up a few carrots. She brushed off the dirt, broke them into pieces, and shoved the orange nuggets into her pocket—treats for her horses. Fletcher chuckled and watched as she rose and headed toward the back corral.

  A hankering to join her made his feet itch. Getting better acquainted with Mercy was an interesting objective, but she spent far more time with the horses than she did with the people at the station. Perhaps he needed to find reasons to visit the barn and corrals more frequently.

  Fletcher cast a furtive glance around the room. Since he’d given strict orders to leave Mercy alone, he’d best not let the boys see him follow her to the corral. Enola gave him a knowing look as he slipped out the back door.

  Fletcher slowed his steps. Mercy stood in the middle of the corral surrounded by the four horses, like children awaiting their turn for a treat. Even the gray horse—what did she call him?—stretched his neck and nudged her hand. Extraordinary how she’d won the trust of these abused horses in a matter of a few weeks.

  Fletcher leaned against the corner of the corral and watched. With a bridle hanging on her arm, she spent several minutes with the dark bay horse, stroking his neck, rubbing his ears, and running her hands over his head and face. Slowly, she eased the bridle on, talking to him the whole time.

  The patience and compassion she demonstrated left Fletcher amazed, but her earlier words still rang fresh in his mind. Why did she feel the way she did?

  She led the horse around the corral, murmuring to him as she walked. Fascinated by her gentle methods, Fletcher watched every movement of her hands creating a waltz with the horse as her partner. They worked in concert, so when she finally hefted the saddle onto the horse and tightened the cinch, the horse stood quietly, as if waiting for his other half. She swung into the saddle with feather-like lightness. The horse responded to the nudge of her boot heels and they trotted easily around the corral.

  When she rounded the turn, her frown indicated she’d caught sight of him observing her. She dismounted and led the horse to the fence, making Fletcher feel like an intruder.

  “You need somethin’?”

  Her bristly temperament provoked a retort to rise up in his throat, but he swallowed it back. Instead, he pulled his gaze from her honey-brown eyes and fixed it on the horse. “What’s this one’s name?”

  The hard edge around her mouth softened when she ran her hand down the horse’s face. “This is Thistle.”

  “He looks to be making good progress.”

  Was that a tiny smile twitching the corners of her mouth? “He is. They all are.”

  “Will he let anyone else ride him besides you?”

  She shot him a look. “He might. Want to try?”

  Knowing she wouldn’t risk setting back the horse’s recovery, he nodded. He approached the horse slowly. “Not sure I can sing to him the way you do. That would make him buck for sure.”

  No mistaking this time—that was most definitely a smile, and his heart leaped like a jackrabbit. If she was willing to trust him with one of her horses, did that mean there was a chance for more than a begrudging working relationship between them?

  His gaze slid to Mercy and found her watching him. In a heartbeat of time, he memorized the look on her face so he could linger over it later, wondering what she was thinking. He returned his attention to the horse.

  “Hello there, big boy. I’m glad to see you doing so much better. Think we can be friends?” He extended his hand toward the animal.

  “If you want to be his friend, you’ll need one of these.” Mercy pulled a piece of carrot from her pocket and placed it in his hand.

  Thistle’s ears perked up as the horse eyed the treat. After a momentary hesitation, he gobbled the carrot from Fletcher’s hand.

  He grinned at Mercy. “You’ve done an extraordinary job with these horses.”

  She handed him the reins. “Stroke his neck and talk to him. Let him get used to you.”

  With slow, measured movements, Fletcher followed her instructions, watching for signs of hostility from Thistle. Finally, he adjusted the stirrups, all the while talking softly to the horse.

  Mercy held Thistle’s bridle while Fletcher mounted. The horse snorted, but showed no inclination to unseat his rider. Fletcher couldn’t hold back a grin. He gently nudged the horse, and they trotted around the corral. He neck-reined right, then left, and Thistle responded. After a few minutes, he pulled up at the fence beside Mercy and dismounted.

  “Well done.” He patted the horse.

  “He did do well, didn’t he?” Mercy leaned her head against the horse’s neck and rubbed between his ears.

  “I meant you.”

  She lifted widened eyes to meet his, the blush on her cheek
s defining her surprise. Her lips parted as if she was about to speak, but then quickly closed. Fletcher’s heart pinched. He wished she’d have voiced what was on her heart.

  “I’ve never seen anyone with such a special touch with horses as you have. I was ready to give up on these four.” He stroked Thistle’s neck. “I’m glad you came.”

  Fletcher’s words rattled through Mercy like the prairie wind stirring the buffalo grass. A momentary flutter akin to panic caught her breath. She took a deep breath and tethered the horse to begin unsaddling.

  “I—I’ve been meanin’ to—to talk to you about somethin’.”

  Stop stammerin’, for heaven’s sake. He’s gonna think you’re muddle headed.

  Fletcher crossed his arms. “What’s on your mind?”

  She had no business entertaining the thoughts currently on her mind. Her tightened throat made swallowing difficult. “I—uh, I overheard some of the riders talkin’ about which one is the best and fastest rider.”

  Fletcher shrugged. “They’ve been arguing about that for well over a year.”

  She hung the saddle on the fence rail. “But now they’re organizin’ some kind of contest, wagerin’ money over who will have the fastest run by the time the Express closes down. I’m concerned they’ll push the horses even harder than they already do and take unnecessary risks all for the glory of bein’ named the best, and of course for the money.”

  Fletcher hooked his thumbs on his belt and scuffed the toe of his boot in the dust. “I can’t deny wishing I could fly across the prairie on a fast horse.” He shook his head and appeared to study the fence post. “Imagine how it might feel to have other riders acknowledge you as the best.” He blinked and returned his gaze to her. “But I understand your concern. I worry about what the riders might be willing to do to win. Money on the line will sure prod them to extremes.”

  She couldn’t fault him for his dream. She wished it herself. But she didn’t intend to risk letting Fletcher Mead know that.

  She gathered Thistle’s reins and stiffened her spine. Locking her eyes onto Fletcher’s all of a sudden unnerved her. “All I can say is, if I hear any more boastin’ or foolish dares, I’m gonna remember who said it. And if a single horse goes lame or is injured because some fool rider got stupid, I’ll hunt down that rider myself.”

  Their gazes remained connected for several heartbeats, and she couldn’t look away, astounded at what she saw. What happened to Fletcher’s steely-eyed glare that usually met her remarks? Accustomed to going toe-to-toe with him, his tender look caught her off balance. She restrained the urge to take off her hat and fan herself.

  Fletcher patted Thistle’s neck. “I’ll make sure every rider knows what you’ve said, and just so you know—I agree with you. Riding for the Pony Express is a dangerous job already. As much as I wish…” He turned his gaze toward the west. “This challenge the riders have started is just plain reckless.”

  He looked back at her and tugged on the brim of his hat before striding off toward the station.

  Mercy released the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding and let Fletcher’s words drift through her mind. Did she dare believe him? She’d sworn to never again trust a man’s word. She turned Thistle into the corral and went to check on Lobo’s wounds.

  The horse no longer shied away when she approached. She slipped her hand into her pocket, and Lobo ambled to her, nudging her arm.

  “You’re getting greedy.” She stroked him and gave him a piece of carrot. As he enjoyed his treat, she noticed the edges of his wounds were getting dry and crusty. “Let me see what I can do about that.”

  She tramped to the station, heading toward the back door that opened to the kitchen. When she entered, Enola stood at the worktable cutting up rabbit meat for frying. Enola never smiled, and rarely spoke, but the Cheyenne woman grunted a greeting when Mercy stepped in.

  “Enola, can you spare some lard? I only need a little, for one of the horse’s wounds.”

  The woman gestured with her elbow toward a blue crock beside the stove. Mercy pulled a cup from the shelf and proceeded to scoop a spoonful of lard into it when she heard Fletcher’s voice.

  “I’m warning all of you to keep some common sense in your head about this challenge. If any horse is injured or goes lame because you pushed him too hard just to win a contest, I promise you there will be consequences.”

  A mixture of complaints and protests drowned out Fletcher’s next statement. Mercy exchanged looks with Enola and moved closer to the corner that separated the kitchen from the rest of the large room to listen.

  “Miss Winfield has assured me she will examine every horse that comes in, and she’ll report to me. And let me tell you something, boys—if she finds a whip mark or any other evidence that you’ve abused one of these horses, I might have to wait my turn to deal with you, because she’ll jerk you up by your ears and hang you out to dry.”

  A couple of hoots of laughter rang through the room. “Fletch, you afraid o’ that little bitty girl?”

  Mercy clenched her jaw.

  But Fletcher didn’t back down. “Wiley, that little bitty girl has more smarts and more skill with a horse than you have in your pinkie finger.”

  A thread of satisfaction spiraled through Mercy to think Fletcher would vouch for her, but a niggling of defensiveness poked her as well. She didn’t want or need a man’s validation.

  A chorus of howls and jeers accompanied Fletcher’s statement, each one punctuated with a boast of intended victory. Mercy recognized Fletcher’s brother’s voice.

  “It’s almost October, Fletch. Them telegraph lines’re gonna be puttin’ us all out of a job in a few weeks. I’m gonna show everyone here that I’m the best rider in the Pony Express, and I plan to walk away with all that money—how much is in the hat, now? More’n five hundred dollars?”

  Fletcher’s voice lowered and Mercy could no longer hear his words, but she caught the warning tone. He’d actually done what he said he’d do, but believing in a man’s word didn’t come easy. How could she ever allow herself to be vulnerable again?

  An unrelenting pressure on her spirit sent her fleeing for the safety of the barn, while her carefully guarded trust strained at the chains around her heart, wrestling for release.

  Chapter Six

  Four days slipped by, and Mercy managed to avoid private conversation with Fletcher, despite the fact that he’d begun hanging around the corral more often. He was probably just interested in the progress the horses were making—nothing more. Didn’t he have stationmaster duties to keep him busy?

  During the wee hours when everyone at the station slept, Mercy tussled with her feelings and thoughts, trying to convince herself Fletcher was no different from the others. By his own admission, he dreamed of sweeping across the prairie with the wind in his face and the horse’s pounding hooves beneath him. But so had she, so she had no right to find fault with him based only on his unfulfilled wishes. In that regard, they shared common ground. She’d fallen asleep with visions of brown eyes and tousled sandy hair teasing her subconscious.

  This morning, her stomach had knotted when she saddled Thistle and watched him gallop off on the eastbound relay leg. He was sound and ready to go, but trepidation still dogged her. What if Thistle fell victim to a careless rider bent only on winning the challenge? Dusty was scheduled to go out this afternoon on the westbound run. As she loped him around the corral to limber up his muscles, she had to hold him back. He wanted to run.

  She led Dusty to the trough and caught sight of Fletcher rounding the corner of the barn. Her heart fluttered, and she immediately focused every ounce of her attention on the horse. She wasn’t ready or willing to admit Fletcher’s persistent visits to the corral affected her one way or the other.

  But admitting it seemed out of her control. The way her heart danced betrayed every effort she made to ignore the man. She bit her lip and rubbed Dusty’s shoulder.

  Acutely aware of Fletcher’s approach, she
angled her head away from him, but not before she glimpsed some kind of folded object in his hands. Curiosity almost tugged her gaze back to the stationmaster. Almost. No, she’d not allow him to see her interest pique.

  A sliver of guilt elbowed her. She owed him a thank-you for his speech to the riders, cautioning them against mistreating the horses for the purpose of winning their stupid challenge.

  The fence rails creaked as Fletcher leaned against them. “Good morning.”

  “Mornin’.” She finished with Dusty and swallowed her pride. “Thank you for what you said to the riders the other day—backin’ me up the way you did.”

  Fletcher’s brows arched. “I didn’t realize you heard me.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “I did.” She patted Dusty’s neck and changed the subject. “This one’s ready to go. He’ll be takin’ the westbound this afternoon.”

  “You have an amazing skill with these horses. No wonder your brothers want you to come home.”

  She jerked her head around. “My brothers? When did they…?”

  “Last week. You were exercising Thistle.” Fletcher’s eyes took on an undeniable twinkle. “I saw them ride in. I cornered Sawyer before he could go find you and talk you into going home. I had to make a deal with him.”

  Short of a family emergency, Sawyer couldn’t have talked her into going home, but Fletcher didn’t need to know that. She narrowed her eyes and tipped her head. “What kind of deal?”

  Uncertainty flitted over his face. “I told him if he would let you stay, I’d make you a couple of these.” He held up a braided halter.

  The leather straps drooped over his hands. Intrigued, Mercy stepped closer and took the halter, running her fingers over the butter-soft leather. “Is this deer hide?”