Mercy stepped into the kitchen and headed straight for the coffeepot. Dark smudges under her eyes testified to the long hours she’d put in over the past two days caring for Dash. Fletcher grimaced inwardly.
“How is he this morning?”
Mercy sipped the strong brew. “Holdin’ his own. No tellin’ when he lost that right front shoe. I’m soakin’ his split hoof.”
Fletcher gritted his teeth. Riding a horse with a thrown shoe and a split hoof—how could Harlan do such a thing? Couldn’t he tell the horse was going lame?
He returned his focus to Mercy. Enola set a plate of antelope steak, eggs, and corn bread on the table and gave Mercy’s shoulder a firm nudge.
“You eat now.”
Mercy glanced at Enola and then to Fletcher. He grinned at her.
“You heard the lady. Eat.” He pulled a chair over and held it for her, tipping his head toward the fragrant breakfast.
“I’m too tired and hungry to argue, but don’t get the idea you can boss me around.” A hint of humor accompanied her mock bravado. She sat and paused for a moment to bow her head.
Fletcher’s heart smiled to see her pray.
While she dug into her meal, he dragged another chair to sit across from her. “Who is the eastbound rider coming in?”
She swallowed a bite and washed it down with coffee. “Jack Simpson. He’ll be changing mounts and going all the way to Cottonwood Springs.”
She didn’t need to remind him Cottonwood Springs was now the end of the line to the east, and messages would be telegraphed from there.
He held up the letter he’d written. “Make sure this goes in the mail pouch this morning.”
Mercy arched one eyebrow. “St. Joe?”
Fletcher grunted a response, still too angry to engage in a calm discussion over what Harlan had done.
“Why?” Her tone no longer rang with outrage as it had a few days ago. Instead, resignation shaded her single-word inquiry. “It won’t make any difference. By the time they read it at headquarters, the Pony Express will more’n likely be history.”
Fletcher rose and went to the stove to fill his own cup. “True. That’s why I also sent notices to the relay stations east and west of Cold Springs, instructing the stationmasters to not allow Harlan to ride.”
She sniffed. “You know that’s gonna make him spittin’ mad.”
Fletcher returned to his chair and didn’t respond for a full minute, but stared at the steam spiraling upward from his cup. It reminded him of the countless buckets of scalding water they’d carried to the barn to help the horse Harlan had ridden nearly to death. Yes, his brother would likely be furious.
“I’ll deal with him when the time comes.”
If the time came. It was entirely possible Harlan might head east to join the Union army. Fletcher might never see him again. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t lift his brother to the Lord in prayer.
He changed the subject. “Did Sawyer say when they’d be back?”
Mercy poked her fork into the last bite of eggs. “Not really. It’ll depend on how far they have to go and how many horses they round up.” She lifted her shoulders. “Sawyer told me to stay as long as I’m needed. I’ve taken Lobo out for a few runs, so he’s ready, but now Dash needs special care.”
Fletcher dipped his head. He needed her, too, but couldn’t speak it without knowing if she felt the same.
Mercy nudged her plate away. “Have you replied to Overland yet?”
He swallowed a gulp of coffee and nodded. “I declined their offer. I may be foolish for turning down a job, but I don’t want to be a stationmaster. As soon as I get word the Pony Express service is ended, I’ll close the books…”
Leaving his reply unfinished didn’t mean he hadn’t given the matter any thought. Truth be told, he’d thought about it—and prayed about it—a lot. But so far, God hadn’t revealed a definite answer. The only thing he knew for certain was that he didn’t want to stay here without this extraordinary woman.
“I’ve almost finished with the second soft halter. Maybe you can use it when you go home.” An ache in his chest accompanied his words.
She nodded. “Thank you. I’ll put it to good use.”
Was that a thread of sadness in her voice, or simply weariness? Reminiscence pulled one corner of his mouth upward. When Mercy first arrived, Fletcher couldn’t wait for her brothers to return and get her out of his hair. But everything about her had softened. He knew he’d not only miss her deeply, but would also miss working with the horses alongside her. Before Mercy, he’d viewed the horses as a necessary presence in a man’s life. Over the past couple of months, however, he’d had the opportunity to view them through different eyes—Mercy’s eyes—and realize what noble, majestic creatures they were.
Chapter Ten
Fletcher peered out the window where Mercy limbered up Lobo before the next rider came in. The look on her face reminded him of his ma when she’d sent him off for his very first day of school. He’d watched her over many weeks restore Lobo back to health, and he understood Mercy’s angst.
Dash was improving, and he might make a good mount for a child someday, but he’d never run again. Fletcher knew the horse’s permanent weakness hurt Mercy’s heart.
The onset of October had brought a frosty nip in the air. He crossed another day off the calendar. The month was almost half-gone. He expected to receive notification any day now to cease operations. He wasn’t surprised to read the notice that the army intended to purchase most of the Pony Express’s stock. But the sight of Mercy readying Lobo for a run triggered a hollowness inside. He’d still not found the right time to tell Mercy how he felt about her. And he was running out of time.
“God, what should I do? How should I tell her? What if she doesn’t return my feelings? Lord, please show me—”
A couple of riders ambled in through the back door and announced they’d brought back some jackrabbits for Enola’s stewpot. Had they heard him praying?
Before they could nail him with curious stares, he stepped outside. Within moments, his gaze connected with Mercy’s, as if she’d been watching for him. She reined Lobo in his direction and dismounted.
“He looks great.” Fletcher patted Lobo’s neck and noticed the horse didn’t even toss his head.
“He does, doesn’t he?” A proud smile tipped the corners of her mouth, but promptly faded again. “I just wish the riders would forget about this stupid challenge. I worry…”
Fletcher touched the sleeve of her jacket. “They’re all aware of what happened with my brother. Wiley said he talked to Harlan at Julesburg last week. He’s mighty sore at me for sending those letters, but he’s got no one to blame but himself.”
Those honey-brown eyes of hers penetrated his soul. “I’m sorry for the conflict between you and your brother. Truly, I am. But I’m grateful for what you did. I know how much it cost you.”
He couldn’t deny his heart grieved over the broken tie between him and Harlan, but his brother had ignored every warning. He’d had no choice, and he couldn’t let Mercy blame herself. “It’s not your fault, Mercy. Harlan knew what he was doing was wrong.”
She ran her hand over Lobo’s velvety nose, and the horse responded by nudging her pocket. “Sorry, boy. I don’t have any carrots.”
“I do.” Fletcher dipped his hand into his trouser pocket and produced two fat orange pieces.
The sweetest smile he’d ever seen lit Mercy’s face. “Since when have you taken up totin’ carrots around in your pocket?”
He grinned and lifted his shoulders. “Guess I’ve just gotten into the habit.”
In the distance, dust rose above the brown, dried-up prairie grass. The rider was coming in. Mercy led Lobo around into position so the rider could make the transfer swiftly and easily.
But something wasn’t right. The incoming horse wasn’t running at a full gallop, nor was he following a straight line to the station. The animal loped to and fro, as if picking his own w
ay across the prairie.
Fletcher shaded his eyes. “Something’s wrong.” Alarm threaded through him. He positioned himself to catch the horse.
A hundred yards out, the horse slowed to a trot, the rider slumped over in the saddle. Fletcher’s chest tightened. They’d heard reports of a number of Indian attacks up and down the line. He moved forward and snagged the horse’s bridle. The young fellow slid out of the saddle and tumbled to the ground.
Fletcher released the horse and bent over the rider lying prone in the dirt. He rolled him over. “It’s Flint Hamilton.”
“Is he—?”
No blood. No visible wound. “He’s burning up with fever.” Fletcher looked up toward the station and bellowed. “Jack! Tommy! Get out here.”
Vaguely aware of Mercy wrangling both horses, he started to direct Tommy to take the mailbag. But Mercy had already seized it.
Lobo danced sideways as Mercy slung the mailbag over the saddle horn. Fletcher pointed to Tommy and opened his mouth to bark an order for the lad to take over for Flint.
But Mercy vaulted into the saddle. She nudged Lobo, and the gray horse leaped forward as if he’d been fired from a cannon.
“Hey!” Fletcher straightened. “What do you think you’re—”
He took a half-dozen strides, but Mercy and Lobo were already galloping off to the west. “Mercy!”
He caught glimpses of her through the dust. She was crouched low over Lobo’s neck, and the pair flew over the prairie.
“Well, I’ll be—” Fletcher stood, his mouth agape and his arms akimbo, staring after the foolhardy woman who owned his heart. He wasn’t sure if he should be angry, worried, envious, or stinkin’ proud of her.
Mercy gripped a handful of Lobo’s mane and relaxed the reins, pressing her knees inward and giving Lobo his head. She leaned over his neck and prayed.
“God, go with Lobo ’n’ me. Make the way straight and true. Guard Lobo’s steps and keep them sure. Hold us in Your hand, and give us wings. I know You hear me, Lord. I know I can trust You.”
Lobo’s ears twitched back to listen to her as she talked to God. She slid her hand up his neck. “Go, Lobo. Fly. Nothin’ but wind chasin’ us, boy.”
Lobo responded to her voice and gentle encouragement. He pressed himself to greater speed, giving noble effort to the mission. Mercy urged him on, an indescribable thrill shooting through her.
She tipped her head back, relishing the freedom and pure joy that had been denied her for more than a year and a half. Her dream was coming true. The horse’s muscles rippled beneath her. Time lost all meaning as she allowed the prairie, the wind, the sun, and Lobo’s pounding hooves to catch her up in the sensation of flight.
The North Platte Relay Station loomed ahead. She could see a horse and rider waiting out front to receive the mail pouch and continue west. She set Lobo’s course directly for the waiting rider, and tossed the bag to him as soon as she pulled Lobo to a halt.
Mercy dismounted and threw her arms around Lobo’s neck. “We did it, Lobo.” She buried her face in his mane. “We did it.”
“Hey, you’re a woman.”
She turned in the direction of the gravelly voice. A grizzled man hobbled over and reached for Lobo’s reins. “We ain’t never had us no woman rider before.”
A smile that started in her toes climbed up her frame and made its way to her face. Her lips stretched into laughter. “Don’t suppose you’ll have another one, either.”
She held up her hand, stopping the old hostler from taking charge of Lobo. “Thanks, but I’ll see to him myself. He’s special.”
The old man cocked his head and squinted. “Don’t look so special to me. How’d he get all them scars?”
She led Lobo toward the barn. “There’s all kinds of scars, mister. The kind you can see and the kind you can’t see. God’s carried me ’n’ Lobo past our scars.”
She unsaddled Lobo and led him around the corral to cool him down. “You were magnificent. You ran like the wind. You’re the best horse in the Pony Express.”
Lobo nickered and bumped his nose against her. She laughed. “I promise I’ll find you a carrot. C’mon, let’s get you brushed down. Then you’re gonna get an extra measure of grain.”
Mercy insisted on seeing to every detail of Lobo’s care, including feeding and watering. The old hostler scratched his head and shrugged, saying it didn’t matter to him. But as she attended to the horse, a question occurred to her: Who was performing the barn chores at Cold Springs in her absence?
She didn’t have to wonder. Fletcher was likely doing double duty again, much as he had been on the day she first arrived there over two months ago.
The sun was barely sending sleepy rays past the eastern horizon when Mercy entered the barn. Lobo greeted her with a whinny. She produced a few pieces of carrot she’d begged from the cook. “See, I told you I’d bring you a treat.”
Lobo gobbled the promised carrot, and Mercy ran her hands all over him, searching for swollen tendons or any other injury she might have missed yesterday. “You’re just fine, aren’t you, boy? You’re gonna get a whole day to just be lazy and rest. We’ll start back to Cold Springs tomorrow.”
Even as she divulged her plans to the horse, she wondered what Fletcher must be thinking. In the heat of the moment yesterday, the thought never crossed her mind to confer with him before she grabbed the mail pouch and flung herself into the saddle. No doubt he was ready to strangle her.
But even the thread of anxiety over Fletcher’s reaction couldn’t dampen the thrill of yesterday’s ride. “God, I believe that unexpected opportunity to ride came from You. You knew my heart, You knew I’d surrendered my desire to You, and You gave it back to me. So please, Lord, I pray Fletcher isn’t too angry.”
She lingered in the barn most of the day, fussing over Lobo and making sure he was well-rested before they set out for Cold Springs the following morning. The ten-mile trek took considerably longer today as she held Lobo to an easy pace.
In midafternoon, the familiar relay station came into view. As she and Lobo trotted up to the barn, Fletcher stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips.
Uh-oh. He’s going to tell me how foolish I am for doing what I did.
She dismounted and wound Lobo’s reins around the hitching post, her stomach in a knot. When she turned to face him, he walked toward her. No scowl marred his features. No frown curved his mouth downward.
Fletcher gathered her into his arms and pressed her head to his shoulder. An enormous sigh escaped his lips and he murmured her name. “You scared me spitless.” He pulled back and looked at her. The tenderness in his eyes weakened her knees. “You are the most incredible woman I’ve ever met, and I couldn’t be prouder of anyone than I am of you.”
Mercy blinked as he drew her back to him. Proud? He’s…proud? Her heart took wing as Fletcher rocked gently back and forth with her in his arms.
Finally, he released her, but kept hold of her hand. “Your brothers are inside. Sawyer was fit to be tied when he found out you’d taken off on an Express run. He told me they got the contract with the army to supply horses, and they need you.” He squeezed her hand. “But I need you more.”
Mercy forgot to breathe. She swallowed hard. “Why? The Pony Express is over. When I was at North Platte, they got word the telegraph will be finished by the end of the week.”
Fletcher’s thumb rubbed the top of her hand. “I know. But I still need you. I’ve—I’ve already spoken with Sawyer—”
“Oh—” Had he asked Sawyer for a job?
Someone cleared his throat, and Mercy turned to see her brother standing with arms crossed, but his eyes reflected a softness she’d never seen before. He tilted his head toward Fletcher.
“Hear him out, Sis.”
She returned her attention to Fletcher, her heart galloping faster than Lobo’s hooves across the prairie.
His fingertips stroked her face. “I want to work alongside you. I need you to teach me everything yo
u know about training horses.”
Her breath hiccupped, and his touch shook her all the way to her toes. She nodded, barely able to push words past her lips. “I can do that.”
He sandwiched her hand between both of his. “I asked Sawyer for permission to court you.”
“You did?” She turned and nailed Sawyer with raised eyebrows, but the mischievous gleam in her brother’s eye disarmed her. “What did my brother say?”
Fletcher grinned and cupped her chin. “He said I’d have to ask you.” He leaned in and softly brushed his lips across hers.
Connie Stevens lives with her husband of forty-plus years in north Georgia, within sight of her beloved mountains. She and her husband are both active in a variety of ministries at their church. A lifelong reader, Connie began creating stories by the time she was ten. Her office manager and writing muse is a cat, but she’s never more than a phone call or email away from her critique partners. She enjoys gardening and quilting, but one of her favorite pastimes is browsing antique shops where story ideas often take root in her imagination. Connie has been a member of American Christian Fiction Writers since 2000.
Embattled Hearts
by Pegg Thomas
Chapter One
She ignored the boot that shoved against her ribs. The next shove came with more force, and Alannah Fagan let a groan escape her swollen lips. Only she knew it was a groan of rage, not pain, although there was plenty of that.
“She’s alive.”
She forced herself not to flinch at Edward Bergman’s guttural voice. It was better they thought her still unconscious. They wouldn’t bother to care for her, so she’d have a chance to escape once darkness fell.
“Leave her.” Hugh Bergman’s voice rose from the direction of the camp. “She’ll come ’round by mornin’.”
The Pony Express Romance Collection Page 50
