The Pony Express Romance Collection

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

  She hurried to the loft, grabbed the shawl with their biscuits in it, then descended the ladder and ran outside.

  Conn was tightening the cinch on the chestnut mare.

  Her throat clogged.

  “Take the biscuits. We slept through dinner. You can eat them on the way.” She pushed the bundle into his hands.

  He hung it over the saddle horn. Then he turned to her. He blinked several times and cleared his throat. “I’m comin’ back.”

  “I know you are.”

  “You keep out of sight.”

  “I will.”

  Conn scuffed his foot in the dirt. “I don’t like leavin’ you—”

  “You’ve no choice. Neither have I. Go.” She swallowed. “Keep your eyes open for Hugh and his sons. Don’t take any chances.”

  “I won’t.” Conn looked at the horse, then back at her.

  She pulled him into a brief hug before pushing him toward the waiting horse. “Go.”

  He mounted.

  “Don’t run her the whole way.” The stationmaster patted the horse’s neck. “You won’t be able to change horses since you’re not a Pony rider. Pace her, and you’ll be at Fort Laramie before sundown.”

  Conn nodded, shot Alannah one more glance, then turned the horse to the east and kicked her into an easy lope.

  “That’ll keep him ahead of your stepfather.” The stationmaster squinted at the horizon. “I expect he’ll be here before long. You best get yourself rigged out as my stock tender.”

  Not trusting her voice, Alannah nodded and entered the cabin. She dug through the trunk and pulled out a pair of britches and two shirts, two mismatched socks with holes in them, and a pair of cracked leather boots she thought might work. After lighting the lantern that hung by the door, she spied the can of sewing supplies on his dresser and snatched it before climbing the ladder. She pulled it up after her.

  In the flickering light of the lantern, she worked over the clothes. One of the shirts was bulky and shapeless, perfect for hiding her figure. She’d wear the other shirt under it. Better to be hot than recognized. The britches were too big, so she’d have to find some rope to tie on as a belt. They were also too long. She snipped a couple inches from the bottom and hemmed both legs. The bulky shirt hung past her hips, further disguising her shape. She darned the socks and pulled them on, followed by the boots. She’d need to find something to stuff in the toes, or she’d have blisters within an hour.

  Now to do something about her hair. There were a couple of hats hanging on pegs downstairs, but hats had a habit of coming off. She ran her fingers down the long braid and then picked up the scissors. Her hands trembled. The scissors needed sharpening, but even so, it didn’t take long to separate her braid from the nape of her neck.

  Alannah held the braid in her lap. Anger boiled inside her. One more mark against Hugh Bergman and his sons. Her fingers lingered on the thick rope of hair. She coiled it and wrapped her clothing around it. She’d hide them in the bottom of the trunk. She sighed. Her hair would grow back.

  If she lived long enough.

  Chapter Four

  After Benji’s weary mount was watered and fed and every other errand he could invent to keep him out of the cabin was finished, Stewart approached the door. What had he gotten himself into? He leaned one hand against the doorframe and dropped his chin to his chest.

  Lord, I can’t do this on my own. I’m bound to make a hash of it. Give me Your wisdom and patience. I’m sure going to need it.

  He drew in a long breath and pushed open the door.

  Miss Fagan stood at the cookstove, stirring something in a pot with one hand and holding up her pants with the other. He wouldn’t have known her except by the ugly bruise marring her face. Gone was the willowy damsel. In front of him stood a slender boy with oversize clothes and unkempt hair chopped off in a crooked line.

  His jaw dropped. “Your hair.”

  Crimson splashed across even her bruised cheek. “I couldn’t find a looking glass.” She fingered the severed ends. “It’ll have to do.”

  His heart squeezed when her chin wobbled. He spied the can of sewing notions on his dresser and fetched the scissors. “Sit.” He pointed to the bench beside the table. “I’ll even it for you.”

  A veil of unshed tears glimmered before she gave a nod and pushed the pot to the back of the stove. She lowered herself onto the bench, her body as taut as a bowstring.

  Stewart lifted a lock of the silky red strands and snipped. He was no barber, but he’d trimmed his brothers’ hair a time or two when Mam was busy. She said he had the steadiest hands of all her boys. He dropped the hair onto the floor and continued snipping until a fluffy pool of red surrounded Miss Fagan.

  He stepped back and surveyed his work. “From a distance, you’ll fool most. But learn to slouch. No boy ever sits that straight, not even in church.”

  She relaxed and raised both hands to run her fingers through what was left of her hair. She blinked a few times, returned to the stove, and pulled the pot forward.

  He caught a whiff of onions. “What’re you cooking?”

  “I found a barrel of salt pork, some potatoes, and onions under there.” She nodded toward the trapdoor that led to the root cellar. “I’ve a stew started for supper.”

  Having her around might have its high points. His cooking was nothing to write home about. He took his whetstone from the shelf and sat at the table to sharpen the scissors. Zeus dropped to the floor beside him.

  “What does a stock tender do?” She didn’t look at him, just tossed the question over her shoulder while she reached for a bundle of dried herbs hanging near the stove. He had no idea what the herbs were or what they were for. They’d been here since he arrived. But she looked like she knew what she was doing.

  “Takes care of the horses. Sees they’re fed, watered, groomed. Keeps their hooves cleaned and shoes set.”

  “I can’t shoe a horse.”

  “I’m not much good at it myself, but I can do it.” He shrugged. “It’s not for long, anyway.”

  The scrape of scissors against the whetstone filled the space between them. A semicomfortable peace settled over the room until Zeus came to his feet. Ears perked, the big dog stalked to the door. There he dropped his head and issued a low growl.

  “Up the ladder. Now.” He didn’t need to tell her twice.

  With the rope ladder pulled up behind her, Alannah scurried to the front wall of the loft and peeked out the knothole.

  The door banged shut, and Zeus’s growl turned into a full-throated bark. He passed through her line of vision at a stiff-legged trot, hair raised along his neck.

  Three men pulled their horses to a halt in front of the cabin. Hugh, Carl, and Edward Bergman. Arnold must have stayed with the wagon train.

  “What can I do for you?” The stationmaster’s voice was mild, but not welcoming.

  “We’re lookin’ for a pair of runaways.” Hugh’s voice sent a tremor through her body. She touched the bruised side of her face.

  “Horses or mules?”

  “A girl and a boy.”

  “Haven’t seen any children around here.”

  “They ain’t children.” Edward’s voice caused her teeth to clench. “The girl was to be my wife. She’s about twenty. The boy’s her brother, about twelve years old.”

  Anger churned deep in her middle as fear sprouted a clammy sweat across her forehead.

  “Nobody fitting that description here.”

  The stationmaster wasn’t lying, since the ages Edward gave him didn’t match her or Conn. He was clever, the stationmaster. But how brave was he?

  “Our horses need water.” Hugh gestured to the well.

  “Help yourself.”

  Hugh’d started to dismount when Zeus charged. The horses danced and knocked into each other. Edward uttered a vulgar curse and grabbed for his pistol.

  “Don’t pull that.” The barrel of the stationmaster’s shotgun entered Alannah’s field of vision, even
though she couldn’t see him. The three Bergmans got their horses under control and kept their hands on their reins in plain sight.

  “Ain’t no call to pull that gun on us.” Hugh puffed out his chest, his voice dropping to a snarl that had intimidated bigger men than the stationmaster.

  Alannah swallowed. She wished she’d thought to ask for a gun to protect herself. She cast a quick glance around the room. Should have left the scissors in the loft.

  “Zeus, come here.”

  She turned in time to see the dog obey.

  “You men water your horses and move on.”

  The shotgun barrel hadn’t moved. The stationmaster hadn’t backed down an inch.

  Hugh grimaced and jerked his head toward the well. Both sons followed. They moved out of her sight, but she remained pressed against the wall, listening to the creak of their saddles and rattle of their spurs until they galloped away. Only then did she draw a full breath. He’d kept her hidden, just like he’d said. A tiny ray of hope and something else flickered in her chest.

  The door banged shut several minutes later.

  “They’re gone.”

  Stewart slid the shotgun into its usual place above the door. The girl fumbled down the ladder while holding up her pants. Zeus greeted her when her feet touched the floor. She rubbed the dog’s head. It was the first time she’d acknowledged Zeus’s presence. Maybe it was a good sign.

  “They aren’t the most pleasant fellows.”

  She jerked and stared at him like he had a third eye in the middle of his forehead.

  He chuckled. “They’re gone, anyway.”

  “Hugh won’t give up. They’ll be back.”

  “You sound pretty sure of that.”

  “He plans to marry me to Edward, the one who doesn’t know how old I am.” Anger and disgust laced her words.

  “Why is he so set on that?”

  “Edward is simpleminded and mean. No woman would have him unless forced. The older two sons have brides promised to them already in Oregon. Daughters of Hugh’s friend who moved out there last year. The one who encouraged him to move west.”

  Stewart rubbed his chin. “He can’t get to Oregon if he’s chasing you around Wyoming Territory. Maybe he’ll give up after a day or two.”

  Her look said Stewart was a fool. She might be right. How else could he have gotten himself in this situation?

  “I need to check the fence posts to be sure that gully washer didn’t loosen any. There’s rope in the lean-to. Cut yourself a length to use for a belt, then meet me out there. I’ll show you around.”

  With the stew pushed back on the stove where it wouldn’t burn, Alannah collected the scissors and went to the lean-to. She found the coil of rope mounted on the wall and tugged out a length. The sharpened scissors snicked through the rough hemp. She tied it at her waist. After returning the scissors, she snagged one of the hats off the wall and crammed it over her shorn hair, then headed to the corrals.

  Zeus bounded to her side. The dog had proven himself a good judge of character. Maybe next time he’d tear a chunk out of Hugh’s hide. A girl could hope.

  She passed a tangled mess of what might have been a garden if anyone had tended it. The rain had disappeared into the thirsty ground, making it easier to walk in her oversized boots. She pulled in the scent of freshly washed earth.

  The stationmaster had his shoulder braced against a crooked fence post while he worked a shovel at its base.

  “Here.” He moved aside and pointed to the post. “You lean on this and keep it upright while I fill in what the rain washed away.”

  Alannah grabbed the wood and wished for a pair of gloves. The weathered post bit into her palms. The stationmaster had the post shored up in no time. She dusted off her hands and looked at him.

  He wasn’t tall, just an average height, and slender enough to appear somewhat boyish if it weren’t for the dark stubble covering the firm line of his jaw. A crease in his left cheek might deepen to a dimple if he smiled. A furrow marred his forehead as he surveyed another fencepost.

  She followed him down the line and helped him straighten two more posts. This corral, closest to the base of the hill, had taken the brunt of the storm’s force. He ducked inside the fence and tossed out some rocks that had been washed down the hill. She followed his example, but before she bent to pick up her first rock, a one-eyed black horse approached her. Alannah held out her hand, and the horse came closer until he laid his muzzle in her palm and snuffled against her skin. His velvety lips tickled. She smiled in spite of the pain in her face.

  The stationmaster had stopped working and stared at her.

  “What’s his name?” she asked.

  “I can’t remember the name he came with, but I call him Cyclops. I guess the name stuck. The riders even call him that now.”

  She rubbed her hand along the length of the horse’s face. “Zeus and Cyclops. Do you name all your animals after Greek mythology?”

  His eyebrows shot up. “You know Greek mythology?”

  “I’ve read it.”

  He pointed to a dun mare in the next corral with a narrow white stripe down her face. “That’s Artemis. She’s my personal mount. As for the Greek mythology, it was drilled into my head by the headmaster at school back in Virginia.”

  “You grew up there?”

  “I did. On my father’s tobacco plantation.” He pointed to the black horse. “Cyclops is part of the Pony Express string.”

  “He’s friendly.”

  “Not usually. In fact, I don’t saddle him often, because he can be unpredictable. Hard to handle. But he’s got a lot of heart, and he’ll run all day if the rider can control him.”

  “Well, he seems to like me.”

  She turned from the horse to the stationmaster, and their eyes locked. There was no graceful way around it, so she blurted out, “What’s your name?”

  He fingered the back of his ear. “A lot’s happened since we met this morning.”

  She was right, the crease became a dimple. A very appealing dimple.

  “Stewart McCann, but call me Stewart.”

  She nodded, then bent to scoop up a rock. If they left the rocks in the corral, the horses could chip their hooves on them. Pa had kept a team of work mules and his riding horse, so she knew enough to earn her keep at the station.

  Stewart filled both hands with the stray rocks before looking back at her. “What should I call you? If we’re going to keep you in disguise, I best not use your real name.”

  Clever, no doubt about it. “Conn calls me Lanna.”

  He shook his head. “Too feminine.” He snapped his fingers. “Lanny. That’ll do. Lanny…” He looked her up and down. “Short. Lanny Short, stock tender at Horseshoe Station.”

  Alannah tucked her chin and shielded her bruised face from his sight beneath the floppy brim of her borrowed hat. The idea that she’d just become a whole different person was unsettling, as unsettling as Stewart’s smoky-brown eyes that glinted with humor and made her wish she wasn’t standing before him with a swollen face and mangled hair.

  Chapter Five

  Two days had passed, and Alannah didn’t know what to think of Stewart. Although she slept with a knife from the kitchen under her pallet in the loft, she wasn’t truly afraid of him. His quiet and steady demeanor couldn’t be more different from the Bergmans’ ways, nor his handsomeness.

  She patted Cyclops and scanned the horizon to the east. Stewart had assured her that Conn would be hired. With the war heating up and the telegraph lines still not completed, the Pony Express needed every rider it could find to rush news between the coasts. He said the Union feared California might side with the Confederacy.

  The clang of hammer on metal rang across the prairie. Stewart was mending a loose shoe on the horse that had come in this morning.

  Cyclops nudged her arm, and she scratched under his neck. “Stewart says not to saddle you today. Timmy Hart should be the next rider. He thinks Timmy can’t handle you.”
>
  The horse bobbed its head.

  “Maybe you agree.”

  She gave him one more scratch before walking to a smallish pinto with a patch of brown over one eye. Patch didn’t give her any problems catching him, and he wouldn’t give Timmy any problems on the trail, either.

  There were six horses in the corrals at present, including Stewart’s Artemis. The five Pony horses changed as the riders came through, except Cyclops, who hadn’t been used since she’d arrived. Against Stewart’s warnings that the horse could be unpredictable, she was drawn to the one-eyed black gelding.

  Her mind drifted back to Stewart. He was quiet but polite. He stood every time she entered the cabin, thanked her for every meal, and prayed over each one, too. And then there was his habit of disappearing after the westbound riders came through. He’d quiz them on news of the war, asking questions until the rider mounted and galloped away. Then he’d stalk off to the hills behind the corrals with Zeus at his side. In an hour or so, he’d return and get back to work.

  When the riders came through, Alannah hid in the cabin or lean-to, unwilling to trust her disguise up close or expose her battered face. She heard every word, but none of it made much sense.

  A roof over her head, food in her belly, and something to keep her busy helped make the wait tolerable. Still, she ached to see her brother again and hear that he’d found a place for her. For them. Somewhere the Bergmans would never find them.

  If only.

  One final tap to set the repaired shoe and Stewart released the hoof. The horse stood on all four legs again, rather than standing on three and leaning half its weight on Stewart’s shoulder. After a bone-popping stretch, he started for the well to wash the grit from his hands. Lanny—he refused to think of her as Alannah—led Patch around the cabin and tied the horse beside the one he’d finished shoeing. She gave him a nod and then ducked into the lean-to.

  What was he going to do with her? It wasn’t right that they were here alone. He scanned the horizon as he did so often, looking for any puff of dust that might be their only warning. The Bergmans had left without much fuss, but he had a crawling itch between his shoulders saying they’d be back. Next time it wouldn’t be so easy to put them off her trail.