The Courageous Brides Collection

by Johnnie Alexander, Michelle Griep, Eileen Key, Debby Lee, Rose Allen McCauley, Donita Kathleen Paul, Jennifer Uhlarik, Jenness Walker, Renee Yancy

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ronnie pulled the strings on her reticule tighter, giddiness trickling through her middle as she trekked toward a general store. Seth McKenzie had paid her almost a cook’s wages. Certainly enough to get supplies for the trip to the ranch. He’d even let her purchase the Appaloosa at a ridiculously low price. “Least I can do for saving my life,” he’d said.

  By twilight she’d be on her own property. “Home.” The very word conjured images of her daddy and mama. She brushed away a tear. “I’ll get it up and running. Just you and me, Lord.”

  The livery owner handed her the reins and helped her mount, not even frowning when she tucked her skirts between her legs. Reckon he’d heard stories about the McKenzie drive already. She knew they circulated around town, fresh from the doctor’s office. She sat atop her horse and watched two coaches pass. No, town life wasn’t for her. She was ready to be ranch girl. She tapped her heels against Buster’s sides, and they began the ride. Each milestone swelled excitement then trepidation within her chest. What awaited her at the end of the dusty trail?

  “Home. No matter what we find, it’s home.” And she was alone. An ache stabbed under her breastbone. Seth had paid her, thanked her, and wished her well. No kiss or hug. She’d been another trail rider. “Well, that’s as it should be.” She rounded a bend and pulled Buster to a halt.

  Before her sat her house. All looked well. She chewed her lower lip then nodded. “Let’s see the rest.” Buster trotted the rest of the way in.

  Ronnie dismounted, looped the reins in a ring on a porch post, and opened the front door. Dust mites floated through the air, stirred by her skirts. She flung back a curtain. Windows still intact. With each step, her apprehension drained away. The furniture she’d left behind, the stove, a few books—the room sat as though time had stood still.

  Ronnie threw back her head and let out a whoop. Relief sagged her into the rocking chair by the fireplace. She clutched her stomach. The cloud of worry dissipated in the cool breeze from the front door. She had arrived, and nothing had changed.

  Nothing except her. Longing rose up until she could taste it. Longing for someone she’d never have. Seth McKenzie. A dream. Evaporated.

  “In all things be thankful, Veronica Fergus.” Aunt Susan’s voice drifted through her mind.

  “Yes, ma’am. I am thankful.” She shoved from the rocker and strode out to unload the supplies she’d purchased. Thankful ranch girl. That was who she was now.

  Seth sat in the café and sipped cold coffee. He stared out the window at the hustle and crowds along the street. He needed to get out of town. He rubbed the back of his neck and felt a stab of pain in his shoulder. A reminder of the dangers on the trail. Hadn’t he told Miss Fergus she’d experience danger? She had most definitely done that.

  “And done it well,” he whispered into his cup. Ronnie had ridden away a week ago and the loneliness he felt overwhelmed him. He missed her laugh, her walk, the sauciness she exhibited when she wanted her way. He thought of those long legs astride the Appaloosa. A fetching sight indeed.

  He tossed coins on the table and pushed to his feet. Ernie and the boys waited at the livery to say their good-byes. Some were headed back south to Alvin and others scattering to wherever they could get a job. Ernie had signed on with another drover to move cattle to Kansas.

  Seth placed a hand on his back and stretched. He was tired of the saddle. Contracting didn’t seem to suit him anymore. But which way was best?

  A bell rang. Church. He frowned. Must be a Wednesday night service. He turned around and ambled toward the sound. He had free time. Maybe God would speak to his heart in a church service. Sure couldn’t hurt. And he was ready to listen.

  Two hours later, Seth mounted Ranger and turned the horse west. The strong words of the itinerant preacher had stirred a desire inside Seth like never before. He dug in his heels, and the horse shot into a gallop. He’d gotten the directions from the general store. Not far to go. Not far to the ranch.

  Girl.

  Ronnie flung open the door at the sound of hoofbeats. A rider’s silhouette loomed down the road in the twilight. She shaded her eyes and stepped back inside to grab her daddy’s gun. She stood on the porch, the pistol hidden by her skirt. The horse and man rode closer. Her mouth grew dry. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She slid the pistol inside the door and walked toward Seth. Ranger pranced in front of her and slid to a stop. Seth dropped to the ground, his boots stirring dust with each step.

  “Miss Fergus.”

  “Mr. McKenzie.” She licked her lips.

  “Heard tell you might need a foreman.” Seth removed his hat and forked his fingers through his hair.

  “Heard tell right.” Ronnie cleared her throat. “Pay’s not much, but food is good.” She smiled.

  Seth nodded. “I know that for a fact.” His eyes roved across her face, and he held out a hand. She slid her hand into his. “Reckon I can serve two jobs around here?” He squeezed her fingers.

  Ronnie cocked her head. “Two?”

  Seth drew her into an embrace and lowered his head. His lips almost touched hers. Ronnie closed her eyes. “Two,” he whispered. “Husband and foreman.” He kissed her.

  Ranch girl kissed him back.

  Eileen Key retired after teaching school for thirty years. She is a freelance writer and editor, with two mysteries and seven novellas published. Mother of three, grandmother of five, Eileen resides in San Antonio, Texas.

  Love on the Run

  by Debby Lee

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you to my fabulous Inklings critique group, Barbara, Carolyn, Joyce, Kristie, Kyle, and Robert. Your passion for truly exceptional fiction motivates me to keep writing. Thank you to my wonderful agent, Tamela Hancock Murray. Your patience with me, your dedication to the publishing industry, and your unwavering faith inspires me to put forth my best work. Many, many thanks to my amazing family: my husband Steve and my children, Michelle, Devon, Toni, David, and Steffen, you have stuck with me and encouraged me when I felt like I couldn’t write another word. You teach me the meaning of love. I will love and cherish you all forever.

  I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.

  My help cometh from the LORD, which made heaven and earth.

  PSALM 121:1–2

  Chapter One

  Nebraska Territory Summer 1860

  Daisy Hollister’s gaze fell on the slicked-up man in army blue stepping down from the stagecoach. The polished medals and shiny buttons on the officer’s uniform glistened in the summer sun like the thirty pieces of silver once held by Judas Iscariot. From a distance the man appeared to be Randall “Butch” Butchovick, the snake who had haunted her nightmares for a year.

  A slight breeze blew through the branches of a nearby tree, causing the late-afternoon shadows to dance around the horse-drawn conveyance so Daisy couldn’t recognize the man for sure. For a closer inspection, she snuck forward a few steps. A small barrel of sugar sat atop a larger barrel of dried beans. They provided a measure of obscurity as she stepped behind them. Her gloved hands clutched her reticule so hard her fingers ached.

  “See to it my trunks are delivered to the hotel,” the man called to the stagecoach driver.

  Air flew from Daisy’s lungs in a whoosh. That voice! This was Butch, all right. Her knees went weak with fear and rebelled at the thought of holding her upright. Thank the Lord the barrel provided support. She leaned against the rough wooden container. What now? She couldn’t spend the rest of her days running from the goon, yet confronting him could mean a trip to the pearly gates.

  Heavy boots clomping along the boardwalk jerked Daisy’s attention to the approaching person.

  The stagecoach driver carried a mail sack. “Afternoon, ma’am.” He tipped his hat as he passed by.

  Daisy nodded but was too frightened to manage a reply. Two young boys lugging a large trunk followed the driver. Farther down the boardwalk she spied Butch. He puf
fed on a cigar and leered at a saloon girl who had just stepped through the establishment’s batwing doors.

  Daisy had to find a way out of town, fast. An alley between the general store and the hotel offered a means of escape. She dashed between the buildings, the path littered with broken crates and empty rain barrels.

  The boardinghouse she called home sat at the far end of town. If she could reach the sanctuary of her room, she could throw her meager belongings into her trunk and leave. Daisy chided herself. Hadn’t she just vowed to never run again? She had grown weary of hiding and running like a coward. Something had to be done about this wolf stalking around in a woolen, army-issued uniform.

  The hem of Daisy’s skirt caught on a tangle of briars, but she yanked it loose and kept going. The large white clapboard house with red trim came into view. Then she spotted her horse. The brown mustang she’d named Clancy drank from the trough in the corral. Clancy had been a gift from the man who had helped her escape from Butch that terrible night, and the trusted animal had carried her through the most heartbreaking moments of her life.

  A plan formed in her mind. She could ride out to see her friend Green Grass at the Cottonwood Springs Pony Express way station.

  Green Grass represented everything Daisy hoped to be someday. The girl from the Kiowa tribe braved the elements, warring tribes, and thieves, to ride wild mustangs and deliver mail. Green Grass would not only provide refuge at her home for a few days, she would speak with the elders of her tribe. Daisy thought highly of her Indian friends and hoped they would provide some sanctuary and with luck, share some wisdom. She hoped, prayed they would have ideas on what to do about Butch.

  After slipping into a pair of trousers, Daisy rode north. With luck Green Grass would be at the station and not out on a run. She asked the Lord to guide her and protect her while Clancy trotted along to their destination.

  The station was two miles away when screams for help pierced the air, followed by three gunshots. Daisy clenched the reins of her horse. Pony Express riders faced dangers of all sorts. Had one of them come into trouble? The situation could be hazardous for Daisy as well. Sweat tickled her forehead and her hands trembled, but she was tired of running from danger. She kicked the sides of her horse to nudge him into a gallop.

  A half mile later Daisy came upon a Pony Express horse tied to a tree. The poor animal bucked and neighed as she approached. She leaped off her own horse and looped the reins around a nearby branch.

  A body slumped against a large boulder. Deep red stained the person’s shirtfront, but she couldn’t determine the rider’s identity. She took a moment to reach into her saddlebag and pulled out an old shirt that she immediately tore into strips for bandages.

  “Don’t worry. I’m here to help you,” Daisy called out. “Lord Jesus, if he’s still alive, please, don’t let him die.” The Pony Express owners, Russell, Majors, and Waddell, could ill-afford to lose a rider, but that was beside the point. This was still a human life, precious in the eyes of God.

  After yanking the canteen of water from the pommel of her saddle, Daisy raced to the rider. She turned the wounded soul around to face her and dropped both canteen and bandages. Waves of horror coursed through Daisy.

  “Green Grass,” Daisy cried. “Green Grass, what happened?”

  Her friend slit her eyes open, and for a brief moment relief swept through Daisy. “You’re gonna be okay, Green Grass. Hang on, I’m gonna get you to the way station and Billy will fix you right up.”

  A feeble moan slipped past her friend’s blue lips. “Forget me. Get the mochilla, the mail pouch, to Billy.”

  Blood seeped from the ragged gunshot wounds in her friend’s chest. She pressed the makeshift bandages, along with her handkerchief to the wounds, but they were soon soaked through. Daisy held Green Grass in her arms as the tension eased from her friend’s body. Pain clawed at Daisy’s heart. It was only a matter of time before she passed into eternity. Tears slipped from her eyes and slid down her cheeks. First she lost her dear ma and pa to the likes of Butch Butchovick, and now she could be losing her best friend.

  Billy Cook perched on a battered chair at the way station’s only table and read the disturbing letter from the New York orphanage, again. His nephew, Luke, suffered from yet another bout of sickness. If the lad ailed this often in the summer, how much worse would he be during the long cold winter? Billy didn’t want to imagine.

  As soon as he had enough money saved, he planned on purchasing a farm and sending for his late sister’s only child, but a lot could happen between now and then. He was tempted to send for the child right away, but the dangers surrounding the Pony Express station kept him from doing so. Way stations were raided, burned, and had horses stolen so often he could hardly keep track of them all.

  But what could he do in the meantime? Maybe he could send a package, some crackers and a toy, if it didn’t cost too much. He paused to remember the tow-headed boy who had followed him around when they came to visit last Christmas. Billy had purchased a stick horse and given it to him. Luke had been so excited. He warmed at the memory of watching him ride it around outside, even in the cold weather.

  Screams and pounding hooves yanked Billy’s thoughts to the present. He stuffed the letter in his shirt pocket and bolted outside. In the distance, across the Wyoming landscape, he spotted two horses with riders galloping toward him.

  The animals reached the corral and jerked to a stop. His friend Daisy Hollister leaped down from her horse. On the other horse a bloody, slouched-over form was tied to the saddle. He recognized the fringed buckskin trousers. Dread swept through him.

  “Billy, Green Grass is hurt! Bad! Come help me.”

  Billy sprinted toward the pair and helped Daisy pull his best rider from the saddle.

  “You’ve got to help her. Please!” Daisy cried.

  How he hated the sound of a woman crying. Wait a minute. Did Daisy say the rider was a she? Billy inspected the chest wounds and discovered Green Grass was indeed a she. Worse yet, no pulse thrummed against his fingers. The Indian girl was dead.

  “Can we help her? I hope we can dig those bullets out of her. Shall I ride and fetch the doc—”

  “There’s nothing we can do for her, Daisy, she’s gone.”

  A pitiful whimper, along with a sniffle, were the only sounds from the woman. Billy hated to be so gruff with the distraught woman, but it was the truth. He touched the pocket of his shirt and remembered his nephew. His job depended on getting the mail through.

  Billy cleared his throat. “Where’s the mochilla?”

  “The mail pouch? It’s right here on the saddle.”

  With Luke’s well-being at stake, Billy swung into action. “Jack,” he hollered at the bunkhouse. “Get out here. I need you to take a run.”

  Billy stepped around Daisy and ran to the barn. He hurried to saddle the freshest pinto and then trotted her outside. He tossed the mochilla on the pony and yelled again for his rider. “Jack.”

  The teenager ambled from the bunkhouse, in his nightshirt, and rubbed his eyes. “What do you want, Billy? I just finished a run this morning. I’d rather not take another one just now.”

  “Everyone else is out on a run, and Green Grass is dead. I need you to take the pouch as far as Fort Laramie. Send it on with a fresh horse and rider, then you can rest for a spell.”

  Jack grumbled. “I’ve been riding for hours, Billy. I’m tired.”

  Billy was determined to take it himself if it meant keeping his job. He needed the money to provide for Luke, and he couldn’t let the child down.

  “Let me take it. I can ride, and I need to get out of town anyway.”

  Billy whirled around, and there stood Daisy. He’d forgotten about her. She looked up at him. Her big green eyes were puffy and the edges were red from crying.

  “Woman, you’re more than a few pickles shy of a quart jar if you think I’d let you ride the Pony Express.” Billy rubbed the sweat from his forehead with a red bandanna. “Hurry up
and get dressed, Jack. You’re up.”

  Jack yelped and disappeared into the bunkhouse.

  “Give me a chance, Billy,” Daisy said. “Green Grass did a good job getting the pouch through, and she is—was—a woman.”

  “Need I remind you how that turned out?” Billy asked. He was in no mood to debate the subject, especially with a lady as pretty as this one. He watched her as she leaned against the posts of the corral for support. Fresh tears brimmed in her eyes, and her bangs ruffled when she blew out a sigh. His heart softened.

  “If you’re that desperate for a job, I can see about finding you some work around here, but I’m not letting you ride.”

  “Very well,” Daisy lifted her chin and walked toward the main house.

  As he watched her go he admired her spunk. She was one of the few woman he knew who could ride astride. Maybe if he got in a pinch he could let her take a run. Um, no. What was he thinking? The superintendent of this region was as prickly as a porcupine about the company’s rules, rules that forbid women to ride for the Pony Express. If he got caught allowing Daisy to ride, he’d lose his job. If he didn’t have money enough to care for Luke, the boy would have to spend the winter in the orphanage. Billy wouldn’t let that happen.

  Jack emerged from the bunkhouse and ran toward the pinto. He leaped onto the horse in one fluid motion.

  “Ride hard, Jack, this pouch is behind schedule enough as it is,” Billy said. “When you’re done resting, find the superintendent and tell him we’re down a rider and need a replacement.”

  “Will do,” Jack called as he galloped for the horizon, stirring up a cloud of dust.