Messenger by Moonlight (11 page)

Hurrying out there, she grabbed one of the empty crates Morgan used for seating and brought it back into the kitchen. Climbing up on the crate, she retrieved the coffee grinder, just in time to keep from scorching
all
the coffee beans. Hopefully, no one would notice.
If I had cream they could put in their coffee to mellow the flavor, they probably wouldn’t.

While the beans cooled, she took the empty crate into the storeroom. Intent on finding a bucket of molasses somewhere, she began to move things on the shelves. Out of the corner of her eye she saw something move. Thinking
rat
, she screeched and took a step back. Off the crate. Into the air. Against the opposite wall. And… thud. Atop the flour and meal sacks lined up on the floor.

Somewhere between the curse words, Annie was fairly certain she heard the stage driver inquire as to whether or not she was all right. At some point she realized the man was concerned for her well-being, but it took her a moment to suck in enough air to be able to answer. By then, Mr. Morgan was standing behind the driver. She could hear Frank and Emmet, too, although they were too short for her to actually see them past the driver and hulking George Morgan.

Finally, she managed to spit out the words
I’m. All. Right
. Each word forced out individually, with a little intake of air between. Whiskey John moved to help her up. “More embarrassed than hurt,” she finally said, waving him off.

“You’re sure?”

She tapped the crate. “Stepped on this looking for molasses. For the grits.”

Morgan pushed past the stage driver and reached for a bucket on the uppermost shelf. “Guess I’ll have to bring a ladder in.”

He sounded upset. Because of her needing a ladder? Annie reached for the bucket. “No need. The crate’s fine. I didn’t expect the stage, and I haven’t had time to—”
Stop making excuses.
She looked over at the stage driver, who had at least seemed concerned that she might be hurt. “I’ll have a lunch ready in a few minutes.”

He winked. “You take all the time you need, little lady. Problems with the thoroughbrace a few miles up the trail. Might have to lay over. I’ve only got the two passengers and they’re chasing down your two brothers, all confibulated about the chance to write home about meeting ‘two real Pony Express riders.’ Guess them back-East papers been talking it up more than we realized.” He tugged on the brim of his black hat. “We’ll just wait to hear the dinner bell.” He turned to Frank and Emmet. “You boys have a minute to talk to the greenhorns I brung on the stage?”

The three men left, but Morgan stayed, making Annie feel even more self-conscious.

She had no idea what a
thoroughbrace
was, nor had she ever heard the word
confibulated
. She wasn’t certain it
was
a word. It didn’t matter. She carried the molasses into the kitchen and set the can on the small table opposite the stove, then looked back at Morgan. “I heard a bell earlier. Where is it?”

He pointed toward the main room. “Just outside the back door off that room. Three rings for the stage. More when the food’s ready.”

Annie nodded.
All right
. She could relax a little. The stage was going to be delayed for reasons that had nothing to do with her. She took a deep breath to calm herself as she lifted the lid on the bean pot full of grits.
Oh no.
The “simple meal” had turned into a lump of grainy, white glue.

Morgan stepped up and peered over her shoulder. “Not enough water. Too much cooking time.”

Did he think she didn’t know that?

“Is that all you were going to serve?”

Annie pulled the pot off the burner. “I thought eggs, but there aren’t any. Then I thought biscuits, but I didn’t know where to find the saleratus. And there wasn’t time, anyway.
Beans take too long, too. That left grits.” She looked up at him. “We always had butter and cream with ours. But there’s none of that. Which left molasses.” When Morgan was silent, she nodded toward the storeroom. “Frank found a dead rat in there.”

“He take care of it?”

“Yes.” She barely managed to stifle a shudder.

Morgan reached under the worktable and pulled out a copper boiler with a towel stretched across the top. “The crock out in the main room is drinking water. Here’s your cooking water. There should be enough to fill the bean pot again for a second try. Once you get the ruined grits scoured out.” Stepping into the storeroom, he reached above him, and took something down from the rafters. Bringing it back into the kitchen, he plopped it down on the worktable, then took down the largest of three knives hanging in a row above it. “Maybe slice up some ham. Be careful you don’t cut yourself. I just sharpened the knives yesterday.” After reminding her to ring the bell when the meal was ready, he left.

She hadn’t even noticed a ham hanging up high. Morgan hadn’t told her where to dump the ruined grits. He hadn’t really told her much of anything—except for pointing out the fact that she’d used the wrong water for the cooking. Why did that even matter? Didn’t it all come from the same place? He didn’t seem to think that rats in the storeroom were all that much of a problem. And apparently he didn’t think she could be trusted with sharp knives without a warning to be careful. For a moment, she stood staring out the window toward the trail. Half a dozen wagon covers gleamed in the sun. Remembering Luther’s mention of sailboats made her wish she could sail away.

Just get through today. That’ll be one less day standing between you and the life you want.
Taking a deep breath, she
grabbed the now-cooled pot of ruined grits and headed outside to dump them.

Late on the night of her first-day fiasco, Annie was hunkered in bed when someone knocked on the door. She pulled her pillow over her head, gave a shuddering sob, and was quiet. Except for an occasional sniff, which surely the pillow would muffle.

“Open the door, Annie. I’m not going away.”

Emmet.
At least it wasn’t Frank. Teasing and jokes worked for some things, but she just couldn’t take teasing tonight. Who ruined
grits
, anyway? She never had. Until today. And then there was the ham. How was she supposed to know she shouldn’t fry up the whole thing? Morgan told her to cook it. Billy said Whiskey John had a big appetite. How was she supposed to know it was the last ham until the next freighter arrived? And how could she have known that mattered to George Morgan? He told her to fry the ham.
And be careful not to cut yourself.
That little bit of unnecessary advice still bothered her.

She’d scorched the coffee beans, not once, but twice. That wonderful stove got hotter faster and stayed hot longer than the little two-burner she’d always used. Which was why her attempt at dried apple cobbler for the evening meal had failed so miserably. All she had to show for that was the aroma of cinnamon and baked apples. The apples had baked until there wasn’t anything left of them. They hadn’t burned, but she’d still had to scrape more ruined food atop the pile of gluey grits out back. At this rate, she’d be wanting to use some of her first month’s pay to buy a pig just so she’d have a way to hide the evidence of her failures. Mrs. Comstock had said
she’d probably be able to charm the freighters to bring things “from the far seas.” Would Luther haul a pig?

She’d never been the kind of girl who cried at the drop of a hat. She’d always tried to be like Ma, trusting the Good Shepherd and finding good things to cherish. Tonight, though, she was too tired to look for “good things.” She hadn’t even bothered to undress before climbing under the covers. She’d squeezed her eyes shut and waited to fall asleep. But then some tears leaked out and once the dam broke there was a flood. The flood was over now, but apparently her brothers had heard the rushing waters.

Emmet knocked again.

Annie called softly, “I’ll be all right. I just need to sleep.”

“Of course you’ll be all right. I still want to talk to you, though.”

With a sigh, she threw back the covers and padded across to the door and opened it. The moon was bright, and she hadn’t bothered to close the shutters over her windows. She could see that Emmet was carrying something. A book.

The only book Emmet owned besides the Bible that had been Ma’s was the one given to each of the riders as part of the oath-taking ceremony. Frank had joked about the piety that inspired the custom. It was a nice-enough gesture, he said, but Mr. Majors must know that most of the leather-bound Bibles would be “misplaced” rather than cherished and read. Emmet had said something about how it would do Frank good to keep the book handy and take a look at it sometime. Frank said it would do Emmet good to keep his sermonizing to himself. But Annie had never minded Emmet’s reading to her.

Emmet set the new Bible on her washstand while he lighted the oil lamp on the dresser. “You can get back under those covers, if you like. I won’t be here long.”

When Annie complied, Emmet perched on the edge of her trunk and flipped through the pages of the Bible. Presently, he read aloud, “‘Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.’” He looked up at her. “‘Whithersoever thou goest,’ includes a kitchen where things aren’t going your way. And a storeroom housing a rat.”

Annie nodded. “I know.” She did know—at least in her head. After all, the Shepherd’s Psalm said that God would “follow me all the days of my life.” It was hard to believe it, though, after a day like this one.

Emmet was quiet for a few long moments after that. He took a deep breath. “We just want to make things better for you. And it’ll happen—if you can stick with us through this.” Again, he paused. “I just couldn’t see any other way to make it happen. For you. For Luvina and me.” He grimaced. “Guess I was thinking more of Luvina and me, though. I’ll admit that.” He looked down at the book in his hands and muttered, “I’m sorry.”

Emmet was the strong one. Always had been strong in a way that neither she nor Frank were. Frank was rebellious and quick to strike out. Quick to defend himself and everyone he loved. Anger lurked very near the surface of his personality. Emmet, on the other hand, took things with a steady calm that had created a haven for Annie in the midst of Pa’s decline. If Emmet had doubts, he never let them show. It was almost frightening to think he was just like everyone else. “Don’t apologize,” Annie croaked. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

After a moment, Emmet said, “Just one more. ‘Peace I leave with you, My peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither
let it be afraid.’” He closed the Bible. “I read those when I’m discouraged. Or afraid. I thought they might bring you some comfort, too.”

Emmet? Afraid?
Annie blurted out the question, even though she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer. “When have you ever been afraid of anything?”

He looked surprised. “The first time Pa got drunk. And the next. And the next—until I decided to be angry instead. Most days since I realized there was no way for me to save the farm. At least once a day since we left St. Joseph. Most recently, when Shadow ran off with you into that storm—”

She’d never suspected. Wanting to put his mind at ease if she could, Annie said, “I’m not really afraid. I’m just—miserable. Frustrated. Ashamed, I suppose. The way I sassed Mrs. Hollenberg about how I could manage out here, and then I made a mess of everything.
Every. Single. Thing
. On the first day.”

“It was just one day. You need time to find your way. Anybody would.”

“I don’t have
time
to ‘find my way.’ It’s my job to feed people every day. There’s another stage coming through in a few days, and I can’t figure that stove out.”

“Of course you can. Have a little faith in yourself.”

Annie shrugged. “George Morgan doesn’t like me.”

“Why would you think such a thing?”

“Did you hear what he said about the ham?” She mimicked his deep voice. “‘The whole thing? You used up the whole thing? It was the last one.’ Was I supposed to know that? And he was upset about my needing something to help me reach the shelves in the storeroom. He muttered about my needing a ladder. As if a ladder cost a hundred dollars.”

“He just wants to make sure you don’t fall again.”

“He doesn’t think I can keep up—or cook well enough.”
And he might be right.

“Did he say that?”

“He didn’t have to. I could tell. And who could blame him after today? All a body has to know to cook grits is how to boil water.”

“You’ll figure it out. You have to, because I’m counting on you to cook up some buffalo and dumplings one of these days.”

He was trying to joke, but he wasn’t very good at it. Annie harrumphed softly. “Think I’ll ever figure out George Morgan? He hardly said three words today.”