Messenger by Moonlight (17 page)

It was barely past dawn, but Annie had the coffee made and the biscuits baked before she stepped outside to tend her chickens. Movement down at the barn drew her attention. Frank. And another rider. What on earth? Where had Frank been? She glanced east, and her heart sank.
Please. Not Dobytown.
She’d been more than a little worried about Frank for a while now. Whereas Emmet could manage most things with patient acceptance, Frank fidgeted and fumed. Annie didn’t like thinking it, but there were times when her twin brother reminded her of the worst things about Pa.

Ah, well. Wherever Frank had been and whoever that was astride the mule, they’d both expect breakfast. Scattering the last bit of grain held in her apron–turned–feed bag, she filled a bucket with well water at the pump and then went
back inside. When Emmet stumbled into the kitchen a few minutes later, Annie asked, “Did you hear Frank leave?”

Emmet shook his head. “Why?”

“Because he just came back. On that bay mare named Rachel. With someone else riding a mule.”

Emmet’s expression went from surprise to doubt to annoyance. “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

Annie nodded. But she did worry. She couldn’t help it.

The parson was like no preacher or reverend or missionary Frank had ever heard of. Not that Frank was all that up on the subject, but a person just grew up with a certain impression of what a preacher was, and Charlie Pender wasn’t it. First of all, he insisted they call him “just plain old Charlie.” “Never cared much for fancy titles,” he said. Second of all, he told George Morgan over breakfast that he’d appreciate the chance to stay at Clearwater while he healed up—his eye was swollen almost closed and from the looks of it would be turning several different shades of blue and purple over the next day or two—but he did not accept handouts and he could only stay if George let him “earn his keep.”

“I’m a terrible shot, so I’m no good at hunting, but I can wield a hammer or a saw. I’ve been a wrangler and a bronc buster and a gold miner, and if I were even a decade younger I’d have wanted to be riding right along with these rambunctious Pony Express boys. So put me to work. Or I can’t stay.”

Morgan considered for a moment. “How are you with chicken coops?”

Annie looked up. She seemed surprised, and Frank winked at her.

Morgan nodded and then spoke to Frank. “You mind helping the parson?”

Frank was glad for the assignment—for a lot of reasons, not
the least of which was a chance to understand what was really behind Charlie Pender’s odd behavior. Whoever heard of a preacher choosing to go to a place like Dobytown? Beyond his curiosity about Charlie, Frank hoped that helping the parson with Annie’s chicken coop would keep him from having to listen to Emmet go on and on about Frank and Dobytown. The last thing Frank needed was a lecture on that subject. Fixing up the chicken coop would also show Annie how sorry he was for causing her worry. It wasn’t enough, though. He needed to apologize.

While the parson looked over the project, Frank stepped inside. Annie was standing at her worktable, measuring ingredients into a bowl. Frank spoke from the doorway. “I was wrong to go over to Dobytown. I’m sorry.”

Annie glanced up. “Okay.”

Oh no.
She was trying to hide it, but that was definitely a tear leaking out of one eye. With a sigh, Frank crossed to where she was standing. As he approached, she began putting more energy than usual into the process of pinching flour, lard, and cold water together to make piecrust.

“Raisin molasses,” she said.

“How about that parson,” Frank said. “He told me he doesn’t believe in coincidence. Said he and I had a ‘heavenly appointment’ over there at Dobytown. I don’t know what to think, but if he’s right, I guess that’s one of those ‘good things’ you like me to notice.” When she didn’t respond, he changed the subject. “It’s nice George asked him to spend some time on that chicken coop. A strong wind would blow that thing to kingdom come.”

Annie shrugged. “He thinks they’ll all die in the heat. Or another snake will gobble them up. Or a badger. Or something. Anyway, he doesn’t want to be bothered putting up
a proper chicken coop. Just like he doesn’t want to trade for a cow.”

“You asked him for a cow?”

Annie scattered flour on the tabletop, plopped the pie dough in the middle of the spot, and began to roll it out. “I asked him to consider taking the trade if one was offered. Told him I was willing to take on the milking and such.” She settled the piecrust into the waiting pie plate. “Did you know he traded for all that fancy furniture in my room? Billy told me about it.” She snorted. “He trades for things he doesn’t even need. But he doesn’t want to try for a cow. And I know why. He’s not happy with the job I’m doing, and he’s not about to give me something else to take care of.”

“He was probably thinking ahead to winter. He knows how hard it is to get out and care for livestock when it’s blowing a blizzard. Billy says they sometimes winter as many as two hundred oxen. And from what I hear, the winters out here make Missouri’s feel like spring.”

Annie reached for the bowl of pie filling and began to pour it into the waiting pan. She glanced over at Frank. “You can’t be running off to that place.” Her voice wavered.

“You’re right.” He grunted softly. “I just needed—I don’t know. I can’t explain it. Something just—builds up inside me.”

“What if the Westbound mail had come through last night?”

“Emmet would have taken it. And I’d have gone east for him. It would have worked out.”

“And what if it didn’t?”

“Nothing bad happened. Except for Charlie getting beat up. And I saved him from worse. Like I said, isn’t that one of those ‘good things’ you’re always telling me to notice?”

Annie took a minute before saying quietly, “Promise me you won’t go there again.”

“I promise.”

“And you’ll keep that promise?”

“Would I have made it if I didn’t mean to keep it?”

She sighed. “I hope not. But—sometimes I wonder.”

If she’d slapped him it wouldn’t have hurt as much as hearing the doubt in her voice. Frank was about to march away when Annie did the strangest thing. She touched the place just above her nose. It left a floury smudge. “I worry about that crease between your eyebrows. It gets deeper when you’re upset about something, and—I wish you didn’t have it. I wish you were happy.”

Frank grabbed a towel and wiped the smudge away. “Know what will make me happy, Ann E.?”

He said the name slowly, with a break between her first name and the second initial—which was where
Annie
had come from in the first place. Ann Elizabeth. Ann. E. She shook her head.

“Seeing
you
happy. Hanging your window boxes and painting the trim on your cottage. To finally, once and for all know that you have the home you deserve. That you don’t have to wonder how to stretch a cup of grits into a meal for four or hope the neighbors share something from their garden so we don’t all go hungry. That will make me happy.” Another tear leaked out of the corner of her eye. He handed her the towel. “I won’t go back to Dobytown. I promise.”

A few days after the parson arrived at Clearwater, Annie had just taken two pies out of the oven when she heard the now familiar rattle-rock-creak-clatter of the approaching
stage. Setting the pies to cool on her worktable, she hurried through the main room and stepped onto the back porch just as Whiskey John hauled back on the reins. He dropped to the earth the moment the stage rolled to a stop, moving quickly to open the Concord coach’s bright red door.

The first passenger to exit was a ramrod-straight, elegantly dressed woman who moved with all the bearing of a queen. Her shining dark hair made the blue of her gown and hat seem even more brilliant. She wore black leather gloves and carried a black parasol, which she did not bother to open as she paused to look around.

Two of the three men who clambered down behind the lady seemed bent on vying for the privilege of escorting her into the station, but she shooed them away. “Thank you, gentlemen, but I’d like to enjoy the fresh air here on the porch for a while.”

Annie welcomed the passengers, promised a meal soon, and retreated inside.
Four passengers, Whiskey John, Billy, George Morgan, Emmet, Frank, the parson, and me.
Thank goodness she’d made two pies. She’d crossed the main room and reached the door leading into the kitchen when one of the men called after her.

“See here, girl. Don’t scurry away until you’ve taken care of your customers. I’ve a craw full of road dust, and I require something a good deal stronger than water to clear it out.”

Annie turned back around, taking note of the man’s tailored suit. When he pretended to brush dust off his coat, he “just happened” to reveal a holster and a glimpse of what was probably a pearl-handled gun. “I can have coffee ready in just a few minutes,” Annie said.

“I asked for whiskey,” the man snapped.

The lady passenger cleared her throat. Her blue hoopskirt
swept the floor as she marched across the room, firmly planting the tip of her closed parasol with every step. When she’d reached the water cooler, she filled the tin mug that always hung on the spigot and held it out to the willful dandy. “It won’t kill you to drink a cup of water.”

With a smirk, the man with the gun took the cup, emptied it, and slammed it down on the counter.

“There now, was that so bad?”

The man slipped around the counter and helped himself to the bottle of whiskey on the shelf below. And a glass. “No, but this is better.” He looked over at Annie. “And it’s what I asked for in the first place.”

The lady leaned her parasol against the wall and removed her gloves as she spoke to Annie. “Please tell me Fort Kearny isn’t much farther. I don’t think I can take much more of these three.” She added in a stage whisper, “And I suspect the feeling is mutual.”

The man with the gun spoke again. “Madam. No
gentleman
would dream of being so crass as to admit such a thing. We’ve enjoyed your company immensely. It is a rare thing to make the acquaintance of a woman who speaks her mind so eloquently—and so often.”

The lady rolled her eyes. “As you can see, Mr. Valentine is capable of gallantry.” She sighed. “If only gallantry and truth-telling resided in the same neighborhood.”

Hoping to lower the level of tension in the room, Annie said that Fort Kearny was less than a dozen miles away. “You should be there a little after dark.”

“If only
that
were true,” moaned one of the other men.

Annie glanced past the lady and into the main room again. The speaker was sitting across from the drinker. He’d removed his bowler hat and was mopping his bald pate with
a handkerchief as he spoke. “The coach encountered some trouble a few miles from here. Something about a thoroughbrace, I believe. And a thrown shoe or a bruised foot or some such. The driver says we’ll be staying the night while repairs are made.”

Ah.
That explained George Morgan’s absence. He was helping with whatever was going on with the stagecoach. “I’m sorry you’ll be delayed,” Annie said, “but I think you’ll find the accommodations comfortable.” She stepped back into the main room and indicated the stairs to the loft. “There’s a window tucked under the eaves at the west end. The air circulates nicely. Feel free to get settled in. I’ll ring the dinner bell when everything’s ready.” She excused herself to see to supper and had just lifted the lid on the pot of stew simmering on the stove when she realized the lady had followed her into the kitchen. “You’ll be more comfortable out in the public room, Ma’am,” she said. “As you can see, there’s no place to sit here in the kitchen.”

“Please don’t banish me,” the lady said, leaning forward as she whispered, “The one in the bowler has nauseatingly bad breath. The second pontificates on every subject that comes up. And the dandy—well, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Mr. Valentine is running from the law.”

Annie glanced into the other room. The man with the gun had lit a cigar. He’d dragged the rocking chair in off the back porch—another of George Morgan’s pointless trades, as far as Annie was concerned—and was leaning back as if he owned Clearwater. She could not blame the lady for not wanting to keep his company. She retrieved the crate she was still using for a stepladder and set it on end. “That’s as good as I can offer.”

“Having just exited that dreadful Concord coach—Do
not
believe the ads about those things, by the way. If I knew who was responsible and if my father had allowed me to read law, I’d be intent on taking someone to court for fraud. At any rate, the last thing I need is a place to sit down.” She stepped forward and extended a hand. “Miss Lydia Hart. On my way to Fort Kearny to visit my brother.”

Hart.
“Lieutenant Hart?” To hide the fact that she was blushing, Annie turned away, making a show of tasting the stew, adding a bit of salt, and checking the bread in the oven.

“Yes. You’ve met him?”

Annie nodded. “He was at the head of a patrol sent out from Fort Kearny a few weeks ago. Someone reported Indians raiding the station.”

“A false report, I assume, from the way you just said that.”

“Yes, although no one could be blamed for misinterpreting what they saw.”

“What did they see?”

“A Pawnee named Badger at the head of a hunting party. They camp here at Clearwater every year before going on the spring buffalo hunt, and they make quite a show of their arrival—painted ponies and all.”