Messenger by Moonlight (19 page)

August ushered in the kind of heat that sometimes made it hard to breathe. A permanent cloud of dust hung over the corrals and the trail. It blew in the open doors and sifted over everything inside. A short time after Annie dusted a counter, swept the floor, or scrubbed a shelf, it returned to its former state—dust, dirt, and grit. The endless battle to keep things clean occasionally reduced Annie to weary tears over the uselessness of it all.

As the sun blazed away without mercy, the rosemary plant from Mrs. Hollenberg began to wilt, and in spite of the sod
Frank and the parson had stacked up and around the chicken coop, a young hen died. Annie took to keeping a damp cloth in a bowl of water so she could mop the back of her neck in a vain effort to keep cool. Every time she opened the oven door, she barely managed to resist the urge to stagger backward.

The crew rose before dawn and tried to get as much work as possible accomplished as early as possible. In the heat of the day they took a long break, lounging beneath the arbor down by Hitch’s soddy until evening and then working until dark.

Annie knew it would be best to follow their example and do her baking at night, but by the time the sun went down she was so spent she simply could not manage it. Summers at home had been hot, but summer out here on the prairie was punishment. By noon every day she was drenched with sweat. The best part of the day was when she could slip away to the pump and draw up cold water from the depths. One afternoon, she hauled a bucket of well water into her room, closed the door, took her boots off, and reveled in the sensation of cool water bathing her feet.

With creeks drying up and the sandy Platte River running slow and filled with silt, the artisian well down by the barn became a regular “watering hole” for patrols from Fort Kearny. The idea of rowdy soldiers frequenting the station had originally made Annie feel apprehensive, but after the first few visits, she began to look forward to seeing a column of dusty, thirsty men riding toward Clearwater. Especially when Miss Hart’s handsome brother rode at the head of the column.

One day when Annie said something to Frank about how the “brave soldiers” appreciated the cool, clear water, he smirked. “Yeah. That’s it. That’s the attraction, all right.
That’s why they congregate around the pump instead of drifting up to the station. Oh… wait… they
do
spend time up at the station.” He shrugged. “Can’t imagine why. Surely can’t have anything to do with your pretty face.”

Annie felt a blush creeping up the back of her neck. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“And I’m sure I hope you’re telling the truth,” Frank retorted. “You just stay focused on your St. Jo. dreams. You don’t like the West, remember? If any of those soldiers takes a notion to flirt, you let me know. I’ll see they mind their manners. And if I’m gone, tell George. He’ll set ’em straight.”

Annie waved a dismissive hand in the air. “You have nothing to worry about. Lieutenant Hart’s men have been polite to the point of gallantry.”

“And you don’t think George had anything to do with that?” Frank didn’t wait for a reply. “Who do you think saw to it that Harris Reynolds changed so quickly. You remember Reynolds, don’t you?”

Of course Annie remembered. Harris Reynolds had been rude at first, but he’d responded to kindness—so why was Frank bringing him up? “Who told you about Harris Reynolds, anyway? As I remember it, he said he didn’t know you.”

“Never met the man,” Frank said, “and he’s long since ridden off into the unknown. Doesn’t work for the Pony anymore. But thanks to him, the word is out up and down the line. ‘Don’t mistreat the cook at Clearwater unless you’re ready to take on a riled-up George Morgan.’ So when you pass out the credit for those soldiers’ behaving themselves, don’t pour it all in the direction of the golden-haired Lieutenant Hart. Everyone in these parts knows they’ll answer to George if they cause you any trouble.” He paused. “And now that I’ve
told you, don’t you tell George I said anything. I don’t think he’d appreciate me jawin’ about it.”

Annie agreed to keep the conversation to herself. To be honest, she thought Frank might have exaggerated things a bit when it came to George Morgan’s watching over her. She was growing used to the idea of looking out for herself now that Emmet and Frank were gone so much. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea of someone else stepping into their role unbidden. After all, she’d held her own against Harris Reynolds and an entire host of other riders and visitors to Clearwater. Including Badger—and a rattlesnake.

At midday one particularly hot August day, Annie had just pumped a stream of cold well water over a kerchief and was tying it about her neck when a patrol rode in. After dismounting down by the barn, Lieutenant Hart handed the reins of his horse to another soldier and strode toward the station. As he approached, the lieutenant unbuttoned his uniform jacket and reached inside, withdrawing an envelope.

He held it out to Annie. “A note from Lydia. And a copy of the article she wrote about your brothers.”

“Please thank her for me. I hope she’s enjoying her stay at Fort Kearny.”

The lieutenant chuckled. “She is. Although the rest of the ladies probably feel a bit like they’ve been blown off center. Lydia does have a way of taking charge. In fact, she’s convinced the captain that it would be good for ‘military-civilian relations’ for the ladies to host a social at the end of October and to invite everyone from surrounding ranches. She campaigned for September, but I was able to convince her she’d get a better turnout if she waited until hay-cutting season was mostly over with.” He pointed at the letter. “I’m sure
she’s told you all about it. And I do hope you’ll come. Lydia’s calling it a ‘grand cotillion.’”

Annie didn’t know what to say. Her time wasn’t really her own—was it? The idea of an entire day away from Clearwater was likely impossible. But an evening of dancing would be wonderful. Especially if the lieutenant—well. Best not to daydream about that. She probably wouldn’t be able to go, anyway. “Thank you. I don’t know what to say beyond that.”

Hart glanced behind them and toward the barn, then asked, “If I spoke to George Morgan about it—if he didn’t object to your being gone for an evening—would you come? I’d be honored to be your escort.”

Annie stammered yes and thank you.

“Lydia will be delighted. As am I. I hope the heat hasn’t been too hard on you. I can’t imagine being trapped in a room with a hot stove on a day like today.”

“And I can’t imagine riding through clouds of dust for hours on end.”

Hart smiled. “One of the advantages of rank is leading the way. I eat less dust than the average soldier.” He nodded toward the chicken coop. “How are your ladies faring?”

“I lost one to the heat and another disappeared without a trace. Carried off by some varmint or another, I suppose.” Annie looked over at the coop and shook her head. “Not much I can do about it—at least about the heat, anyway.”

Hart nodded and looked eastward. “This is the time of year our mother always took Lydia and me out of the city to escape the heat.” He untied his bandanna and pumped water as he talked, mopping the back of his neck before tying the wet bandanna back on and tucking it inside his shirt collar. “I have wonderful memories of the little cottage we stayed in. Flowers spilling out of window boxes. Fruit trees in the back.
And a little skiff Lydia and I could row out into the lake. The Meadows wasn’t nearly as big as the places where some of our friends spent their summers, but we loved it.”

The Meadows. A cottage with window boxes. Fruit trees.
“It sounds delightful.”

“It was. I haven’t thought about it in a long while.” He smiled down at her. “But I’m certain you’d love it there.”

Annie’s heart thumped. For a fleeting few seconds, the heat didn’t matter. But then a blast of hot air swept up from the corrals and the pungent smell of manure erased the magic. Hart glanced toward the barn again. “With your permission, I’ll deal with any objections Morgan has to your attending the cotillion.”

“Y-yes. All right.”

With a quick tug on the brim of his hat, he took his leave. Annie watched as he strode away. When George Morgan emerged from the barn and the lieutenant went to talk with him, she skittered back inside. It wouldn’t do for either man to know just how much she cared about the outcome of their conversation.

Annie didn’t read Lydia’s note right away. Tucking it into her apron pocket, she carried it with her through the rest of the day, ever mindful of its presence, ever thankful for the promise it represented.
Lydia Hart wrote. To me. Lieutenant Hart and I had a real conversation about his family. He told me about the Meadows. He wants to escort me to the cotillion.
Annie frowned.
And I have nothing to wear but cotton calico.
It might not have mattered at the Patee House when everyone was in the throes of enthusiasm for the Pony Express, but it would surely matter when she was on Lieutenant Hart’s arm. What had she been thinking, saying yes to his invitation?
You weren’t thinking. Who could, looking into those blue eyes?

Late that evening, after Emmet and Frank had had a chance to read Lydia’s article, Annie lit the lamp in her room and perched at the foot of her bed to read both the article and the accompanying note.

Annie wondered if Charlie would return to Dobytown.
Lord, you are his Shepherd. Please protect him.
She smiled when she read “Travel Notes from a Lady in the West.” “Daring Frank Paxton, the moonlight messenger” of the Pony Express featured strongly in Lydia’s article. How Frank loved the romantic moniker
moonlight messenger
. Perhaps there was something to his prediction that he would one day be famous.

Annie read and reread Lydia’s note, thrilled by what she said about her brother’s visits to Clearwater. She also
treasured Lydia’s closing words.
I remain your friend.
How strange that hundreds of miles from where Annie had planned to make friends, a woman from even farther away, both in social station and in distance, had used that wonderful word.

Friend.

Dawn had tinged the eastern sky pink on the September morning when, just after Annie set the coffeepot on the stove, George Morgan opened the storeroom door and called for “Rattlesnake Woman” to come and check on her Rhode Island Reds. “I heard a ruckus just now.”

Annie’s heart lurched.
Rattlesnake! Not again.
Steeling herself against what she was about to see, she brushed past Morgan and into the chicken coop. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim light. When they did, she didn’t see anything amiss. “They seem fine.”

“I didn’t say there was anything
wrong
. I said I heard a ruckus. Check under the one with the black tail feathers.”

Frank had kept his word to build nesting boxes, and the hen Morgan was talking about had claimed the one on the far right. Gently, ever so gently, Annie slid her hand beneath the hen.
Yes! At last. An egg.
She quickly checked the other boxes. Only the one, but it was a beginning. In due time, she’d have a proper flock. Eggs enough to cook.
And chicken and dumplings. Perhaps for Christmas dinner
. She stepped back outside and held up the egg, beaming with joy. “How did you know?”

“Been keeping an eye out. Hoping they’d finally start to earn their keep. After all the trouble they’ve been.”

“It’s going to be worth it,” Annie said. “You’ll see. How do you like your eggs, Mr. Morgan?”

“It’s a little early for that, don’t ya think?” He changed the
subject. “Got a long day of plowing ahead. Best be getting to it.”

“Plowing? But—why?”

“Prairie’s drying out. We need a fire guard.”

Annie looked past him to the horizon.
Fire.
She’d learned not to worry too much about Frank and Emmet chasing across the prairie alone, but—
fire.
And the wind. A terrifying combination.

Morgan seemed to read her mind. “They can set a backfire.” He explained the practice of putting out one fire with another, the second set purposely to consume a wide swath of dried grass. “First fire goes out for lack of fuel.”

“And the second?”

“The second stays under control at the hand of whoever set it,” Morgan said. “I’ll make sure they carry matches. They’ll be all right. And so will you.”

“Who—why would anyone start a fire in the first place?”

“They do it in the spring to renew the prairie. This time of year it’s generally an accident. A spark from a campfire some fool doesn’t take time to douse. Or lightning.” Morgan’s voice gentled a bit. “We’d see it long before it got here. Smell it, too.”

With those few words, he left. Annie returned the egg to its nest, praising the hen she’d named Lucille and encouraging a repeat performance.

That night she opened the Pony Express Bible, seeking the comfort of a verse she remembered Emmet reading to her. Thankfully, he’d written page numbers on the inside cover, and Annie quickly found the verse about fear in chapter forty-one of the book of Isaiah. “Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the
right hand of my righteousness.” It was a good message, but it didn’t comfort Annie as much as she’d hoped, largely because of the four words
I am thy God.

Annie lay in bed a long time thinking about those four words. Was God
hers
? She didn’t like admitting it, but she didn’t think He was. At least not in the same way He was Emmet’s God. How could she make sure she could claim the promises about God’s strengthening and helping her—in the same ways He strengthened and helped Emmet and the parson? She wished she’d listened to Charlie’s sermons better.

The Lord is my Shepherd. I shall not want.
Funny that she hadn’t really pondered the little word
my
in the Shepherd’s Psalm, either. She frowned and tossed a question into the night. Was the Lord
her
Shepherd? Was God
her
God? Was He, really?

Much to Annie’s great relief, as September faded into October, all she or her brothers experienced of prairie fires was a distant red glow along the far horizon. Nights grew cool enough that George Morgan occasionally built a fire in the fireplace on the eastern wall of the main room. Annie spent a few minutes each evening sitting in the rocking chair he’d dragged in from the porch, knitting socks and mittens as fast as she could. She was inclined to doubt Morgan’s prediction they might see snow by the end of October. Still, she would do what she could to see her brothers properly outfitted.

When Fort Kearny patrols were sent out to help ranchers beat back the flames of distant prairie fires, Annie saw little of Lieutenant Hart, but she thrilled at the personal note he scrawled at the bottom of one of Lydia’s letters.

She consulted the almanac George Morgan kept in the store and began to count the days until the last Saturday in the month. There’d be a full moon two days after the cotillion. As she knitted, she daydreamed about dancing in the moonlight with a handsome blond-haired lieutenant.

The second week of October, the Overland Stage delivered a letter for Emmet. Annie smiled as she carried it into her brother’s room and laid it on his cot. When Emmet rode in a few days later, dismay and sadness swept over her when she saw his horse. In fact, she barely paid attention to the handoff between Emmet and a rider named Bill Garrett, so intent was she on Shadow.

“Hey, girl,” she said, and patted the paint mare’s neck. Shadow whickered and nuzzled her hand. “How about that,” she said. “She remembers me.” She glanced over at Emmet. “You go on in and get something to eat. There’s a pot of beans on the stove and fresh bread in a basket on the table. I’ll see to Shadow.”

Emmet nodded. “The Pony hasn’t been kind to her.” He paused. “What’s this I hear about a social over at the fort?”

“Who told you about that?”

“The rider—Bill Garrett. Didn’t you hear him just now? He was lamenting that he might not be back this way before some co-tillun, whatever that is.”

“Cotillion,” Annie said. “It’s just a fancy word for a dance.” She smiled. “Lydia sent a note inviting me, and Mr. Morgan said I can go.” It was probably best not to mention Lieutenant Hart’s part in the invitation—at least not yet. “In fact, he promised to ride over with me.”

Even in the fading light, she could see Emmet frown. “George Morgan is squiring you to a dance?”

“No. No… it’s not… no.” Annie shook her head. “The ladies at the fort are inviting everyone in the region. All the ranchers and station owners. No one’s squiring anyone. I’m going to see Lydia. And speaking of notes, there’s a letter waiting for you. From Luvina.”