Messenger by Moonlight (2 page)

Buchanan County, Missouri

March 5, 1860

Surprised by the emotion that welled up as she prepared to leave the ramshackle cabin for the last time, nineteen-year-old Ann Elizabeth Paxton hesitated before stepping across the threshold. Slowly, she turned about for a final look; at the rustic table where they’d eaten countless meals; at the two-burner stove she’d struggled with after Ma died; at the front door on the opposite side of the room, barred shut and perhaps never to be opened again. According to Frank, even the stock hands over at Hillsdale Farms lived in better places than this. Hiram Hillsdale wanted the land. He didn’t care about the cabin.

Emmet and Frank had both said their good-byes to the cabin and its contents before sunup, wolfing down grits and gulping weak coffee before hauling their trunks out back on their way to hitch the mules to the wagon. While they were gone, Annie laid her own things in the trunk that was hers now—the trunk Ma had brought to Buchanan County years ago and that still contained a faded silk gown, dance slippers, lace mitts, and a few other treasures that had been Ma’s.

By the time Frank and Emmet had driven the wagon up to the back door and loaded Annie’s trunk, the sun was up.
Emmet said they’d wait for her outside. He patted her on the shoulder and said she should take all the time she needed. Pulling her threadbare shawl close about her thin shoulders, Annie looked about the room and summoned the memory of Ma. This morning, it wasn’t the Shepherd’s Psalm she remembered. This morning, as Annie looked at the pieces of the only life she’d ever known, she remembered Ma saying that
even on the darkest day, when all a body wants to do is cry, if she looks hard enough, she can find a sliver of light
. The tightness in her chest eased up. Taking one last look, she stepped outside.

Emmet waited beside the team, but Frank had already climbed up to the wagon seat. An unseasonably warm March breeze ruffled his shaggy auburn hair as he reached down to take Annie’s hand and haul her up beside him. The minute Annie and Frank were settled, Emmet said something about taking his own last look. He went back inside.

Frank muttered, “I hope another gander finally convinces him we haven’t lost much.”

Annie was inclined to agree—at least when it came to the farm itself. The earth hadn’t yielded much beyond weeds and poor crops for a long time now. She didn’t really know why the neighbor, Mr. Hillsdale, even wanted it. Annie knew all about Hillsdale Farms, for working there from time to time had been part of Emmet and Frank’s desperate attempts to save their home. Both men were good with horses. Neither could imagine Hiram Hillsdale’s fine Thoroughbreds on Paxton land.
Paxton
land. She stifled a sigh. If only Ma hadn’t died. If only Pa could have managed better. If only he hadn’t become part of the trouble. If only he hadn’t caused the worst of it.

Poor Pa. He never had recovered from losing the woman
he called his “Tennessee belle.” Oh, he’d determined time and again to “buck up” and “move on,” but just when Annie and her brothers thought he might actually do it, Pa headed for town and one saloon or another. For ten years, she and her brothers had locked arms and kept things going. Somehow. But then, just two weeks ago, Pa had tried to find his way home through a late winter snowstorm—and failed. A few days after they laid him to rest beside Ma, the local banker knocked on the front door, and the three Paxton siblings learned that drinking hadn’t been their father’s only problem. He’d taken to gambling, too. And he always lost.

Thinking on it now while she sat beside Frank on the wagon seat and Emmet lingered inside invited a fresh wave of emotion.
Oh… Pa.
Annie flung another plea at heaven.
Help Emmet. Please.
All Emmet had ever wanted to do was farm. It had taken him several days to accept the truth delivered by the town banker. Earl Paxton had left his three children a farm with so much debt carried against it that the only thing to do was to sell it.

“That can’t be right,” Emmet protested. “We own the place, free and clear.”

The banker shook his head. “I’m afraid not.” He was sorry, but his hands were tied. Surely they could understand that under the circumstances, he simply could not give another extension. He seemed pleased with himself when he told them they were not left “without recourse.” He was authorized to make an offer on behalf of their neighbor, Mr. Hiram Hillsdale. A “generous offer” the banker called it—one that would not only cancel the debt but also free Earl’s adult children to “explore the world.”

They would of course be able to keep things considered personal. Clothing and the like. Whatever would fit in a
trunk—three trunks, since there were three of them. The team of ancient mules and the farm wagon would also be “overlooked,” since they’d need transportation off the property. Mr. Hillsdale would give them a full forty-eight hours to vacate the premises once they’d accepted his offer.

Annie had never seen Emmet lose his temper, but he came close that day. His face flushed bright red. He spun about and strode to the open door of the cabin, standing there for a long while, his body fairly vibrating with emotion. Finally, he took a deep breath and turned back around. “Forty-eight hours to pack up the only life we’ve ever known? You can’t be serious. We need more time.”

The banker grimaced. “I suppose I could speak with Mr. Hillsdale—if you insist.”

Frank intervened. “Don’t bother.” He scowled as he said, “We’ll not be begging crumbs from the table of the illustrious Hiram Hillsdale.” Frank put one hand on Emmet’s shoulder and gave it a little shake. “Remember how Annie blabbered about St. Joseph that time Pa took her to the city? We’ll go there. It’s March. The ice will be breaking up on the Missouri and that’ll mean a lot of business coming into St. Jo. We shouldn’t have any trouble finding jobs.” He winked at Annie. “What d’ya say? Shall we give St. Joseph a try?”

It was strange to look back on that moment now and realize that Frank had been the one to make peace with their situation while Emmet struggled. No one who knew the Paxtons would ever have called Frank a peacemaker. His auburn hair and deep brown eyes were visible indications of a dark, stormy temperament. Blond, blue-eyed Emmet was the quiet, steady one who never wanted more than what already lay within reach.

Weathered boards and rusty hinges creaked as Emmet
finally exited the cabin and pulled the door closed behind him. When he climbed aboard and lifted the reins to signal the mules to move out, the team refused to budge. Slapping their rumps with the reins, he called out, “Come on, now, Bart. Git up, there, Bill. You can retire the minute you pull us up to the livery in St. Joseph. And that’s a promise.”

Frank muttered something about retirement “courtesy of Mr. Winchester.”

Annie frowned at him. “You don’t mean that.” When Frank only shrugged, she appealed to Emmet. “He doesn’t mean that, does he? You can’t let anyone hurt the mules. They can’t help being old.”

Emmet flashed a warning look at Frank as he said, “No one’s going to hurt the mules, Annie. Not as long as I have a say.” He flicked the reins across the team’s flanks. With a brayed protest, they leaned into the creaking harness. The wagon began to move. “Now don’t cry,” Emmet said as they pulled onto the road. “We’re going to be all right.”

“Darned right we are,” Frank said. He nudged Annie. “We’ve got us a fresh start, and we’re going to make the most of it.”

Annie nodded. She rather liked the idea of a fresh start, although it sometimes made her feel guilty to admit it, even to herself. After all, but for Pa’s dying they might have been able to hang on. Maybe she shouldn’t be
glad
to be leaving, but still—there were good things about moving on, not the least of which was an end to being seen as one of “that drunken Earl Paxton’s poor kids.” From what she remembered of St. Jo., it was as different from home as one of Mr. Hillsdale’s fine Thoroughbreds was from Bart, the lop-eared mule. This time of year, thousands of travelers would be poised to begin spring journeys either to gold mines in the Rockies or
homesteads in Oregon. The city would be bustling. If one job didn’t work out, a body could try another and another and another, until finally he or she landed on whatever was just right. St. Jo. was the perfect place to get a fresh start.

Annie glanced over at poor Emmet, who wasn’t the least bit interested in living somewhere different. All twenty-four-year-old Emmet cared about was farming, Luvina Aiken, and God—although probably not quite in that order. For Emmet, St. Joseph was only a temporary necessity. A place to earn the respectable living that would convince Luvina’s father to consent to a wedding. A detour on a path that he hoped would lead him right back to farming—and to Luvina.

They’d been on the road for a while now, and Emmet had apparently mistaken Annie’s silence for sadness. “I know things seem bleak,” he said, “but God hasn’t forgotten us. The Lord
is
our shepherd, and He still means everything for our good, whether we can see it or not. Thinking about our going to St. Joseph just now had me thinking about Joseph in the Bible. You remember that story? Ma used to tell it. I think it comforted her when she felt homesick for Tennessee.”

“I remember Joseph,” Annie said, although the memory didn’t come from Ma. Compared to Emmet, she remembered so very little about Ma. She had a vague notion of warmth and feeling safe. A gentle voice. Sitting in church and liking the sound of Ma’s voice singing hymns—although she wasn’t sure if she actually remembered the part about church or if she’d just heard Emmet talk about it often enough that she thought she remembered. It especially bothered her that she didn’t remember what Ma looked like. Emmet said if she wanted to know that, all she had to do was look in the mirror. Annie wasn’t sure if that helped or hurt, because if Ma looked like her or she looked like Ma, then why didn’t she remember her
better? Then again, Emmet was five years older than she and Frank, and the extra years had given him more memories of Ma. Memories from a time when life was better and Pa was sober all the time. Sometimes Annie thought the hardness of the past ten years had put a jagged edge to her memories and cut away most of the good. Maybe that was why she couldn’t remember Ma better.

“Joseph,” Emmet was saying, “found himself in a far country because of terrible things he couldn’t control. But God never lost track of Joseph.” He paused. “He won’t lose track of us, either.”

Annie nodded. She remembered the story. She hoped it meant what Emmet said. She liked the way he could be counted on to share comfort from the Bible. Ma’s Bible, actually. He read it morning and night. Sometimes he read it aloud, although most of the time he kept it to himself. Annie knew that was because Frank was like Pa when it came to religion. Neither of them had any use for it.

One thing she did remember clearly was the day after Ma’s funeral, when Emmet brought Ma’s Bible to breakfast with him, planning to read one of Ma’s favorite passages to the four of them. One she’d underlined, he said. But Emmet didn’t so much as get the Bible opened before Pa grabbed it and threw it across the room. Then he stormed out the back door, leaving his eggs and grits to grow cold. After that, Emmet did his Bible reading when Pa wasn’t around. When Annie mentioned remembering Ma reciting the Shepherd’s Psalm, Emmet helped her learn it—on the sly. Frank never showed any interest.

Emmet had also talked about Joseph and God’s keeping track of him when he’d told his sweetheart about the Paxtons’ losing the farm. Sixteen-year-old Luvina Aiken had
promised to wait, but Annie had witnessed that promise, and while she knew very little about love, she knew quite a lot about emotions, and it seemed to her that pale, prim Luvina’s were decidedly lukewarm. She hadn’t shed a tear. It seemed to Annie that a woman in love ought to show a little more enthusiasm.

Annie hoped she was wrong. For all she knew, the girl was making quilts for her hope chest and counting the days until she could keep house for Emmet. In the meantime, Annie had her own dreams, and they revolved around keeping house, too—for her brothers in St. Jo. As the wagon creaked along the rutted road, Annie closed her eyes and envisioned it. Four rooms would do, one for living and cooking, and three for sleeping. They would paint the exterior white and the trim blue. She would ask Frank to build window boxes where she’d plant sweet peas to spill out and down like a blooming waterfall.

When she really let her imagination fly, Annie envisioned a front porch where she could sit and have her morning coffee and keep an eye on everything going on just beyond a picket fence nearly hidden beneath yards of rambling rosebushes. She imagined a vegetable garden and a medium-sized dog to bark and announce company, and a cat to keep mice out of the pantry.

Once they had jobs and a new home in St. Jo., Emmet would realize that losing the farm was for the best. He certainly deserved better than a battered cabin and a drunken father and land that grew very little besides waist-high thistles. In St. Joseph, he could work toward something better—the future he wanted with Luvina. They could all work toward something better.