Messenger by Moonlight (24 page)

A week to the day after the Fort Kearny cotillion, Frank stumbled into the kitchen at Clearwater and, with a groan, sank onto the upturned biscuit box that served as a sometimes perch. “I’m not getting better.”

“Of course you are,” Annie insisted, as she stirred the giant pot of oatmeal cooking on the stove. “You’ve helped Billy with chores every morning this week.”

“And had to take a nap every afternoon. Right when Luther was here and George could have used help with that chicken yard.”

“Luther didn’t mind. We were his last delivery before he turned back toward St. Jo., and he didn’t seem in any particular hurry to leave.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s taking too long for me to get back in the saddle.”

“Dr. Fields said that if you hurry it, you could do permanent damage. And you’re already damaged enough, dear brother of mine.” Frank didn’t laugh at her joke. He didn’t even smile. Annie set the spoon down on the stovetop and gently moved his hair out of the way to inspect the cut. “No swelling. The bruise is entirely faded away. And I did an excellent job taking the stitches out. You’ll have a very impressive scar. Boys like scars, don’t they?”

Frank pulled away and smoothed his hair into place. “Sure. They make us look tough. Which impresses the ladies.”

“You
are
tough. You could barely stand upright, but you didn’t lose the mail. Last week, you impressed plenty of ladies at Fort Kearny—including Lydia Hart, who does not impress easily.”

“My head still pounds when I move fast.”

Annie only knew to repeat what the doctor had said, and Frank didn’t want to hear
It takes time
. She dished up some oatmeal. “Molasses or sugar?”

“Sugar. And butter?”

Annie hesitated. She had one precious bit of butter left, and she was saving it. Two of the chicks were roosters, and Clifford was entirely rooster enough for her little flock. Chicken and dumplings was on the menu for Christmas Day, along with biscuits served with butter and chokecherry jelly.

“I’m still wounded,” Frank pleaded. “Spoil me. Just a dollop.”

Annie complied, handing the bowl back with a blob of butter melting into the cooked oats. She even sprinkled a bit of cinnamon on top.

Frank savored the oatmeal before saying, “We need a cow.”

“Talk to Mr. Morgan about that. I’m done trying to convince him.”

Frank studied her as he finished his oatmeal. “Mr. Morgan? You and George on the outs?”

“Why would you think that?” Annie grabbed a mug off a shelf and poured herself a cup of coffee.

Frank shrugged.

“Has George—Mr. Morgan—said something to you?” Annie asked.

“Well… sure. We talk all the time.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Annie stared out the window toward the trail. The only traffic these days amounted to freighters, the weekly stage—with few passengers compared to this past spring and summer—and the Pony Express. In the span of a few weeks, Clearwater had begun to feel exactly the way she’d always expected it to feel. Lonely. And George Morgan was back to barely talking. What had happened? Annie turned around and leaned against her worktable, coffee mug in hand. “He’s barely said two words to me since the cotillion.”

Frank shrugged. “He’s been busy sorting cattle. Stacking hay near the corrals and firewood by the back door. Building your chicken yard. Trying to get things done before it snows. Not to mention beating Luther at checkers every game they played while he was here.”

“He didn’t dance with me. Not once.”

Frank snorted surprise. “That been simmering for a whole week?”

“Simmering?”

He mimicked her voice. “‘He didn’t dance with me. Not once.’ You sound like a little girl who didn’t get invited to a birthday party.”

“How would you know about that? Whoever had a birthday party when we were growing up?” Annie huffed frustration. “Sorry I said anything.”

“What you should be sorry about,” Frank blustered, “is letting Wade Hart take over what should have been one of the best nights of your life. But it wasn’t, was it? I could tell that when you stole my punch at the end of the night.”

“It was wonderful,” Annie said.
Not perfect, though.

“It could have been better, if only you’d stood up to Hart.”

Annie set her coffee mug down and pretended to inspect
the rosemary plant she’d brought inside and set near the window. “‘Stood up to him’? How? What are you talking about?”

“The same thing I was talking about the night of the dance.” He paused. “It would have made a lot of lonely boys happy to waltz with the prettiest girl in the room. Maybe you didn’t know that, but the great and glorious Lieutenant Wade Hart definitely did. And he didn’t care. He used you to make a point about his power over the men under his command.”

“Used me?” Annie raised her voice. “Are you saying he only pretended to want to dance with me?”

“Of course not. But he didn’t have to write his name on every single line but one. That’s the part I’m talking about, and I stand by what I said. He’s rude and selfish.”

“Well, I am sorry you don’t approve of Lieutenant Hart,” Annie retorted. “But that doesn’t fix whatever’s bothering George Morgan, does it?”

“Neither does your talking to
me
about it. If you wanted to dance with George, why’d you let Hart take over?”

“Mr. Morgan said he was going to talk to the other ranchers about the election. He never mentioned dancing. I didn’t know he
could
dance.”

Frank shook his head. “For a smart little gal, Ann E., you can be awful stupid sometimes. You really think George trimmed his beard and polished his boots for a meeting with a bunch of ranchers?” He reached for a mug and poured himself a cup of coffee. After taking a sip, he added, “He did that for
you
. And then you ignored him.”

Annie frowned. George dressed up for her? Could that be right? She let regret sound in her voice as she said, “Before the cotillion, we’d started talking. We were getting along. I’d finally gotten over being afraid of him.”

“You were afraid of George?”

“A little.”

“Well, you ought to be over that, especially now that you know the only times he’s ever done violence was in defense of people he cares about. And you, Ann E., are one he happens to care about.”

“I miss him.” She’d blurted out the words without thinking. And of course, what would happen but George Morgan stepping up to the doorway between the kitchen and the main room. He’d probably heard every word. Setting her coffee mug down, Annie reached for a bowl. Time to make something. Anything. Just to give her an excuse to avoid those gray-blue eyes.

“And he misses you,” George said.

Annie wheeled about. “You were listening. That’s called eavesdropping.” She glanced over at Frank. “And it’s rude.”

“I was working in the store. And you were talking kinda loud. And by the time you were into it and I realized you wouldn’t want me to hear, it was too late to sneak out. Although now that I think on it, I suppose I could have lifted the trap door and gone down into the root cellar. Glad I didn’t.”

Frank snorted a barely disguised laugh. Annie glared at him. He ducked his head and concentrated on the coffee. Looking up at George Morgan, she blurted out a question. “Where’d you learn to dance like that?”

“Lessons when I was a boy. Hated every minute of it.”

“Well, you learned it very well.”

“So I’m told.”

“I should have saved you a dance.”

“I should have asked.” Morgan hesitated a moment, then held out his hand.

“There’s no music.”

“We can hum. You have a favorite?”

“I… no.”

“I do.” He began to hum. Off key.

Annie took his hand and followed him into the main room, where George waltzed her past the counter, around the tables, and back again, with all the skill of a dance master. A very tall dance master with a booming laugh.

Frank was forking hay down from the barn loft early in November, when the clanging of the bell up at the station announced the approach of the eastbound Pony Express. Hurrying down the ladder, he helped Billy saddle a fresh pony, then grabbed the reins, insisting that he’d take the horse up and help with the exchange. Running through the snow with the fresh pony in tow left him gasping for breath.

Jake Finney had already dismounted and was waiting, stamping his feet to keep the blood flowing. He handed over the reins of his spent mount and slapped the mochila in place while he talked. “Telegraph just carried the biggest news since it reached Fort Kearny,” he said, as he jumped into the saddle. “It’s
President
Lincoln now. Telegraph operator said the westward riders are going all out to set a record. Five days to California.” He spurred his horse and was gone before Frank could manage a reply.

Five days. How many horses will die to make that happen?
Sucking in a deep breath, Frank watched as Jake disappeared eastward. He started when Annie called from the doorway. “Did I hear right? It’s Lincoln?”

Frank nodded. Without a word, he led the horse away. Bitter regret accompanied him to the barn and throughout the rest of the day. The biggest news of his lifetime, and he
could barely manage a run from the barn to the station. Some “moonlight messenger” he was. He spent the remainder of the day in the barn, brushing down horses, fiddling with tack, doing anything to avoid talking—especially to Annie, who would know how he felt about not being part of the historic mail run and try to cheer him up.

When it came time for supper, he told Billy he was worried about the horse Jake had ridden in and was going to stay in the barn and keep an eye on him. “I’ll see to evening chores here in the barn,” he said. With a nod, Billy headed for the station. Later, Annie trudged through the snow to bring down a ham sandwich. Frank called down from the loft and asked her to just leave the sack hanging on a hook and he’d get it in a minute. He waited to eat until she’d retreated and then waited again until the moon had risen and she was likely in bed before making his way back to the station. Shivering with cold, he dove beneath the pile of covers on his cot and waited to fall asleep.

But Annie just couldn’t let him be. He was almost asleep when she stepped into his room and said quietly, “If you think it would help, you could see Dr. Fields again.”

He was facing the wall, and he didn’t turn over. “I might do that. Right now, though, I’m going to sleep.”

“You could take the stage. We have enough money. It wouldn’t cost much.”

“Leave me be, Annie. Please. Just let me sleep.”

“I just want to help. I’m worried about you.”

He barely managed to swallow a torrent of angry, bitter words. “I just told you how to help. Let me be.” For a long moment, he could sense her presence as she lingered in the doorway, staring across the room. Finally, she did what he’d asked. He heard her pad across to her own room. The door creaked as she closed it.

With the first serious snowfall in late November, George carried a small trunk into the main room and set it on the counter. Opening the lid, he took a muslin-wrapped package out and unwrapped it. He ran his palm over the dark surface of a leather-bound book, smiling as if looking down at an old friend. Curious, Annie went to see what he was up to.