Messenger by Moonlight (27 page)

The stagecoach had just left the Pony Express relay station near Fort Kearny when it lurched dangerously. Frank barely managed to stay in the seat next to Whiskey John. The driver swore cheerfully and hauled on the reins. “Got off the trail a bit there. Happens from time to time.” He glanced over at Frank. “Sure you don’t want to ride inside?”

Frank shook his head. “Thanks, but I like it up here.” He
did, too. He marveled at the skill demonstrated as Whiskey John managed six sets of reins as deftly as Frank had ever handled a single horse. Besides that, now that the sun was shining, the view from atop the Concord coach was something he didn’t want to miss. He looked back toward the relay station, little more than a dot on the prairie. It was a pure miracle that he’d ever found it in that storm. And the rabbit? He didn’t know if he’d ever tell anyone about that. Who’d ever believe it—well, besides Charlie Pender.

When the coach pulled up to the telegraph office at Fort Kearny, Frank stayed put. From his perch, he scanned the grounds, smiling at the memory of dancing with Lydia Hart and wondering how she was faring through her first long, hard winter in the West. When he caught a glimpse of a soldier who might be Wade Hart, he ducked his head and pulled the bandanna up. He’d have to face the lieutenant sooner or later and probably even thank him for trying to drag him out of Dobytown. But he wasn’t ready.

When Whiskey John climbed back up beside Frank, he brought all kinds of news. William Russell of the freighting company that had founded the Pony Express had been in all kinds of trouble since the first of the year. Congress had agreed to spend $800,000 to keep the Pony Express going. They’d also decreed that the Union would not pay any company on a mail contract that would take the route through a state that had seceded from the Union.

Whiskey John looked over at Frank with a smile and a wink. “You know what that means? Means those of us chasing across Nebraska Territory are more important than ever.” He shouted at the team before relating how Pony Bob Haslam out in Nevada had been attacked by Indians and wounded while carrying President Lincoln’s inaugural address westward.
“Still finished the hundred and twenty miles, though,” the driver said. “Set a record, too. Eight hours and twenty minutes.” And then he added a profanity-laced, albeit kind word to Frank. “Don’t you worry, son. You’ll be back in the saddle before long.”

Frank smiled and nodded. He believed Whiskey John was right. He was feeling better than he had in weeks. But then the driver reported news that struck a somber note and sent Frank’s thoughts spinning eastward and off into the unknown.

“You won’t believe what them Southern boys gone and done. They’re calling themselves the Confederate States of America—acting like they’re their own gol-durned country.” He leaned over and spat tobacco before adding, “Things is about to get a might more testy. The boys back at Fort Kearny talked like they’s expecting to mount up and ride east any day.”

Frank’s heartbeat ratcheted up when Clearwater came into view. He knew what he was going to say, but he had no idea what would happen after that. And so, as the stagecoach lurched to a stop down at the barn and he climbed down, Frank hesitated. Whiskey John whistled to catch his attention and tossed his saddlebags down to him, just about the time Billy trotted up to switch teams. When he saw Frank, he stopped in his tracks.

“Where’s my team?” Whiskey John sputtered. “It’s hard enough making up the time lost because of that last storm.”

“I’m running a little late,” Billy said. “George isn’t here.”

“Well where in tarnation is he?”

“Looking for Frank,” Billy said, and glanced Frank’s way as he added, “He rode out a couple of days ago.”

Whiskey John swore through a sentence that essentially meant that George should know better than to do something like that.

“It wasn’t snowing when he left,” Billy said, and began to work the harness. “The storm came up after.” He looked past Frank toward the station. “Your sister’s seen you.”

Frank turned around, just in time to see Annie step off the back porch and come running. Breathless, she threw herself at him, laughing and hugging him close. “Thank God! You have no idea how I’ve worried!” She let him go then and looked about. “But—where’s George?”

Frank cleared his throat. Shook his head. “I haven’t seen him.”

“But—he came for you. First to the doctor. And then—Dobytown?” She said it as a question.

“I was there. For nearly a week. I was walking to the relay station north of Fort Kearny when that last storm hit.”

Annie’s hand went to her heart. “You were
walking
? But—why?”

Frank swallowed. “Because I lost—no, wait. I didn’t
lose
the horse. I gambled it away. And the bridle. And the saddle. And the blanket. I gambled it all away, except for my saddlebags.” He waited, fully expecting to see the smile fade. Which it did. Fully expecting to see anger or spite or something like that take its place. It did not. What replaced the smile was a trembling hand over her mouth as Annie looked over at Billy.

“But George came to find you,” she croaked. “Badger came to us and we took care of him and then as soon as Badger left, George went after you. He was going to trace your steps. He was going to bring you home.” Tears spilled down her cheeks.

And in that moment, Frank wished that all he had to face was Annie’s anger.

“I put a pot of beans on this morning,” Annie said to Whiskey John. “I’ll make coffee and there’s fresh bread. Be sure you come up and eat before you leave.” Frank said that he would stay down at the barn to help with the horses, and so Annie was left alone to retrace her steps back to the station and to set places at the table for the men. But not for George.
Don’t think about that right now. Do the next thing. Make coffee.

She strode past the counter and toward the kitchen. When she caught sight of George’s books, she looked away. Taking an apron off a hook in the storeroom, she measured out coffee beans and began to roast them. All the while she worked, she prayed for more movement out on the trail. Listened for muffled hoofbeats. And swallowed back the tears that would do no one any good at all.

There was work to be done. She would do it. She would serve up the beans she’d flavored with roasted buffalo hump and set the last jar of chokecherry jelly out and pour coffee and she would smile if it killed her. And that’s what she did, although none of them had anything much to say as they ate.

Frank thanked Whiskey John for the ride and promised to repay the favor, and then the stage rattled on its way. Billy excused himself to feed the livestock, and Frank went to help him. Annie cleared the table and washed the dishes. She went out to scatter feed for the chicks and checked the traps in the storeroom, relieved when there were no dead rats to deal with. She made another pie and had just slid it into the oven when the storeroom door opened. Her heart lurched and she wheeled about.

“It’s just me,” Frank said. He closed the door behind him and took his mittens off. “I am so sorry, Annie.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Of course it is. Will you let me tell you what happened?”

“I know what happened.” She let the disappointment sound in her voice. “You broke your promise.”

“Yes. I did. Again.” He took a deep breath. Let it out. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“I want to. But I don’t—I just don’t know. I can’t think about it right now. Not with George—not until he’s back. We can talk then.”

“All right. That’s fair, I suppose.” Frank pulled his mittens back on.

“Should you be doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Working so hard. Dr. Fields said—”

Frank interrupted her. “I’m better. The headaches are almost gone. I should be able to ride again soon. I’ll tell you all about it when the time’s right.” He paused. “I tried to talk Billy into coming with me to look for George.”

“I wanted to ask Lieutenant Hart to send out a search party.” Annie shrugged. “Billy said George has forgotten more than the ‘blue coats’ will ever know about living out here.” Her voice trembled. “Do you think that’s right?”

“Billy knows him better than either of us.”

Annie was quiet. She wanted to be glad that Frank was feeling better. She supposed she did feel glad, but it felt wrong to talk about good things right now. She motioned toward the stove. “I should see to supper.”

Frank nodded. “I understand.”

Once he’d closed the storeroom door, Annie sat down, abruptly, on the upturned crate.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down…
She closed her eyes.
Nothing’s changed. I still want. I hope You’re my shepherd,
but right now, more than that, I want George to come home. I’m sorry. I don’t know how any of this works, but—I just really need You to bring George back.

Annie was amazed the next day, when God did exactly what she’d asked.

Frank had just forked a mountain of hay out of the loft when Billy charged into the barn and shouted, “George is back!” He raced back outside.

Intending to run tell Annie, Frank hurried down the ladder, but Billy had already gone up to the station with the news, and so Frank waited at the barn, smiling a welcome—until George got closer. The look in the man’s eyes made his mouth go dry.

George dismounted slowly. He led his horse into the barn and put it in a stall. Next, he pulled his mittens off and stuffed them inside his hat. With his free hand, he raked through his wild hair. Finally, he said, “I’ve been following your trail. From here to Fort Kearny. Then to every single saloon in Dobytown.”

“I’m sorry,” Frank stammered. “I—”

George’s hand went up. He said no more for a time.

When the station keeper finally spoke, his voice was so quiet, Frank had to strain to hear the words. Something about that was worse than if George had yelled. “I just don’t understand why you’d cause so much grief for one of the best women that ever walked this earth. Why can’t you at least try to be the man Annie sees when she looks at you?”

“I
am
going to try.”

George looked doubtful. “I’ve had a good long while to
ponder what I’d say next time I saw you, Frank. If there’s anything in this world I know, it’s that if a man is bent on ruination, there’s no human with the power to stop him. You can be the man Annie and Charlie Pender and I know you can be. Or you can ride to perdition. Only you can make that choice. But I can make a choice, too, and I have.” He paused. “Here it is. The day you choose to set foot in that hellhole again is the last day you sleep under my roof.”

Frank nodded. “I’m grateful. I don’t deserve another chance. But I aim to prove it wasn’t a mistake for you to give me one.” It was hard to tell if the look on Morgan’s face was surprise or disbelief. Frank didn’t suppose it really mattered. In time, George would see the change and know it was real.

“Mind if I ask you something?” he asked.

“Guess not.” Frank steeled himself against the worst.

“The storm. You
walked
into it. How’d you manage to survive?”

Frank shrugged. “I didn’t manage anything. I walked into a wall.” He told the whole story and did not spare himself at all as he described brushing Wade Hart off and gambling away a horse that wasn’t even his. When he came to the sod wall and the rabbit, he almost choked up. “I know it probably sounds crazy, but there’s more to what happened that night than a sod wall and a rabbit. I think I’ve finally begun to understand what Charlie Pender meant when he talked about ‘the full and merciful grace of the Almighty God.’”

For a moment, George said nothing. Then he chuckled. “Saved by a bunny. You’ll have to tell that one to Lydia Hart so she can write it up for the folks back East.” He looked toward the station. “Well, I reckon we’ve given your sister enough to worry about for a while. I hope she’s in a forgiving mood.”

For at least the tenth time, Annie looked toward the barn, longing to get a glimpse of George.
He wants to talk to Frank
, Billy had said.
He asked for you to wait for him to come up to the station.
And so Annie waited. While she waited, she cooked. The usual meal didn’t seem quite enough tonight—not when George and Frank had both come home safe.

First, she descended to the cellar beneath the store and took down the last ham hanging from the rafters. Back in the kitchen she sliced it all. While the ham fried, she put dried green beans on to simmer, adding bits of ham to the water for flavor. She boiled potatoes and made biscuits. Out in the main room, she drew the tables together, then cut a few sprigs of rosemary and arranged them in her mother’s cracked teapot for a centerpiece.

She’d just set the last plate on the table when, at last, George stepped in the back door.

Joy surged through her. She barely managed to keep from running to him. “You’re back! I’m so glad—”

For a moment, he just stood there. Looking. From her to the table. From the table to the kitchen. And back again, an odd expression in the gray-blue eyes that Annie could not quite discern. She motioned at the table. “I thought we should celebrate.”

“Celebrate… what?”

“Frank,” Annie said abruptly. “And you. I was worried.”

He removed his hat and hung it on the peg by the door. “I don’t think you’ll need to worry about Frank anymore. There’s something—different with him.”

She nodded. “I was worried about you, too.”

He shrugged out of his heavy coat. “Nothing to worry about. I’ve weathered worse.”

“Billy said as much. I still worried.”

He looked past her toward the kitchen. “Is that the last ham I smell cooking?”

Now she felt silly for going to all this trouble. Apparently she was the only one who thought the safe return of two men she cared about merited a celebration. And he didn’t seem all that pleased about her frying up the last ham. She called back over her shoulder as she retreated toward the kitchen. “I can serve leftovers for breakfast—ham and fried potatoes. There’s probably enough for several days. The ham bone can flavor soup. I’ll put a pot on after breakfast tomorrow. The stage passengers will love it.”

He followed her to the kitchen, lingering in the doorway as she worked. “It’s a little early for us to see much in the way of stage passengers yet.” He motioned toward the table where she’d set a pie to cool. “I didn’t know we had any kind of fruit left.”

“It’s a
celebration
. Is there something wrong with that?”

He shrugged. “No. It’s just—it’s a lot of food, and there’s no more coming until the weather breaks. You knew that—right?”

Of all the rude, ungrateful
—Annie had gone from confusion to hurt. Why would he object to anything she’d done? Didn’t he appreciate being appreciated? “Have I misremembered your telling me to make this kitchen my own?”

“No. Why?”

She motioned about her. “
This
is what my kitchen looks like right before I feed a bunch of hungry men—men I care about. Men I’ve spent sleepless nights worrying about.”

“You didn’t need to be worrying about me,” he repeated. “Like Billy said, I’ve forgotten more about living out here than your Lieutenant Hart will ever know.”

“My Lieutenant Hart?” Where did that come from?

“I’ll get a fire going. That’s some story Frank told. About the rabbit.” He didn’t wait for Annie to respond, just pointed at the pie and the pots on the stove and said something about Annie being able to manage “well enough” until Luther brought supplies.

He was doing that thing where he jumped from one subject to the next, never landing on one thing long enough for them to have a conversation and inevitably saying something that came out like thinly veiled criticism. On a whim, Annie dished up a piece of pie and shoved it at him. “Here. I didn’t have Sophia’s recipe, so you probably won’t approve of this, either, but maybe it’ll improve your mood. Or your manners. And you might as well know there’s a raisin molasses pie in the oven. That’s Frank’s favorite. And if you think that’s a waste of your precious groceries, I don’t want to hear about it.” She waved him toward the main room. “Go. Build a fire. Light the lamps. Polish something. Just—stop grumbling.”

Pie plate in hand, Morgan retreated. He built the fire and, when it was roaring, asked her to come out to the store counter. He pointed at the sign advertising meals for fifty cents. “Think you’d be able to make a pie or two every day once Luther brings more supplies?”

“I thought you just said you don’t want me cooking so much.”

George frowned. “No, I said I hope we don’t run out before—never mind. About the pie. What d’ya think? Could we offer pie as part of the meals? Folks would like it. We’d get more business.”

Business.
He wanted to talk business. There was no
we
in George Morgan’s business. He’d made that clear just now, complaining about her using up a ham. How glad she was
that she’d resisted the urge to throw her arms about his neck when he first stepped in the door. “If
you
think it’s a good idea, I’m happy to give it a try.” She paused. “And if you’re really looking to make improvements around here, get a cow.”
And stop complaining about my cooking.

Later that evening, as Annie went about cleaning up the meal—which everyone had enjoyed, after all—she realized that George had hung the sign advertising meals back up. He’d increased the price from fifty to seventy-five cents. She’d just wiped the last dish and set it back on the shelf when George appeared in the doorway.

“Saw you looking at the sign. Figured if you’d agreed to baking pie every day, we could charge more. What d’ya think?”

Not yet quite recovered from the jumbled feelings that had accompanied his safe return, Annie merely shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

He grunted softly and shook his head. “No, Ma’am. Truth be told, when it comes to the kitchen and such, I don’t believe I am.” He smiled. “But I don’t believe I mind.”

Soon after George’s return, Frank took off on his first mail run since his injury. Annie’s heart swelled with joy as she watched him speed past the first wagon train of the season. Looking up at the brilliant blue sky and the countless geese honking on their way northward, Annie whispered
Thank you.

On the next Sunday, Lydia and Wade paid a surprise visit to Clearwater to extend an invitation to a spring cotillion planned for the middle of May. When George said the busy season was just beginning and he doubted he’d be able to take
the time away, Lydia shushed him. “I refuse to take
no
for an answer. In fact, I’ve already put your name at the top of my dance card.” She glanced over at Annie. “Assuming, of course, your handsome brother is off on his Pony Express adventure at the time. If not, Mr. Morgan will have to be second.”

One day early in April, Annie had left the storeroom door open to take advantage of the spring breeze while she cleaned shelves when she heard a clunk just outside the door. She peered out just as George jammed a posthole digger into the earth. A brown-and-white-spotted cow was picketed nearby, snuffling at the greening prairie.

Annie screeched with delight. “I could hug your neck.”

George barely glanced up from his work. “You might not feel that way this time tomorrow. She kicks. Supposed to be able to handle hard winters, though. And the owner promised nearly a gallon of milk a day. Ayrshire. You ever heard of the breed?”

Annie shook her head. “No, but she’s beautiful. I’ll need a churn.”

“Look to the left. And I milked her before I picketed her over there.”

A butter churn sat on the earth next to the rosemary Annie had just set out the previous day. Annie lifted the lid to the churn.
Glory be.
At least a gallon. Maybe two. “Did you already drink some, or can I bring you a glass?”

“I don’t really care much for milk.”

And she’d once argued the case for a cow with the idea of cold buttermilk on a hot summer day. “At least you know you can look forward to all the butter you want on your grits and cornbread. Mind telling me what you had to trade for her?”