Messenger by Moonlight (28 page)

He jammed the digger into the earth and brought up another pile of dirt. “Didn’t trade. Paid cash money.” He
peered into the hole. Repeated the process. Paused. “You want me to move that churn into the kitchen?” When Annie said that’d be nice, he swiped his hands on his pants, hoisted the churn, and took it inside, setting it in the corner by the worktable.

“Custard for lunch and sweet rolls for supper,” Annie said. “Peaches and cream and so much more. All because of that beautiful cow. You won’t regret buying her. And I’ll cure her of kicking.”

“Any chance of testing out the peaches and cream later today?” He grimaced. “Never mind. I forgot you used the last of the peaches for that pie a couple of weeks ago. But I don’t mind. I’m content to wait. It’s your kitchen, and I’m the one who put you in charge of it. I haven’t forgotten.”

Annie laughed as he bowed and backed his way toward the door. “You’re putting her close to the station, then?”

“Thought I would. Unless you don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“But?” He held a hand out, encouraging her to keep talking.

“Trees,” Annie said.

“Trees?”

“You know. Tall plants with green things on them. We call them leaves. They create this wonderful thing called shade.” She paused. “Shade would be nice. For the cow. And the chicken coop. I was thinking maybe I could transplant one or two from the river? Lydia said that’s where the trees around the Fort Kearny parade ground came from. I could keep it watered. The well’s right there.”

“Sunday,” George said. “We’ll take a ride and see what we can find.”

“You don’t mind?”

He shook his head. “Might be I could ask the cook to rustle up a picnic lunch. If I catch her in a good mood.”

Being back on the trail again was more than Frank had dared to hope for. Still, after being in the saddle for over twelve hours, his legs screamed for relief. In fact, just about every part of his body complained at one level or another. It was all normal fatigue, and in that way he could be grateful and even think of the pain as a “good thing,” but as he pulled up at Midway Station and dropped to the earth, all he wanted was to stretch out and sleep. In fact, he kind of hoped that Pete was off somewhere tending to whatever a rancher did in the spring, because he was just too tired to try to make a good impression—and too tired to explain whatever she might have heard about him from other riders. The telegraph might not have gotten past Fort Kearny yet, but news and gossip still traveled westward along the trail.

Relief surged through him as Pete’s pa trotted up with a fresh horse. It died when the old guy delivered the worst news possible. There was no rider to take Frank’s place. “I don’t know what to tell ya. He disappeared without a trace. The missus went to tell him chow was ready last night, and he was just gone.” He shrugged. “Hightailed it for home, I reckon. He was of the Southern persuasion, if you get my drift.”

If God and George Morgan and everybody else in his life was giving him a second chance, Frank wasn’t about to fail at the Pony Express. Not if he could help it. His arms trembled as he lifted the mochila onto the fresh horse. There would be no gallant springing into the saddle today. If he tried that, he’d land on his backside in the dirt. He was looking around
for something to use for a mounting block when the Pete’s ma hurried out the door of the station with a bag in hand.

She gave Frank an odd look and exclaimed, “Why, you’re the young man Pete mentioned. We thought maybe you’d quit the Pony Express.”

“No, Ma’am.” Frank took his hat off and swept his hand back to show her his scar.

“Oh, you poor thing.” Her voice was kind and her smile genuine as she handed him the sack of food. “There’s some chunks of ham and a couple boiled eggs in there. Two slices of white bread—lots of butter holding them together.” She held out a quart jar filled with water. “You drink as much as you can, son. And try to get more water at every stop. That’ll help more than anything.”

Frank gulped the water, swiped his mouth, and scrabbled back into the saddle. The few people on the trail still waved as he streaked past wagon camps in the morning light, but he didn’t have the energy to respond. It was taking everything in him just to hold on, on to Gilman’s Station and then up the Platte Valley and across the prairie where trees grew along the river and bluffs rose in the distance.

For all his misery, he could think of plenty of good things as he pounded west—not the least of which was the story he’d have to tell when he finally got back to Clearwater. And to Lydia Hart, if she was interested. He might not be setting any records like Pony Bob Haslam, and he sure didn’t care to get attacked and wounded by Indians, but riding nearly two hundred miles was nothing to shake a stick at. Especially after being thrown and knocked out and stitched up and nearly frozen to death.

As daylight spread across the landscape, Frank clung to
the saddle, determined not to give up. Determined never to be like Pa—or the old Frank Paxton who’d let Rotten Luck win too many battles. At midday, he rode out of Cottonwood Springs, around lagoons sprouting water rushes, and on to the next relay station, where towering clay buttes to the south glowed red in the sunlight.

By the time Buffalo Ranch came into view in the afternoon, Frank was slumped over the saddle horn, clutching handfuls of black mane just to stay in the saddle. He nearly fell to the earth when the horse stopped. Didn’t even remember pulling up. Didn’t remember much of anything until, after stumbling into a bunkhouse and falling onto a narrow cot, he woke up hours later to the sound of a rooster crowing. He’d made it.

Amazing grace. How sweet the sound.

It was mid-April, and to Annie’s way of thinking Luther Mufsy was long overdue when at last she heard a wagon approaching from the north. She hurried out front. The eastern sky was a fabulous shade of orange, and for a while the approaching wagon and the team pulling it were little more than a black silhouette. It wasn’t Luther, but the closer the wagon got, the more it piqued Annie’s curiosity.

The team were smaller than any draft horses she’d ever seen. Their full, pale manes shone against deep golden coats. Red tassels dangled from their bridles. The brightly painted wagon was about the same size as Luther’s, but this one was enclosed. The driver wore a stovepipe hat and a black, dusty coat with long tails—the latter evident only after he’d pulled his team up and jumped down.

“Good morning, My Lady,” he said, as he swept his hat off his head and bowed low.

He held the hat over his heart as he introduced himself—with a poem.

He undid a latch on the side of the wagon but held the door shut until he finished his poem.

“You’ve a wish? Take a look!” He opened the door. “O’Day sells the best in books.”

At least a dozen books were lined up on a shelf. George would be thrilled.

The peddler hurried to open the other doors, revealing an impressive array of goods stashed into every nook and cranny. “Now, Madam, if I may introduce my two ladies.” O’Day walked to the head of the team. “This one”—he patted the flank of the near horse—“is my Dinah.” He leaned over and spoke to the horse. “Dinah, say hello to the lady.” The horse bowed. He pointed to the off horse. “And the naughty one over there, that’s Delilah.” He raised his voice just a little and called out, “Be a love, now, won’t you, Delilah, and say hello to the lady?” Delilah lifted her upper lip in a more-than-acceptable imitation of a smile.

Annie burst out laughing. “Pleased to meet you, ladies. Welcome to Clearwater. And how may we serve you, Mr. O’Day?”

“Well, Ma’am, I find myself in a bit of a pickle. Short on cash. Hearing more than one traveler on the trail mention the bustling little settlement called Clearwater, I’ve come to hope that someone at this fine establishment would have need of a bit of tailoring. A new suit of clothes, perhaps? I’ve all manner of cloth stored on the off side of the wagon. And a machine. I could set up camp right here, if you please. Perhaps do a bit of business with passersby, pedaling away with my ladies picketed just past the flagpole, perhaps? And I’d be most obliged to take payment for my work in grain for the girls and a wee bit o’ breakfast for myself.”

He waited for a reply, mopping his brow with a red
kerchief he pulled out of his rear pants pocket. When Annie didn’t answer right away, he tucked the kerchief away. “Or perhaps the lady has a hankering for a new dress?” He rushed around the wagon and out of sight and returned with a bolt of blue calico. “Nothing better than the newest Prussian blues to set those blue eyes to sparkling. I bet the mister would like to see it, eh?”

“It’s ‘Miss,’” Annie said, “and I’ve got to get to the making of breakfast. You’re most welcome to join us. You can speak with Mr. Morgan about your wares. It’d be up to him to buy or trade. If you’d care to drive around back, you’re welcome to water your team. There’s a pump up by the station and another down at the barn.”

The little man bowed. “Thank you, My Lady. Water for my girls, then.” Quickly, he returned the bolt of blue cloth to its place, latched the doors, and climbed back up to the wagon seat. He whistled as he turned the team and drove them around back.

Annie poured hot water over the lunch plates she’d just settled in the wash tub on the table outside the storeroom door and left them to soak. The crew had gathered around O’Day’s wagon down by the barn. George had said that he was sure they could make a trade for at least one meal and grain for “the girls,” and Annie supposed that was what was going on now.

Hoping she wouldn’t be interrupted, she slipped into her room and closed and barred the door. Quickly, she unbuttoned her shirtwaist and slipped the ribbon that held her keys up and over her head. She unlocked the trunk. Taking the black cash box in both hands, she retreated to her bed
and sat down with it on her lap. The money inside was precious little compared to what they’d all hoped for when first they came west. And yet, of the $1,640 in the cash box, $240 was Annie’s, represented by twelve gold coins. She picked up one, caressing the surface and studying the impression of the eagle. It was a beautiful thing. She’d likely never in her life own as many again. Surely it would be all right to spend part of one. A dress would require at least ten yards of the Prussian blue. It might be as much as twenty cents a yard. She’d need buttons, too. And thread.

As the list grew, so did her nervousness about the transaction. She put the gold coin back in the box. No. She did not need a new dress. The two she had might be a little worn, perhaps more than a little faded, but they were perfectly adequate. She looked down at the money. Oh, but it would be wonderful to wear something new to the spring cotillion at Fort Kearny. Something that was just hers. She wondered if O’Day had dancing shoes tucked away somewhere in that incredible wagon.

It wouldn’t hurt to take a look. Slipping a single gold coin into her pocket, Annie locked the cash box and returned it to its place in her trunk. She pulled the ribbon back over her head, buttoned up, and unbarred the door.
Prussian
blue. It sounded so exotic.

Annie waited until the sun was setting before she walked down to where the beautifully painted wagon stood by the barn. She hoped that the newly arrived summer crew would be otherwise occupied at that time of day, thereby giving her a chance to indulge herself in a bit of feminine fantasizing without an audience. No one would likely understand what a
momentous occasion this was for a woman who’d never had her own money, never purchased anything for herself.

Frank and Emmet had always seen that Annie had what she needed, right down to the new boots they’d given her in St. Jo. After Mama died, things just magically appeared in her room. A skirt and petticoat just when she’d outgrown the old ones. Winter drawers right when it was time for the first cold snap. On the rare occasions when she accompanied her brothers into town and to a general store, she knew better than to ask for things. A piece of candy was a pure miracle. The few times she’d received one, she’d kept it for days before finally indulging. Even then, she’d put a peppermint in her mouth just long enough to get the taste and then quickly take it out, wrap it, and hide it under her pillow.

Even when Annie accompanied her brothers to town, she never saw money exchange hands. There was an account at the store and Mr. Burton wrote down what they bought. It was a long time before she realized that someone at some point had to actually pay for the things listed in that book. Finally, the Paxtons had owed so much they’d had to give up the farm. Owing money was a terrible thing.

As she walked down to the barn, Annie kept her hand in her pocket, feeling the gold coin. Delilah and Dinah stood, nose to tail, in a nearby corral. For a moment, Annie thought Mr. O’Day must be over at the soddy playing checkers with Hitch. But O’Day was sitting just inside the barn, taking advantage of the shade, no doubt.

He closed up the little knife he’d been whittling with, rose, and tucked it in his pocket. “And here’s the pretty colleen I was hoping to see before nightfall. What’ll it be, now? The books or the pins and needles?” He flipped a couple of latches and lowered a door that ran the entire length of the
lower half of the wagon, forming a display shelf. “Here, now,” O’Day said and pulled out a shallow box crammed full of twists of yarn in a rainbow of colors. Annie touched the red. Frank would like a red scarf. There was nothing wrong with planning for the fall. “How much is this one?”

“That’s a lovely color. It’ll cost you… oh… let’s see… an extra piece of pie?” O’Day smiled. “Now, Miss, I can tell you think I’m not serious. But I am, and that’s a true fact. I’d rather have food than cash. And you know why? Because a highwayman can steal a money box, but there’s no taking the pie that’s in my belly or the memory of its sweetness.”

The dark green of one of the books drew Annie’s eye. It was a beautiful thing, but she didn’t touch it before asking, “And the books?”

“A wee bag of sugar so I can treat my girls.” The peddler leaned close. “Delilah’s especially partial to peppermint candy. You don’t happen to have any of that?”

“Mr. Morgan keeps candy in the store, but I’ve no right to barter the store goods away.” She hastened to explain that he’d given her full rein over the kitchen, so she could be a bit freer when it came to the food she cooked and the things in her own larder.

“Well, then.” O’Day made a great show of considering this new information. “I’m to linger a day or two—I’ve some things to make up for the blacksmith in exchange for fresh shoes for the girls—and let us say two meals for your choice of the books.” When Annie reached for the dark green one, O’Day nodded approval. “You can’t go wrong with Dickens, Miss.”

Annie looked at the spine, thrilled when she read the title.
A Tale of Two Cities.
“Is it all here? I mean—Mr. Morgan said it wasn’t being published all in one.”

“And so it was at first Miss. But what you have there is the first edition of the entire book, newly printed in these United States.”

Annie set the book down. She quickly selected a few more twists of yarn, and gathered up her purchases with joy, pleased with the notion that she hadn’t had to produce the gold piece, after all. She hesitated. Looking didn’t cost a thing, and Mr. O’Day wouldn’t mind. But when she asked about the blue cloth, O’Day sighed.

“Oh, my dear, I am so very sorry. Your employer took the entire bolt up to the station.”

Of course.
Ladies traveling west would delight in that gorgeous color. It would sell at a nice profit. George was nothing if not a wise trader. Annie made her way back to the station, well supplied, excited to show George the book.
It was the best of times
. She returned her gold coin to the cash box before going to look for George and was horrified to find him out back, milking the cow she’d promised he’d never have to tend.

“I’m so sorry. I—I was down at the peddler’s cart.”

“I saw.” He didn’t look up. “What did you buy?”

“We bartered. Traded. A piece of pie for this, a lunch for that.”

“Smart.” He glanced up. “And what thises and thats caught your eye?”

“Nothing very exciting,” she said, and then smiled. “Except for one thing. Wait right there. I’ll show you.” She hurried inside and returned with the book. “Take it,” she said. “And let me take over with the milking.”

George reached for the book without getting up, laughing when he read the title. “You beat me to it. I was going to get it in the morning.”