Messenger by Moonlight (3 page)

Annie hadn’t said anything about it to Frank or Emmet
yet, but she’d decided that as soon as they were settled she would see about getting a job as a cook. Ma had been a cook at a big hotel when she met Pa, and while the Paxtons had never been able to afford much in the way of
cuisine
—Ma said that meant fancy cooking—still, Annie remembered her doing things like sprinkling cinnamon on grits. She remembered bunches of herbs hanging from twine strung between the rafters of the cabin. She remembered smiles around the supper table.

She would get a job as a cook and learn new things and one day she would gather her family around the table and serve delicious food. Instead of gulping down whatever was before them for the sole purpose of staving off their ever-present hunger, they would take their time. They would smile and say things like,
Trying something new? We love your cooking, Ma. How come everything’s always so good? We love you, Ma.
There was a shadowy “Pa” somewhere in that daydream, too, and now that they were leaving the farm, Annie let herself think about the possibilities. Maybe she’d meet “him” in St. Jo. She allowed a little smile.
The Lord is my shepherd.
As far as Annie was concerned, the farther they got from the farm, the more the future shimmered with bright promise.

The world seemed a little less “shimmery” as the day went on—mostly because of the growing concern that Bart and Bill might not make it to St. Jo. Annie felt bad for the poor mules, their heads hanging low, their hooves barely clearing the earth as they ambled along. What would they all do if Bart and Bill dropped in their traces?

Around midday, when Frank said they were going to have to walk, Annie immediately thought of the hole in the sole
of her right boot. Emmet did, too. “You and I can walk,” he said to Frank and proceeded to climb down. But when Annie moved to join her brothers, Emmet stayed her with his hand. “Those boots of yours won’t take much walking. Besides, you don’t add much to the load, little as you are. Bart and Bill can manage a few extra pounds.”

Truth be told, there wasn’t much to any of the Paxtons. They were a fine-boned, wiry lot, with twins Annie and Frank not quite five feet tall and Emmet not much taller. Still, with Bart and Bill almost on their last legs, Annie said that every pound would make a difference, and she wasn’t going to be the reason they ended up stranded beside the road with three trunks and no way to move them.

“That’s our girl,” Frank said. He directed Annie to take off the boot with the biggest hole in the sole and then snatched up dried grass to provide a little extra padding over the folded paper that already shielded her stocking from the earth.

Emmet slipped his hand beneath the throatlatch at Bart’s head and pulled to keep the team moving. The sun was sinking fast when the wagon finally topped the last hill. The mules seemed to know they were near the end of the journey. They didn’t move any faster, but they lifted their heads and picked up their feet a bit.

Annie took note of the scarlet-rimmed clouds in the western sky and smiled. Colorful slivers of light, even as night descended. She began to pay attention to the city itself. What she saw as they made their way into St. Joseph fascinated her. In one candlelit room where the drapes were drawn back, a family sat around their dining table. As Annie watched, a maid wearing a white apron presented something to the man sitting with his back to the window. So enthralled was Annie as she
watched that she nearly fell when she encountered a rut in the road. She would have fallen if not for Frank’s steadying hand.

“If you lived there,” he groused, “you’d be the one in the apron—not the one sitting at that fancy table. You’d have a tiny room in the attic and you’d freeze all winter and swelter all summer. And be at some stranger’s beck and call every hour of the day and night.”

I wouldn’t care. I bet their cook doesn’t have to make do with a tiny stove in a corner. She probably doesn’t have to worry about stretching the grits or making the molasses last, either. If I worked there, I’d be able to set the table with china. And polish the silver. Real silver.

She thought those things, but Annie didn’t say them. It was pointless to argue with Frank when he was in one of his dark moods, and the set of his jaw and the way one corner of his mouth turned down were evidence enough that such a mood was fast descending. Poor Frank. Only nineteen years old and already sporting a permanent furrow between his eyebrows—a furrow that would only deepen if he didn’t find a way to harvest happiness from life.

Tucking her hand beneath his elbow, Annie gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. “You’re probably right, but once they tasted my apple dumplings, I bet they’d give me an extra day off and a bigger room, just to keep me on.”

Frank snorted softly. “And plant you an apple orchard, I suppose.” He was still grousing, but his downturned mouth didn’t look quite so grim.

“Not an entire orchard, silly,” she teased. “Just a couple of trees would be enough. After all, that yard wasn’t all that big.” She glanced behind them. “Although peach trees and a cherry tree or two would be nice.”

A faint, lopsided smile appeared. “Don’t forget the raspberry bushes.”

“And strawberries,” Annie said.

“And asparagus and a blackberry bramble. I know.”

“And—”Annie broke off when she caught sight of a massive brick building looming in the distance. Visions of blackberries faded, as she stared at the cupola reaching toward the sky. Four stories.
Brick.
Iron posts supporting a platform that served not only to protect the main entrance from weather but also to create an observation deck. Annie pointed at the dozen or so well-dressed people gathered there. “They must feel like royalty, gazing down on us.” She peered down the hill. “I bet they can see all the way to the river from up there.”

Frank harrumphed and muttered something about dandies looking down their noses at the pathetic rig he and Annie were following down the road, but Annie didn’t pay him any mind. She was concentrating on every detail of what was surely one of the finest hotels in the country. Just look at all the chimneys. And the elegant trim just above the top row of windows. And the windows—at least a dozen on a side. Was this the kind of hotel where Ma had met Pa? A girl could surely learn to cook wonderful food working in such a place. Would she dare go through that arched doorway to ask about working there?

Again, Annie stumbled. This time she was still holding onto Frank’s arm. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a rut in the road that had tripped her up, but a steaming pile of manure. And she’d stepped right in the middle of it. With the boot with the biggest hole in the sole. She crinkled her nose at the idea of removing the manure-soaked newspaper acting as a patch. Hurrying to the side of the street, she did what she could to
free the shoe of manure, scraping the bottom and sides along the edge of the boardwalk.

“Now the stitching’s coming out across the toe,” Frank said. He swore softly.

“It’ll be all right. I’ll stitch it with some cord. I think I have some in my trunk.”

“Let me see the other one,” Frank demanded.

“They’re fine,” Annie said. “Really.”

Frank pointed toward the hem of her skirt. “Let me see the other one.”

Reluctantly, Annie extended her other foot. The toe of her red stocking showed through a hole in the leather. “It’s all right,” she said. “It’s not that hard to keep it tucked under my skirt.” She pulled her foot back and tried to erase the frown on his face by teasing. “I hope you’re happy. We’ve probably scandalized one of the fine ladies up on that observation deck.”

Frank blurted out a response that included some not very complimentary things about “cads who’d never known an honest day’s work and their primping paramours.” Emmet, who’d come back to check on them when he realized Annie and Frank had stopped following the wagon opened his mouth to say something, but Frank held up a hand and apologized. “I know. I shouldn’t talk like that in front of Annie. I’m sorry. It just bothers me. Hiram Hillsdale’s daddy hands him an easy life and what do we get? A drunken father who can’t even keep hold of a failing farm.” He glowered at Emmet. “And I’m in no mood to hear all about how God hasn’t forgotten us and everything’s going to be just fine.” He nodded Annie’s way. “Our sister doesn’t even have a decent pair of
shoes.
”

Annie squeezed Frank’s arm. “I do, however, have two
superb brothers. And from what I know of him, Mr. Hiram Hillsdale doesn’t have a single family member who so much as speaks to him. That means we’re better off. And I really don’t care about the shoes.”

“Well
I
do, and if it’s the last thing—”

Annie tugged on his arm. “All right. I understand. Just—stop acting like everything is terrible. Terrible is behind us. Think good thoughts, Frank. Good thoughts.”

It wasn’t easy, but Frank managed to keep “good thoughts” all the way to the bottom of the hill. For Annie’s sake if for nothing else. But then they pulled up to the back door of a stone livery and Emmet begged the owner to buy the team and the wagon. Of course Emmet put it a little more subtly than that, but that’s what they were doing. Begging. Frank could barely stand it. He was too embarrassed to so much as look the livery owner in the eye.

The spry old guy wasn’t exactly rude, but he barely glanced at Bart and Bill before shaking his head. “Can’t think they’d do me any good. I buy and sell some, but these two old boys aren’t fit for much beyond—” He glanced Annie’s way. Didn’t finish the sentence.

At least the old guy had considered Annie’s feelings before stating the obvious. Bart and Bill weren’t fit for much beyond the meat market. The livery owner nodded toward a large corral where several other mules were lined up at a trough filled with fresh hay. “You can leave them for the night,” he said. “I’d offer you stalls inside, but I’m full up.”

Frank glanced over at Annie, wondering if she realized what a “good thing” it was for a businessman to so much as consider offering stalls at the livery to people like them. After all, the man had to realize the situation. Then again, only an evil so-and-so would have the heart to turn away
blond-haired, blue-eyed Annie Paxton. Who wouldn’t fall under the spell of a girl who could walk into a strange town with shoes so worn they were nearly falling off her feet and encourage her cranky twin brother to “think good things.”

Annie.
If not for his sister, Frank would have signed the farm over to Emmet, wished him well, and left the day Pa was laid to rest.
If not for Annie.
Guilt washed over him at the flicker of resentment.
It’s not her fault.
He quieted the tug-of-war inside him and looked over at his sister. She shouldn’t have to stand here in the chill of the evening wondering where she would lay her head tonight. Come heck or high water, he was going to see to it that life got better for Annie. Once that was done—well, then he would be free. Maybe he’d hire on with a wagon boss and see what California had to offer. Shake the last of Missouri off his boots and think good thoughts somewhere else.

Emmet thanked the livery owner for the offer regarding a place for the mules for the night, then pressed to settle the matter of payment. “If you don’t want to give cash money for the team, would you take the rig in trade for board? The harness isn’t too bad.”

“To be honest, I heard you coming from up Patee House way. You’re about to lose an axle.” Again, the livery owner looked over at Annie and then back at Emmet. “Tell you what. I’ll look it over in the morning when there’s good light. You can set your trunks inside if you like. For now, though, you should find yourselves a room before it gets too dark. I’ll see to the mules before I lock up. We can talk business in the morning.” He offered his hand and introduced himself. “Name’s Gould, by the way. Ira Gould.”

Emmet introduced the three of them.

“What brings you to St. Joseph?”

“Looking for a fresh start,” Emmet said.

Frank chimed in. “Our sister, here, has a hankering to conquer the big city.”

The old man chuckled. “Well, you’d better get to it. Decent rooms tend to be in short supply these days.” He suggested a few boardinghouses and then added, “You’re welcome to just climb up to the loft for the night. It’s a bit dusty, but there’s plenty of fresh hay and the price is right.”

“Thank you,” Emmet said, “but I hope we don’t have to take you up on it.”

“Suit yourself. I’ll leave the side door open just in case. And if you do come back, don’t let my other boarder startle you. There’s a bunk in one corner of the barn. I get paid to board freighters now and again. The season’s starting and they’re thick as thieves in St. Jo., competing for contracts to haul supplies west. Luther’s as big as a bear, but he’s harmless—except for snoring loud enough to raise the dead. I’ll introduce you tomorrow.”

As he and Annie followed Emmet toward the street, Frank decided that meeting Ira Gould might just be one of those “good things” Annie always insisted they watch for. If this “Luther” person was the least bit friendly, Frank would have a chance to talk to someone who knew what lay beyond the Missouri. He had a million questions.

Annie’s stubborn optimism, which Frank honestly thought of as a willful denial of reality sometimes, did nothing to help the Paxtons find rooms in St. Jo. As the evening wore on and the air grew chilly, even Emmet seemed discouraged when an advertised “room to let” proved to be one corner of a room already occupied by a family—husband, wife, and six children.

“The kids don’t take up much room,” the landlady said. “They can just roll under the bed when the time comes to sleep.”

Frank didn’t wait for Emmet to respond to that before retreating out the door and back to the street. He nudged Annie’s shoulder and groused, “Got any more good thoughts for us?”

“Mr. Gould seemed nice,” Annie said. “Let’s go back to the livery.”

As the three walked along, Annie tucked one hand beneath each brother’s arm. The way back led past the fancy hotel again, and when Frank noticed Annie staring into the brightly lit hotel lobby, he murmured, “I’d like nothing better than to escort you inside and ask for the best room in the house.”

“Two rooms,” Annie said. “I wouldn’t want to stay there alone. And I wasn’t hankering to stay there, anyway. I was wondering if that’s the kind of place Ma worked. You know—when she met Pa. Maybe I’ll see about getting hired on.”

Frank sobered. If serving rich people was the best dream Annie could summon—the idea cast a pall over the relief he’d felt at finally getting free of the worthless few acres of dirt where Pa had ground out the last years of his sad life. “What happened to the little house with the window boxes?”

“I still want it,” Annie said quickly. “I just figured I should do my part to earn it.”

All right. That was better. It was probably a good sign that she expected to work. Even better if she could get work she thought she wanted. Emmet loved Annie, but he was focused more on Luvina Aiken these days. For Frank’s part, Annie came first. He was going to see to it that she got her little house. And that she never again had to stick folded paper inside her shoes.

Emmet apologized to Annie. “I knew St. Joseph was a busy place, but I never expected this.”

“Having trouble finding a room is just a sign that we’ve come to the right place,” Annie said. “You said it yourself. God hasn’t lost track of us and we’re going to be all right. I believed it when you said it this morning, and I still believe it. We just need to stick together and work hard. It’s one night in a nice man’s barn loft. That’s not so horrible, is it?”

“It’s not horrible at all,” Frank said. “Come on, Emmet. She’s right. It’s one night.” He looked pointedly up at the night sky. “And it
is
night. Let’s turn in.” He didn’t always understand the way Annie’s mind worked. Sometimes it seemed to him that she was downright illogical, but this wasn’t one of those times. Tonight she was being practical, and he loved her for it.

Annie started awake. She barely managed to stifle a screech. Thinking a mouse had just skittered across her feet, she jerked away from the critter. Just before she sprang to her feet to shake out her skirt, she caught sight of the offender.
Not a mouse. A cat.
More of a kitten than a cat. Black, with white paws, a white nose, and blue eyes.

“Hey you,” she murmured. The kitten lowered its haunches to sit. As it inspected her, its white-tipped tail switched back and forth. A different kind of screech sounded from below as someone slid the huge double doors along a metal track. The kitten bolted, disappearing behind a wall of hay. With a sigh, Annie rose and shook out the blue-and-white blanket she’d wrapped up in the night before. Crossing to the open haymow door, she peered down into the back lot, smiling when she caught sight of Frank working the handle of a pump while Emmet cupped his hands to capture the water.

Frank caught sight of her and made a show of bowing before calling, “Is the Lady Paxton ready to descend from her chamber?”

Feeling guilty for sleeping later than her brothers, Annie hurried to descend and join them at the pump. She scrubbed her face as best she could, thankful that her morning ablutions were sheltered from public view by a row of wagons and carriages lined up beneath the livery sign: R
IGS FOR
H
IRE
. B
EST
P
RICES
, B
EST
H
ORSES
. W
AGONS
. H
ARNESS
R
EPAIR
. B
LACKSMITHING
. I
RA
P. G
OULD
, P
ROPRIETOR
.

Back inside the stable, Frank and Emmet kept watch while Annie “reconstituted” her hair. The key to her trunk hung from a length of velvet ribbon about her neck. Pulling it out, she unlocked the trunk and retrieved Ma’s ivory-handled looking glass. Looking in the mirror confirmed her worst suspicions. No one would hire a girl who looked like she’d slept in a barn. Letting down her hair, she brushed through it, then pulled it back and twisted it into a tight, smooth bun at the base of her neck—well, as smooth a bun as a girl cursed with natural curls could manage, anyway. She took another look in the mirror, turning her head from side to side. Not too bad. Respectable, at least.

After returning Ma’s looking glass to the top tray, she closed the trunk and twisted the key in the lock.
The Lord is my shepherd. Please let today be a good one.
She dropped the key inside the front of her blouse, making certain the ribbon was tucked out of sight beneath her collar. “All right,” she said, and stepped up between her brothers. “This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” She glanced Emmet’s way, hoping it made him feel better about things to hear her quote a verse he’d taught her.

She doled out the last of the bread she’d baked before they
left home the previous morning. They ate quickly, washing down the dried crusts with a shared cup of well water. Finally, Annie said, “While the two of you settle up with Mr. Gould, I’ll go up to the hotel we passed on the way here. If I get work, I’ll ask for written proof of the job and the pay. Knowing we aren’t drifters might help us secure a room with that woman up on Oak Street.”

“You mean the one who looked like she’d just eaten a lemon?” Frank pursed his lips in a hilarious imitation of Miss Eleanor Stanton, “proprietress” of the Oak Street Inn, as the sign in front of the two-story clapboard house had proclaimed.

Annie laughed at Frank’s pantomime. “She wasn’t very nice, but that house—that porch with the rockers—wouldn’t it be nice to come home to a place like that?”

“She said she didn’t have any rooms,” Emmet warned. “There’s no point in hankering after something you can’t have.”

Annie stood her ground. “She probably never has rooms for people she suspects of being drifters. I bet she’ll change her tune if we go back with written proof that we have jobs.”