Messenger by Moonlight Part 20

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 h.e.l.lhole 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 brus.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.d.'"

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 pa.s.sengers 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 pa.s.sengers 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 mola.s.ses 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. "a.s.suming, 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. Ayrs.h.i.+re. 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 b.u.t.ter 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 gla.s.s?"

"I don't really care much for milk."

And she'd once argued the case for a cow with the idea of cold b.u.t.termilk on a hot summer day. "At least you know you can look forward to all the b.u.t.ter you want on your grits and cornbread. Mind telling me what you had to trade for her?"

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 G.o.d 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 b.u.t.ter 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 st.i.tched 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 b.u.t.tes 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.

Chapter 27.

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 ta.s.sels 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.

Finnegan O'Day, here to supply all your needs,

Be it b.u.t.tons or bows, hankies or clothes.

If it's needles you need, take your pick, if you please.

And thimbles? Why sure, I've the best one can procure.

Now, a lady such as thee-let think, let me see...

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 h.e.l.lo 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 h.e.l.lo 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 pa.s.sersby, 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.