Messenger by Moonlight Part 6

Annie and Frank had only been standing at the door for a moment when George Morgan, Luther, and Emmet filed through the doorway beyond the stove in the next room. Morgan still looked wild, but he seemed to have made some attempt to tame his unruly long hair.

Emmet broke the silence. "George was showing me your room, Annie-and ours." He glanced over at Frank and then looked back at Annie. "You'll like it."

Luther cleared his throat. Placing his hand on Morgan's shoulder, he said, "Frank Paxton and Miss Annie Paxton, allow me to introduce Mr. George Morgan, the owner of Clearwater Road Ranch."

The bare wood floor creaked as Morgan crossed to where Annie and Frank stood. She hadn't realized how big the man was. It was as if a great brown bear loomed over her as he rumbled, "Sorry about earlier." He shook hands with Frank and then held out a ma.s.sive paw to Annie. "Welcome to Clearwater." Her hand was completely swallowed up by his, although his grip was surprisingly gentle. He released her hand and looked over at Emmet. "You want to show the way?"

Emmet picked up the lighted lantern. Morgan retreated behind the counter and pulled out a checkerboard and a box of checkers. He didn't so much as look Annie's way as she and Frank followed Emmet past the counter and toward a doorway in the far wall that led to the kitchen.

As they pa.s.sed through the kitchen, Emmet held the lantern high. "It's not the Patee House, but it's impressive."

"I'd say so," Frank agreed, pointing to a stove that looked every bit as nice as Mrs. Hollenberg's.

A faded quilt hung in another doorway just beyond the stove. Emmet pushed it aside, turned left, and led the way into a bedroom. When he set the lantern atop a dresser in the corner, Annie looked about with wonder. The light reflected by the dresser mirror revealed a tidy room with interior shutters closed across each of two windows, one facing west, one south. A white pitcher and bowl stood on a washstand across from the dresser. Above the washstand, a towel embroidered with a bouquet of flowers hung on a bra.s.s bar. Both the dresser and the washstand boasted pale gray marble tops. Frank gave a low whistle of appreciation. Annie crossed the bare wood floor and plopped down on the edge of the bed. "I don't know what to say."

Emmet smiled. "Told you you'd like it."

"But how-I mean-why wouldn't Mr. Morgan keep this for himself?"

"He stays in the soddy at the opposite end of the main room. That's the original Clearwater Road Ranch. Said it suits him just fine."

"Then-what's this all for?"

"The cook."

Annie just shook her head. It still didn't make sense. Why such a fancy room? That dresser was almost as nice as the one in the room at the Patee House. And she'd been right about the curtains. The edges dripped with lace.

Emmet gestured about them. "Maybe this will make the next couple of years a little easier to bear." He pointed toward the heavy plank door. "Frank and I bunk just through there. You turn left out of the kitchen, we go right. Need anything before we turn in?" Annie shook her head. "Sleep as late as you want tomorrow," he said. "Morgan's managed without a cook for this long, he can go another day."

"And I'll see to your chicks," Frank said. He draped her saddlebags across the foot of the bed and left.

Before Emmet left, he kissed her cheek. His mustache tickled. Annie put her hand to the spot, surprised by the unexpected show of affection from her quiet older brother.

"I told you we'd be all right, didn't I?"

Annie nodded. As soon as he'd closed the door behind him, she rose and doused the lamp, undressing in the dark and leaving everything where it fell. When she pulled back the bedcovering and lay down, the mattress crinkled. The aroma that wafted into the air wasn't the scent of lemons, but it told her the straw bedding was fresh.

Chapter 9.

Cold. When had it gotten so cold? Content to remain suspended between sleep and wakefulness, Annie burrowed into her pillow and dozed for a few more minutes. Finally, she opened her eyes. Light... sunlight pouring through shutters. What time was it?

Slipping out of bed, she tiptoed to the south-facing window and unlatched the shutters. Snow... collecting on the ground, piling up against fence posts and the walls of buildings, frosting the backs of the animals in the corrals. And it was cold. So cold. On April 3. What had happened to spring? The Pony Express mail was supposed to leave St. Joseph at five o'clock this evening. They would probably hear Jake Finney's approach here at Clearwater at midday tomorrow. A couple of days after that, it would be Emmet's turn to carry the California mail eastward. And it was snowing.

Annie s.h.i.+vered. She hadn't given much thought to Frank and Emmet's riding the trail in the dead of winter. She'd comforted herself with the idea that by the time snow covered all but the most prominent landmarks, riders and horses alike would have memorized the trail. All her brothers would have to do by then was to hang on. And hope not to freeze to death.

She would need to get busy knitting socks for them all. Maybe she'd knit some for Jake Finney, too. She wondered about the other riders she'd meet in the coming days. As a home station, Clearwater would be at the center of a long relay race, with riders shuttling mail in both directions in all kinds of weather. A hundred miles in a snowstorm. She would need a lot of yarn. She'd ask Luther to bring some with him on his next supply run. How long would it take to get it? There was so much she didn't know about living in this place.

After shaking out the clothing she'd dropped on the floor the previous night and smoothing it as best she could, Annie dressed. There was water in the pitcher on the washstand. Who'd brought it in? She poured some into the bowl, rinsed her hands, patted her cheeks, and then looked about for an alternative to the embroidered hand towel, which seemed too pretty to use. Finally, she relented.

As she left the room, she noticed a board leaning against the wall beside the door. Two L-shaped iron brackets on the doorframe would hold that board in place. It would be an effective lock, but Annie wasn't quite sure whether it made her feel safe or afraid. What looming danger made it necessary?

Frank heard the creak of the door hinges and realized Annie was coming. He barely had a chance to tuck his flask out of sight and stand up before she appeared in the doorway of his room. "How'd you sleep?"

She looked about the room. "Like the dead."

"Can you believe the snow? George said that with the sun out, it'll probably be melted before noon. Like your room?" He barely took a breath before adding, "When the snow started, Billy put the chicks back in the basket and took them up to the loft. Half-buried the basket in hay. They're fine."

"How do you know all that?"

"We've all been up since before dawn."

She reached over and swept a hand over the foot of Emmet's cot. "Those blankets look awfully thin. How'd you keep from freezing in the night? And-where do you wash up?"

"I almost did freeze. What was the other question? Oh-we wash up down at the pump with the rest of the crew."

"Did you haul water up and in for me, then?"

"Not up-just in. There's another well just out back."

Annie gestured around the room. "This is awful."

"It's fine. Once we unload our trunks, there'll be more blankets for the cots. We aren't going to be here much, anyway." He paused. "By the way, before you think to wonder and worry, George said the plan is for Pony Express riders who don't happen to be your brothers to bunk either upstairs in the station loft or out in the blacksmith's soddy where the rest of this season's crew will stay. In other words, you don't have to worry about your privacy." Morgan hadn't been quite so clever as to say that bit about "riders who don't happen to be your brothers." That was Frank's way of trying to cheer her up-and she looked like she needed cheering up this morning.

"Where's Emmet?"

"Helping Luther hitch the team. I wanted to check on you." It wasn't exactly a lie. It had been Emmet's idea to see how Annie was doing this morning, and Frank had offered to do the checking. When he'd seen she was still sound asleep, he'd decided to get a little something to combat the cold.

"Luther's leaving? We just got here."

"He's in the business of moving freight-as much as possible as quickly as possible. There's half a ton to be unloaded before he can pull out, and he's in an all-fired hurry to get it done and get back on the trail."

"But-he just got here."

She must really be tired to be repeating herself that way. Frank gentled his voice. He gave her a one-armed hug. "Don't be sad. He'll be back through before you know it."

"I just-it's all happening so fast." She rubbed her forehead with the back of one hand. "I'm sorry. I feel... foggy. And sore."

"It was a long ride. Let's get you some coffee." Frank led her into the kitchen.

As it turned out, Annie didn't need the coffee to wake up. Her first real look at the kitchen did that.

She'd been too tired to pay attention to the kitchen the night before, when Emmet had led her through by lantern light, but she'd been right about the stove. It was every bit as nice as Mrs. Hollenberg's. An impressive array of cooking utensils and tools hung from iron hooks on the wall just above a worktable opposite the stove. And there was a window in the north wall-a window surrounded by shelves.

She walked over to peer out the window and toward the trail. There weren't any covered wagons in view at the moment, but she could hear the crack of the whip as a bullwhacker drove his oxen along. Taking a step back, she surveyed the crocks and jars lining the shelves on the wall around the window. It would be an adventure discovering their contents.

Frank had been leaning against a wall, watching as she looked about the kitchen. When someone pounded on a door, he said, "That'll be Emmet and Luther," and stepped into the room off the kitchen. Annie hadn't even noticed it last night. "You've never had a storeroom like this," he called back. "Come and take a look."

He opened the door set into the far wall. Luther's freight wagon was just outside, sidled up to the building, the cover already off, the tailgate down. Morning light streamed into the storeroom. Sacks lined the floor beneath half-empty shelves. Still, there were cracker boxes, dried fruit and more-a pure wonderment of goods.

"Your trunk's coming off first," Emmet called from the back of the wagon. "Where do you want it?"

"Beneath the south window," Annie said. To get out of the men's way, she retreated into the kitchen and stirred up the fire to reheat the coffee. She'd just begun to investigate the crocks on the shelves by the window-dried apples! Raisins!-when a bell clanged and George Morgan hollered through the back door out in the main room. The stage was coming.

For a moment, Annie panicked. She was supposed to feed whoever was on that stage. What was it Billy had said about the driver? He had a big appet.i.te. She could scramble some eggs and-no. No eggs. Beans. Ham. Grits. Repeat. Luther had said that. Or something like that. There wasn't any ham, and beans needed to cook the better part of a day. She rushed to the doorway of the storeroom just as Emmet and Frank hauled in one of their trunks. Frank asked what was wrong.

"The stage. I'm supposed to feed them. I don't know where anything is. How many there'll be." Her c.o.c.ky response to Mrs. Hollenberg's concerns about "one little girl" handling things came back to haunt her. She looked down at the bags lined up on the floor. Flour. Flour. Beans. Cornmeal. Grits. Thank goodness. "Grits," she said aloud.

"Sounds good," Frank called over his shoulder as he and Emmet hauled her trunk past.

There was a bean pot on a kitchen shelf. Setting it on the stove, Annie grabbed a crockery pitcher and hurried out into the main room. It nearly emptied the cooler, but after two trips she thought she had enough to make grits for... ten? She didn't really know how many she'd have to feed. She went into the storeroom to measure out the grits. There was guesswork involved when it came to the amount of water. She'd just have to hope for the best. Think three times what you'd make for you and Frank and Emmet. Maybe four times. In time, she'd learn. At least it'd be a hot meal. On a cold day, a bowl of warm grits tasted mighty good with cream and b.u.t.ter. Except she had neither.

She glanced over at the crocks of dried apples and raisins. But she didn't want to use all of that the first day. Fruit was something to be treasured. Kept back for pies and such. Mola.s.ses. There had to be mola.s.ses. Except she couldn't find any in the storeroom. She did, however, find coffee beans. At least she could make more coffee. As soon as she roasted the beans.

If only there was tea. Perhaps there was, but she didn't have time to look for it. She could hear the stage clattering toward the station. Thundering hooves, a cracking whip, and a shout from the driver. What was it she'd heard about him? Whiskey John. Big appet.i.te.

The water was finally hot enough to add the grits. She still hadn't found the mola.s.ses, but she could stir the grits and keep an eye on the roasting coffee beans at the same time, and so that's what she did. When Frank set a big sack of something down in the storeroom with a thud, she called out for him to see if he could find a bucket of mola.s.ses on the storeroom shelves. He rummaged about there. She scanned the shelves in the kitchen for the coffee grinder. She saw it, but it was obvious Morgan had been the one to put it away. She was going to need to step up on something to reach it. Frank wouldn't be able to reach that top shelf, either.

The grits were cooking nicely. Slapping a lid on the pot and moving it off the heat a little, she concentrated on the coffee beans. They'd be ready in a few minutes. People would just have to wait. She was doing the best she could. Frank was still rummaging about in the storeroom. She went to the door. "Any luck?"

"Depends on what you call luck," he said. When he turned around, he was holding a dead rat by the tail. "You'll want to set some traps."

Of all the varmints it could have been... it had to be a rat. When she was little, Frank and Emmet had done their share of hiding toads in her bedding and garter snakes in her sewing basket. When it didn't earn them a screech, they stopped, somewhat amazed that their sister seemed immune to that kind of prank. She could sweep a mouse out the door with her broom without comment. But rats? That was another thing entirely. Rats made her feel sick.

Backing away from the storeroom, she motioned toward the outside. "Just-get it out of here."

When Frank stepped outside, Annie heard Emmet call for him. Something about the stage. He looked back at her and she waved him away. "Go. I'll figure something out."

Frank left. Annie peered out the kitchen window, expecting to see a beautiful Concord Stage just outside. It wasn't there. Crossing to the storeroom door, she saw it. For some reason, the driver had gone on down to the barn. No... actually, he'd pulled up near the soddy. If he needed a blacksmith, he was going to be disappointed. But at least she would have a little time before everyone stomped into the main room expecting a hot meal.

Hurrying out there, she grabbed one of the empty crates Morgan used for seating and brought it back into the kitchen. Climbing up on the crate, she retrieved the coffee grinder, just in time to keep from scorching all the coffee beans. Hopefully, no one would notice. If I had cream they could put in their coffee to mellow the flavor, they probably wouldn't.

While the beans cooled, she took the empty crate into the storeroom. Intent on finding a bucket of mola.s.ses somewhere, she began to move things on the shelves. Out of the corner of her eye she saw something move. Thinking rat, she screeched and took a step back. Off the crate. Into the air. Against the opposite wall. And... thud. Atop the flour and meal sacks lined up on the floor.

Chapter 10.

Somewhere between the curse words, Annie was fairly certain she heard the stage driver inquire as to whether or not she was all right. At some point she realized the man was concerned for her well-being, but it took her a moment to suck in enough air to be able to answer. By then, Mr. Morgan was standing behind the driver. She could hear Frank and Emmet, too, although they were too short for her to actually see them past the driver and hulking George Morgan.

Finally, she managed to spit out the words I'm. All. Right. Each word forced out individually, with a little intake of air between. Whiskey John moved to help her up. "More embarra.s.sed than hurt," she finally said, waving him off.

"You're sure?"

She tapped the crate. "Stepped on this looking for mola.s.ses. For the grits."

Morgan pushed past the stage driver and reached for a bucket on the uppermost shelf. "Guess I'll have to bring a ladder in."

He sounded upset. Because of her needing a ladder? Annie reached for the bucket. "No need. The crate's fine. I didn't expect the stage, and I haven't had time to-" Stop making excuses. She looked over at the stage driver, who had at least seemed concerned that she might be hurt. "I'll have a lunch ready in a few minutes."

He winked. "You take all the time you need, little lady. Problems with the thoroughbrace a few miles up the trail. Might have to lay over. I've only got the two pa.s.sengers and they're chasing down your two brothers, all confibulated about the chance to write home about meeting 'two real Pony Express riders.' Guess them back-East papers been talking it up more than we realized." He tugged on the brim of his black hat. "We'll just wait to hear the dinner bell." He turned to Frank and Emmet. "You boys have a minute to talk to the greenhorns I brung on the stage?"

The three men left, but Morgan stayed, making Annie feel even more self-conscious.

She had no idea what a thoroughbrace was, nor had she ever heard the word confibulated. She wasn't certain it was a word. It didn't matter. She carried the mola.s.ses into the kitchen and set the can on the small table opposite the stove, then looked back at Morgan. "I heard a bell earlier. Where is it?"

He pointed toward the main room. "Just outside the back door off that room. Three rings for the stage. More when the food's ready."

Annie nodded. All right. She could relax a little. The stage was going to be delayed for reasons that had nothing to do with her. She took a deep breath to calm herself as she lifted the lid on the bean pot full of grits. Oh no. The "simple meal" had turned into a lump of grainy, white glue.

Morgan stepped up and peered over her shoulder. "Not enough water. Too much cooking time."

Did he think she didn't know that?

"Is that all you were going to serve?"

Annie pulled the pot off the burner. "I thought eggs, but there aren't any. Then I thought biscuits, but I didn't know where to find the saleratus. And there wasn't time, anyway. Beans take too long, too. That left grits." She looked up at him. "We always had b.u.t.ter and cream with ours. But there's none of that. Which left mola.s.ses." When Morgan was silent, she nodded toward the storeroom. "Frank found a dead rat in there."

"He take care of it?"

"Yes." She barely managed to stifle a shudder.

Morgan reached under the worktable and pulled out a copper boiler with a towel stretched across the top. "The crock out in the main room is drinking water. Here's your cooking water. There should be enough to fill the bean pot again for a second try. Once you get the ruined grits scoured out." Stepping into the storeroom, he reached above him, and took something down from the rafters. Bringing it back into the kitchen, he plopped it down on the worktable, then took down the largest of three knives hanging in a row above it. "Maybe slice up some ham. Be careful you don't cut yourself. I just sharpened the knives yesterday." After reminding her to ring the bell when the meal was ready, he left.

She hadn't even noticed a ham hanging up high. Morgan hadn't told her where to dump the ruined grits. He hadn't really told her much of anything-except for pointing out the fact that she'd used the wrong water for the cooking. Why did that even matter? Didn't it all come from the same place? He didn't seem to think that rats in the storeroom were all that much of a problem. And apparently he didn't think she could be trusted with sharp knives without a warning to be careful. For a moment, she stood staring out the window toward the trail. Half a dozen wagon covers gleamed in the sun. Remembering Luther's mention of sailboats made her wish she could sail away.

Just get through today. That'll be one less day standing between you and the life you want. Taking a deep breath, she grabbed the now-cooled pot of ruined grits and headed outside to dump them.

Late on the night of her first-day fiasco, Annie was hunkered in bed when someone knocked on the door. She pulled her pillow over her head, gave a shuddering sob, and was quiet. Except for an occasional sniff, which surely the pillow would m.u.f.fle.

"Open the door, Annie. I'm not going away."

Emmet. At least it wasn't Frank. Teasing and jokes worked for some things, but she just couldn't take teasing tonight. Who ruined grits, anyway? She never had. Until today. And then there was the ham. How was she supposed to know she shouldn't fry up the whole thing? Morgan told her to cook it. Billy said Whiskey John had a big appet.i.te. How was she supposed to know it was the last ham until the next freighter arrived? And how could she have known that mattered to George Morgan? He told her to fry the ham. And be careful not to cut yourself. That little bit of unnecessary advice still bothered her.

She'd scorched the coffee beans, not once, but twice. That wonderful stove got hotter faster and stayed hot longer than the little two-burner she'd always used. Which was why her attempt at dried apple cobbler for the evening meal had failed so miserably. All she had to show for that was the aroma of cinnamon and baked apples. The apples had baked until there wasn't anything left of them. They hadn't burned, but she'd still had to sc.r.a.pe more ruined food atop the pile of gluey grits out back. At this rate, she'd be wanting to use some of her first month's pay to buy a pig just so she'd have a way to hide the evidence of her failures. Mrs. Comstock had said she'd probably be able to charm the freighters to bring things "from the far seas." Would Luther haul a pig?