He pulled on his clothes, boots last. The letters were a lot dryer, so he tucked them into his front pocket like yesterday before pausing. Soaking them in his sweat every day tempted him into reading Miss Sterling’s letters far too much. He pulled the stack from his pocket to put them into his messenger bag for safekeeping.
The noise of dishes clattering reached him at the same time as the home-cooking smell did. He put on his hat and hurried downstairs before the other men ate everything. Clay stepped into the dining room and nodded, while a few of the more familiar riders returned the greeting. One motioned to an empty chair next to him. “Thanks.” He smiled at the matron’s disapproving frown and removed his hat. Before he took the guy up on his offer, Clay hung his bag and hat from the back of the chair.
“Welcome.” The rider reached for another biscuit and handed the others to Clay. “I’ve seen you before.”
“Likewise.” Clay passed the now-lighter basket and took the offered plate of scrambled eggs. “You were over at Carson City. Is that where you’re from originally?”
“Yeah. My folks are back East. I’ll probably ride to the Pacific just to say I’ve been before going home.” He shoved the jelly jar over to Clay and said, “Name’s Mason, by the way.”
“Clay, thanks.”
“I don’t know everyone here,” he said in between bites. “Just Eddy, Jerry, Buddy, and Benny.”
He nodded as the odd man or two gave an indication as to who he was. Others focused on their eating and Clay figured it was just as well. Some rode the Express for money and to get lost in the wilderness. He didn’t want to push past their boundaries unless he had to.
“How about you? Turning around and heading home?”
Clay swallowed and shook his head. “Nope. I’m going east for the same reason you’re going west.” He grabbed another biscuit. “Only, I might not make it as far as the Atlantic. The Mississippi is big enough water for me.” He buttered the bread, not quite comfortable in admitting to any other reasons to travel so far. Wanting to refocus the conversation before Mason could ask anything else, Clay said, “There’s been a lot of talk about Southern secession. Heard anything new from your family?”
“Nothing but the same ol’ story.” He paused to smile at the serving woman as she refilled his coffee cup. “States’ rights are more important than federal.”
“What do you think?” Clay asked.
“We’re all in the same country. We’re Americans.” Mason put sugar in his coffee and stirred. “Some of my cousins disagree about the laws, but as long as the States stay united I see no reason to argue.”
Clay nodded, noting how some of the boys frowned. He’d place bets on every sour-faced one of them being Southern. “I don’t have a horse in this race, myself. My family has been too poor and too far from the cotton fields to care about owning anyone.”
Before anyone could speak, a distant yell from an approaching rider came in through the kitchen door. He drained the last of his coffee and stood. “Ma’am, lovely breakfast. Thank you kindly.”
“Are you taking the next station or so?” Mason asked.
“Yep, if he’ll let me.” He grinned at everyone else still seated. “You all try to stay sober and out of trouble, you hear?” Clay chuckled at their protests and grabbed his hat and bag from the back of his chair.
He hurried outside as the rider rushed up. Louis grabbed the bridle as the rider hopped off. While the mochila was flung onto a new horse, Clay asked the other pony boy, “Mind if I take over?”
“I guess not.” The boy glanced toward the kitchen. “Naw, go ahead.”
Clay grinned, and hopped up on the fresh horse. He didn’t blame the youngster. Those biscuits were worth a rest break or two. The coffee was some of the best he’d ever had as well. Yank’s kept its top spot on his list of best stations for sure. At Louis’ nod, he nudged the horse’s flanks. “Haw!”
He squinted against the rising sun as the light broke over the horizon and into the wide meadow. Low mountains surrounded him and the horse. Clay let his mind wander back to the letter he’d read last night.
So, she and the other ladies read the personals for amusement. He grinned at the image of a bunch of fussy hens sitting around and mocking the miners’ efforts to impress them. Some brides did answer, he supposed. Otherwise there’d only be saloon gals or married women this side of the Missouri River.
The path grew narrow through the trees. He’d been on this twenty-one-mile-or-so stretch before. Friday’s station wouldn’t be coming up for a while. The cool morning air kept him from being too thirsty. In another couple of hours, both he and the horse would want to skirt along the shores of Lake Bigler.
He kept to the right as a glistening new stagecoach approached him. A couple of children’s faces peeked out and Clay gave them a wave. He supposed Pony Express riders were easy to spot, always going at a full gallop.
The lack of other traffic on the narrow road gave him time to think. Miss Sterling must have been answered back pretty quick. Judging by the letters in his bag, Crandall might have answered her question with a question. Clay gritted his teeth. He refused to read any more letters. The couple deserved their privacy.
His horse’s hooves clattered over the stone as they raced to the station. Cool lake breezes broke up the warmed pine needle scents all round him. The road dropped off sharp to their left. Clay pulled back on the reins to slow the horse. He didn’t want to invite an accident.
The slower pace gave him a chance to take a drink of water. He gulped a few mouthfuls before capping the container and shoving it back in his bag. The trail leveled as it descended so he nudged them back into a gallop. The faster he rode, the sooner he’d get to meet this intriguing Miss Sterling.
Riding fast on a wider road, he and the horse made good time to Friday’s. Clay let out a couple of warning whistles before giving a longer one to warn the station up ahead. The both of them clattered up to a nice two-story home. He barely noticed the few buildings, instead trotting to where a boy waited with the fresh horse.
The employee grabbed Clay’s horse’s reins and said, “You good? Twenty-two hard miles to Genoa.”
“Yep. Ready to go.” He jumped from the animal and waited while the station-hand moved the mochila to the fresh horse.
Clay was back on and galloping away in an instant. He wanted to get the distance first up and then down Daggets Pass behind him. Not that he looked forward to the Great Desert after Carson City, of course. The landscape was a whole lot of nothing surrounded by mountains. Pretty nice to look at but tough going for a horse, and full of Paiute who’d just as soon see all of them dead. He had always figured the best way out of a problem was riding right through it.
The road ahead inclined gently enough to be deceptively easy. He let the horse slip into a slower trot. They’d have time enough to catch up on the ride down. One mile led into another and Clay reached the top of the pass.
Pines towering over them prevented him from seeing the next station. The mountain’s slope kept him and the horse alert to slipping. Even then, the animal stumbled a few times. Clay let the mare slow down and take it easy until the path widened.
Worry kept his mind busy, but as the road merged with the stagecoach route he relaxed. Nothing said he had to spend every mile between here and Missouri on horseback. Clay grinned. Few riders ever rode the entire route. He’d like to be a member of the exclusive group who’d been at the beginning and end.
Clay navigated the horse around a hairpin curve and urged her faster. The more he turned over in his mind how many riders had seen both sides of the route, the more he liked riding through no matter what. If the worst case happened, he could catch a stagecoach to the nearest train headed for St. Joseph.
His determination renewed, he paid more attention to his surroundings. The trees thinned enough for him to see the large valley to his right. Seven miles or so stretched between him and Genoa. Not too far unless someone was as cotton-mouthed as he was.
He slowed the horse to take one last long drink. Capping the canteen, he secured the container in his bag. “Haw,” he hollered, and nudged the mare into a gallop. As they descended the east side of the pass, the forest thinned. The basin stretched out in all directions and stopped where the low mountains rose against the horizon.
Impatient for a rest, he leaned forward to shift his weight. He figured he might need an extra day or two to let his butt heal up from several mail runs in a row. He and the animal slowed, the trail steep as it went downhill to Genoa. Several clusters of houses, barns, and stores lay ahead. He patted his horse’s neck. “Almost there, girl.”
They entered the city limits and went past the first bunch of homes surrounding a nice plaza of sorts. Various people hollered greetings at him. He tipped his hat and let out a whistle as they galloped by.
Like before, a station employee stood out front with a fresh horse. Clay pulled the reins and they skidded to a stop. “Do I have a few minutes?”
The young man quickly tied off the waiting horse and took hold of the exhausted horse’s bridle. “Outhouse is in the back. So’s the water pump.”
Clay hopped off, his legs unsteady as he handed off the gun. “I won’t be long.”
“You’ve got time.” He moved the mochila from one horse to another. “You stopping at Carson City for the night?”
He bent his knees to loosen them up a little more. “Buckland’s, since it’s bigger.”
“Don’t blame you. It’s an easy ride.”
Clay nodded and headed for the outhouse. Once relieved, he refilled his canteen at the water pump. After taking a few sips, he ended up drinking the container dry before filling it again with cold water.
Time was wasting and the next stop wasn’t magically moving any closer. Clay capped the canteen and draped it across his torso. He swung up onto the fresh horse and grabbed his gun from the young man.
“Say hey to Fiona if you see her in Carson City.”
A dark flush covered the guy’s face and Clay grinned. “Sure will.” He touched the horse’s flanks with his heels. The animal took off as if its tail was on fire. Didn’t bother him a bit. The little taste of a rest left him wanting to stop for the night before deciding to ride on for the money. He’d miss out on a day’s worth of pay by kicking back before suppertime.
The next station came up a lot quicker than most of the earlier ones. He let out a whistle when the clumps of buildings making up the city grew close enough for the employees to hear him. A lady stood with the new horse. As Clay rode closer, he could see why the prior station employee was interested. Her hair might be pulled back into a stern bun, but a few tendrils of dark red had escaped and framed her face. New-grass-green eyes sparkled and left him a little smitten with her, too. He stopped beside her in a cloud of dust. “If you’re Fiona, Genoa says hey.”
“I am, and thank ya kindly.” She reached for the mochila.
Clay did the task for her. “You’re welcome, ma’am.” He hopped onto the fresh horse. “Genoa’s a smart man.”
Her cheeks turned pink and she smiled at him. “Go on, then, and safe travels.”
Clay tipped his hat before giving the horse a nudge to go. They left the city limits and he realized he’d not taken any sort of a drink at Carson City. He pushed his hat down lower over his eyes. He’d bet plenty of others were distracted by a pretty girl at that particular station.
Before he’d had too much time to dwell on the budding romance between station hands, he was near Miller’s. Giving a whistle, the fresh horse stood by a couple of smallish buildings. Clay did the usual hurried exchange. He barely took time to tip his hat to the grizzled old man leading the tired mount to the stable for care.
The late afternoon shadows grew long out in front of him as he rode east. He followed the Carson River’s south bank. He resisted the urge to slow enough to let the both of them take a drink. Buckland’s Ranch wasn’t too far ahead. The flat plain made the buildings seem a lot closer than they were.
Impatience made the minutes creep by like hours. Finally, he let out a few whistles to let the next rider get ready to go. The log cabin, barn, corral, and trading post didn’t live up to what Clay considered a true station house.
He stopped behind the two men and the saddled horse, and kicked up a cloud of dust. As soon as his butt cleared the seat, the station hand he remembered as Clem transferred the mochila. Like a shot, the next rider was gone. Clay took off his hat and rubbed the grit from his eyes.
“I don’t often see you this far east.” The older man grinned. “Special occasion, or just curious?”
Clay watched as Clem unsaddled the horse and led the animal to water. “Something like that. I have family back east.” He took off his hat and ran a hand through his damp hair. Mentioning delivering anything but Pony Express mail seemed like a bad idea, so he said, “Thought I’d take a trip to see my cousins while I still recognized them.”
He laughed while pumping fresh water into the trough. “That’s as good a reason as any.” Nodding at the house, he added, “WC saved back some dinner for ya. I wouldn’t fiddle around. He’s hired a new cook and she’s the best.”
His stomach growled at the prospect of food. “Thank you. I’ll clean up in a hurry, then.” Clem nodded and Clay went to the house. Buckland seemed to have made additions in the past couple of months, if the fresh wood was anything to go by. He rapped on the front door as a warning before stepping inside.
A healthy-sized woman came into the room from the kitchen. “I thought I heard someone ride up. Find your room and wash your hands. Dinner isn’t getting any warmer.” She wiped her hands on her apron while giving him a nod. “We’ve not met. You’ll be in the new bedroom WC built for the Express boys. Through that door on the right.
Clay nodded at the older woman. “I appreciate it, and won’t be long.” He couldn’t help but return her smile before following her instructions. He stepped into the room, enjoying how fresh and clean everything seemed. No dresser drawers like at the last station he’d overnighted, but he couldn’t complain. He still had a washbasin on a table with its pitcher of water, a chamber pot and, as he sat to remove his boots, a comfortable bed.
A slight breeze blew through the open window, stirring the lace curtains. This close to the river meant the cottonwood trees created music with every gust of wind. He closed his eyes and relaxed for a couple of seconds. He’d feel today’s ride in his bones tomorrow. If WC or Clem needed any extra help, he might stay put for a day or two. If another rider didn’t need the room, that is.
He eased the canteen and messenger bag straps from around his neck. He trusted the lady to keep his plate for him but like she’d said, his dinner wasn’t getting any warmer. He stood on protesting legs and went to the washbasin to clean his face and hands. Considering all the grit in the cloudy water when he was finished, he’d have to get a bath in sometime between here and St. Joe. He couldn’t show up at Miss Abigail’s home looking like a hobo.
Clay straightened, staring at himself in the mirror. The person looking back at him was slack-jawed at first. His ma had always said he was fly-catching with that face, and he grinned at the memory. He tried smoothing down his unruly black hair while squinting at his shadow of a beard. That’d have to do for grooming until after dinner.
He stepped out into the main area and walked into the kitchen at the same time as the woman did. She picked up an overturned bowl to reveal his dinner underneath. “Here’s your food, young man. I’ll fetch fresh water while you get started eating.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She blew a stray lock of hair from her face. “My name’s Miss Jenny, if you need anything else.”
“Thank you, ma’am. Miss Jenny, I mean.” He picked up the plate. “I’m Clay.”
“Nice to meet you.” She squinted. “Have a seat, start eating, and I won’t be long.”
She was gone before he could thank her. Miss Jenny seemed nice enough, and about his ma’s age. Clay
sat down at the roughhewn table in the main room.
Miss Jenny popped in. “Do you have silverware? No, I didn’t think so.” She set a cup of water and retrieved silverware from a nearby bureau to set down next to his plate. “Now you’re good.”
“I appreciate it, ma’am.” He grabbed the knife and fork and cut into the ham.
“You’re welcome.” She paused for a second. “If you’re so inclined, WC, Clem, and the other ranch hands get together in the evenings around the campfire when it’s nice outside. You’re welcome to join us.”
Clay swallowed the bite of meat he’d taken. Joining the others sounded like a fine idea despite his body’s protests. “I might if I can stay awake that long. Can’t guarantee anything.”
She chuckled. “Very well. See you then, or in the morning for breakfast.”
He nodded with a mouth full of potato and watched as she left the room. Hunger made the best sauce, his pa always said. He closed his eyes as he chewed. The ham gravy beat anything he’d ever tasted.
Before long, he had an empty plate and cup. He stretched as he stood to work the kinks out of his muscles. Miss Jenny most likely didn’t want to fill up a washtub for his small mess, so he gathered everything and went to the water pump to clean his dishes for her. He walked back inside, to find her in the kitchen.
“There you are.” She reached for and took his wet dishes. “Let me finish those for you. Land sakes, you didn’t have to do my work for me.” She took a dishrag from a hook and began drying. “There’s fresh water in your room. I took the liberty and hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Thank you.” His guilty conscience nudged at him. She wouldn’t open his bag even just to be helpful, would she? No law against him having someone else’s mail, but still. He was a Pony Express carrier possessing mail not belonging to him. There had to be rules against him carrying letters in anything but a mochila cabin. Clay gave her a nod. “I’m tuckered out. See you in the morning.”
Rider's Desire Page 3