Rider's Desire

by Laura Stapleton

  “Thank you.” Clay watched for a moment as Fred led the horse away. The last station wasn’t so long ago and he felt like a cheat ending his day before sunset. Hunting at a lake had its appeal. He sat in one of the rough dining chairs and checked his shirt pocket. The biscuit was dry crumbs. He put an elbow on the table and closed his eyes. Only babies napped, and right now? He wouldn’t mind being a child for some sleep in a bed.

  Clay snapped awake when the door creaked open. He turned to see an older distinguished man walk into the room. “Hello, sir.”

  “Hello, son. You’re the new boy from Dry Creek?”

  “Not new so much as passing through.”

  Fred came in and set a full bucket on the table. “This here’s Uncle Billy.”

  “A pleasure to meet you,” Clay said.

  Bill grinned at Fred. “This one has manners.”

  “Seems like it.”

  “How’s the run been so far?” Uncle Billy asked. “Pretty rough?”

  Clay nodded. “Feels like it.”

  “Mm-hm.” Fred poured a ladleful of water into a cup and set it in front of Clay. “I have a bed set up for boys from the west. War with the Paiutes keeps everyone alert. The hard riding up and down mountains don’t help. Add in a lack of water and no time to hunt for food.” He cocked his head toward one of the corners. “Find a bed and dinner will probably wake you.”

  A fresh, cool breeze blew in through the slotted rifle holes in the stone walls. The air relaxed him to almost mush. “I might rest my eyes for a little bit.”

  “Settle in.” Uncle Billy stood and went to his own bed.

  Fred placed a plate with a thick slice of bread on the table for Clay. “I don’t want to wash blankets any sooner than I have to, so take off your boots first.”

  Clay tore the slice in half. “Can’t blame you.” Fred left the room and he turned back to his snack. As soon as he swallowed the last bite, his mind fogged. He drained the last bit of water and headed for the farthest bed.

  All of the mattress seemed comfortable. The ropes squeaked when Clay sat. He did as the station manager suggested and pulled off his boots for the first time in days. Yep. He’d need a bath before Missouri. The bed seemed to hug him as he lay down.

  He didn’t realize he’d been sleeping until supper smells woke him. The door slammed, bringing him closer to alert. He sat up and rubbed his eyes.

  One of the pony boys nodded to the other two. “Told ya the goose would wake him. No one plays possum during a meal.”

  Clay stood and went to the stove. Meat bubbled in a stock while biscuits were kept warm in a pan to the side. His stomach growled. “Wasn’t playing anything and when do we eat?

  Fred stopped stirring long enough to grin at him. “As soon as the table is set and we all have something to drink.”

  The three boys scrambled while Clay went over to put on his boots. His feet were offending even him at the moment. By the time he stood, shoed, dinner was ready. Uncle Billy walked in with a pitcher dripping water and set it on the table. “We have a little while before the next run. Let’s tuck in.”

  No one had to be told twice. Clay had questions about the bullet holes in the stone wall but kept his mouth too full to ask anything. None of the others offered anything as they ate, too. The shortest pony boy finished first and stood. “I’ll take the next run.”

  One of the older boys shrugged. “And I’ll let ya.”

  Clay refilled his water cup. He drank it all and said, “The last burned-out station doesn’t have an outhouse.”

  Uncle Billy nodded. “We still do because we weren’t attacked by Indians. A group of outlaws tried to rob us and the Paiutes helped us drive them off.”

  “Yours is the only building they’ve left standing between here and Genoa.”

  The older man grinned. “I made friends with the chief. Turns out my Ma was right. You do catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”

  Clay wanted to ask how a person would even begin to talk with an Indian, when a horn sounded. Another rider approached.

  The youngest ran out and Fred laughed. “Remember that time he got halfway to Salt Lake before remembering the mail?”

  He couldn’t figure how a man might forget his main responsibility. But then he was an adult, not some fourteen- or fifteen-year-old boy. Fred moseyed outside while the remaining pony boys started clearing the table. Uncle Billy watched them for a while before getting to his feet. “The books won’t keep themselves. If you’ll excuse me.”

  He stood as well, a bit shaky on rubbery legs. “I might do a few chores before bunking down for the night, too.”

  “There’s soap powder in the cupboard. I assume you saw the lake?” he asked, and Clay nodded. “Grab a pitcher of clean water before washing your socks. Maybe dunk yourself a time or two.”

  The owner’s face didn’t seem unkind or mocking. Clay grinned. “I reckon it’s high time I do, thank you.” He found the soap powder and scooped up the near-empty water pitcher with him.

  Outside, the youngster was already gone and the new pony boy passed Clay on his way into the station house. He continued on his way, nodding a greeting to Fred as he cared for the horse. A thin slice of crescent moon rose in the east over the low mountains. The glow wasn’t near as bright as the setting sun.

  He’d been going at a steady pace since Sacramento, but nowhere near as fast as some of the stories he’d heard. Some riders managed to make three-hundred-mile trips. The Indian war forced some of them to ride past destroyed stations. Others rode fast and hard, eating up the miles just to say they could. He’d prefer to be neither sort of rider. His goal was to make the money and build up enough to buy his own farm someday. Roaming free was fine for now. Later, he’d find a pretty girl to court.

  Clay reached the lake’s edge. Uncle Billy was right. He’d not be able to find a woman to tolerate him and his smell. Mud sucked at his feet and he set down the soap and pitcher. He tried to balance while removing his boots and socks. He slipped off his pants, laying them on top of the reeds along the bank.

  He dug in his pocket and threw the biscuit crumbs from this morning to the remaining geese on his left. They attacked the food, fighting and honking at each other. Their noise cut through the evening’s quiet. He glanced at the station to see if anyone cared about the fuss before unbuttoning his shirt.

  After he threw the garment on top of his pants, he waded out away from the geese. If he needed to refill the pitcher, Clay wanted fresh. He reckoned everyone else at the station would appreciate a silt-free drink. He set the full container beside the soap tin.

  Clay soaped up his smelliest parts before swimming out waist-deep. The twilight swim was both exhilarating and scary. The cool water felt good after a hot day of riding. Darkness creeping over the sky threatened to leave him blind in the lake. Nothing less than a full moon would reassure him, so he swam for shore. Goosebumps broke out on his skin as he left the warm water for the chilling night air.

  He paused when seeing his shirt. Miss Jenny had given him a spare. He might as well wash this one and let it dry overnight. Clay used the shirt to dry his hands before grabbing a bit of soap powder. He scrubbed the sweat stains and underarms in the fabric before rinsing. Once done, he shook the excess water from his hands and scooped more soap for his socks.

  Clay put on only his pants to bring back the soap tin and water. He set them on a bench by the back door and went to the lake for his clothes. The caliche mud stuck to his boots and feet despite his best efforts. With them as clean as they were going to get, he draped the wet clothes over the bench and brought in the soap and water.

  “We wondered if you’d drowned. I don’t figure you found the water pump next to the corral?” Fred peered in at the lake water.

  He wanted to smack his forehead in frustration and blurted, “I didn’t think about looking for one.”

  “Never mind. This’ll do pretty good for coffee.” He nodded at two of the boys sitting on one bed playing cards and the t
hird asleep. “Joe has the next run, but the one after can be yours.”

  “I’ll take it, thank you.” His bag and canteen still lay at the foot of his cot. “I appreciate the meal and chance to be civilized.”

  “Glad to help.”

  Uncle Billy looked up from his ledger. “You’ll want pay at some point. Have you been marking down the stops and days you’ve rode?”

  “No. I figured I’d tell them everything at St. Joe.”

  “Hmph.” He stood and went to a small shelf. “I have a spare logbook and pencil you can take. Bring it back or give to someone else when you’re finished.” Uncle Billy brought the two to him. “Write down where you’ve been and I’ll initial it.”

  Clay did as he said, opening to the first page. He wrote August 1860 at the top and followed the date with Yanks, Buckland, Dry Creek, and Ruby Valley. He turned the logbook to face Uncle Billy, who scribbled initials down the side. “Now. Keep up with your log after this so you’ll get your money.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He removed his reading glasses. “I know paperwork can be a pain and not worthwhile. But many a dollar has been lost due to a man’s laziness and inattention to detail.”

  The idea of losing entire dollars didn’t sit well with him. “I’ll do better from now on.”

  “I’m sure you will. Goodnight, son.”

  “Goodnight, sir.” Clay went to his bed and opened his bag. While putting away the new logbook and pencil, he saw the book with Abigail’s letters in it. The lamplight gave just enough illumination for him to maybe read his book. Or a letter, the devil on his shoulder said in a tiny voice.

  No. He’d read his novel and nothing else. Clay untied the ribbon and skimmed to where he thought he’d last left off, only to find her third letter holding the place. He slowly pulled the envelope free and lifted the flap. If Crandall hadn’t already opened and read the letter, Clay wouldn’t snoop.

  My Dear Mr. Crandall,

  We found your answers vastly entertaining. Thank you for taking the time for the letter. Your cabin sounds delightful in the spring. I would hope you spend any gold you find on making your home more comfortable. If not for your bride’s sake then your own. A man who works as hard as you seem to do deserves a nice place to live when not underground.

  The ladies and I all laughed at your suggestion of any woman is more attractive than your donkey. Claudette came up with the idea of having our group photographed for you. All of us agreed you need a reminder of how women look. We had a grand time arranging and sitting for the photographer. I’ve included the photo and wrote our names along the bottom.

  Something we discussed was if you chose to write a reply to only one of us, what would we do? My idea is if you’d prefer to only write to Claudette, Rachel, or Liese, is to ask you to address the letter to only her in the next post. All of us will understand if, after seeing our photo, you take a liking to one of us in particular.

  Regards,

  Miss Sterling

  Her dear Mr. Crandall? Clay didn’t enjoy the odd twinge of jealousy in his heart. Plus, had she mentioned a Claudette before now? He’d have to reread her first two letters to be sure. Otherwise, she had wanted Crandall to have three other ladies sending him letters, too? He folded the letter and put it back in his book. Some guys had all the luck in the world and he had none.

  Chapter Six

  Clay settled in under the covers, the wool blanket scratchy on his bare torso. He didn’t remember a Claudette from the previous letters. He’d need to reread the first two just to be sure. Since he already knew what Miss Sterling had written, a reread couldn’t be snooping. Could it? Sitting up, he reached for his book and retrieved the opened mail. He scanned them. Sure enough, she’d only mentioned Rachel and Liese.

  He replaced the letters and the book before turning to his side under the blanket. Abigail had started with Mr. Crandall and moved fast to calling him ‘my dear’. Sure, there might have been a Mr. added instead of a mere Rich or Richard. Her addressing Crandall as her dear gave his heart a ping when he’d first read the words. He’d have to finish the rest of her mail to see if she continued the trend.

  One of the card players laughed and Clay startled. He looked up, worried about his lack of a poker face when considering a breach of postal rules. They were focused on the game so he relaxed.

  Crandall must have had the photograph Abigail sent him in his pocket. Otherwise, it would still be in the envelope. Closing his eyes, he imagined what the ladies might look like in the image they’d sent. Claudette sounded like a giggly blond with sky-blue eyes and milky skin. Rachel would be similar, but a little more serious and less flirty. He’d never heard of anyone named Liese before reading the letters.

  He yawned. Liese might be an exotic beauty with black hair and deep dark eyes full of mischief. He had no way of knowing what type of lady Crandall would prefer and start a pen friendship with. Clay figured that if he had a choice, he’d choose Abigail over the others. She’d been the woman writing the letters and he knew her the best. In his imagination, Abigail had wavy chestnut-brown hair resembling the finest aged wood. Her eyes would sparkle with the bright green of spring leaves. And her figure? He peeked open an eye. He didn’t want to dwell on her more intimate attributes in a room full of people. No need to embarrass himself unnecessarily.

  Clay closed his eye and nestled into the bed. He needed some sleep because tomorrow would be tough. Not because of his ride across the desert but due to the last three letters in his book. He wanted to read them and start over again with the first three. The book from Ma bored him, and he couldn’t even pretend to want to read it. All he needed A Tale of Two Cities for was to keep Abigail’s letters nice.

  She’d asked Crandall about the kind of girl he’d marry, and the question nagged at Clay’s mind. He sometimes thought about a wife when a pretty girl walked by. As soon as she left, so did the idea of settling down.

  Now? He sighed. If he could find an eastern girl like Abigail, who enjoyed the challenges of a new homestead, he’d consider proposing.

  ***

  Clay woke up before the sun. Uncle Billy snored like a freight train, only louder. The other beds were empty and he figured they were light sleepers. He reached into his bag and put on the extra shirt. The fit was a little big but he didn’t mind. He buttoned up and went outside. The predawn light didn’t touch his drying clothes, which were still wet.

  One of the pony riders walked up to him. “You’re still interested in the next run?”

  “I am.”

  “It should be here in the next half-hour.” He looked back at the barn. “Fred said he’d cook breakfast if we started the coffee brewing. You’re only going to have time for a drink and a bite if you’re lucky. Grab a couple extra biscuits to take.”

  The other boys were either sleeping or caring for the horses so Clay said, “I will. Plus, I need coffee.”

  The boy lifted his chin toward the house. “Speakin’ of tired, Uncle Billy should be up by now.”

  “I’ll hurry to start the coffee myself if he isn’t.”

  A low whoop echoed from the west and the other pony boy said, “No time. You’ll have to take what you get.”

  He stared into the faint dawn and figured on having five, ten minutes before the rider stopped.” We’ll see about that.” Clay hurried into the station. He took the needle from his extra shirt and stuck it into his book’s spine. Shrugging into his shirt, he threw his book and canteen into his bag. A basket with a cloth over the biscuits sat in the middle of the table and he grabbed a couple. His spare shirt didn’t have a pocket, so he threw them in with everything else. He’d just have to hold the bag close to his body to keep from pulverizing the food.

  Clay ran out to his still-damp socks and shirt. He fought with the socks and tied his extra shirt’s sleeves around his neck in a square knot. The fresh horse, Fred, and the boys stared at him. He struggled to get the boots over his socks, the moisture not helping.

  “Is
your canteen full?” Fred asked.

  “No.”

  Fred muttered an oath before saying, “Go fill it, but hurry. The mail can wait.”

  He did as suggested, running to the pump. The rider thundered up and jumped off. Before he could reach for the other horse, Clay said, “I got this.”

  “You sure you want to risk it?” the pony boy asked as Fred placed the mochila.

  The more experienced rider’s worried expression gave him pause, but Clay ignored the misgivings. He had a mission to complete for Miss Sterling. He swung up into the saddle “I’m sure.”

  “Safe travels, then,” he said as Clay took off with the mail.

  Butte Station came up quick and before he could regret missing breakfast. He whistled but was waved to go on. Dogs chased after him and the horse, following them for a short ways. Clay didn’t slow down, not wanting to be bitten.

  Traffic between Butte and the next station increased as he galloped on with the horse. Military men, enlisted and officers, traveled west with their support staff trailing behind as he went east. He whistled when seeing the town, hoping the station keeper heard him over the noise.

  Clay pulled on the reins to a hard stop and waited for the mochila switch. “Looks like the war is picking up.”

  “It is. More troops are headed out to take care of the Indians.”

  He hopped up onto the fresh horse, certain the troop’s idea of care was putting a bullet between everyone’s eyes. Clay rode off through the small settlement. While he didn’t believe in indiscriminate killing, he’d never been attacked by a group of people and left for dead, either.

  The lack of breakfast started affecting him. He’d not taken the time for more than a gulp or two of coffee. The next station came up fast. A weathered-looking station keeper waited for him with one of the best horses he’d ever seen. Clay jumped out of the saddle and said, “Water?”