Rider's Desire

by Laura Stapleton

  Yours always,

  Abigail

  His heart ached. It was one thing to think of Abigail as Crandall’s intended in the abstract. Seeing the words in black and white made the truth hit him in the chest. His world felt kicked over on its side and he looked at the other men to see if they’d noticed anything. No. He was the only one with his life askew.

  She’d seen a photo, probably still possessed the image, and loved Crandall. He never thought about how Crandall would look to a young lady. Now, he wished the man had possessed buckteeth, crossed eyes, and a hyena’s laugh. Anything to repel Abigail’s heart. He folded the letter, putting it and the envelope back where they belonged.

  His mother was right. This sick pit in his stomach was exactly why people shouldn’t poke their noses where they didn’t belong. He tied up his book with the ribbon, put the logbook in the bag with the pencil, and took the crumby handkerchief outside to shake clean.

  The stars shone bright in a deep black sky. The only other light came from a crescent moon peeking above the far eastern hills. He wondered if Abigail ever spent time outside at night. Would she ever look at the sky and dream of the open plains? Maybe, but probably not because she dreamed of being a grubby miner’s wife.

  He leaned against the station’s wall. No, after reading her letters, he knew better than to be mean hearted. She had found something rugged and bold in Crandall’s life out west. Abigail loved the man for the words he’d sent. Clay understood the adoration because her words had affected him as well. He sighed, unable to shake the connection, the feeling as if her hopes and dreams of adventure bound them together.

  Clay sighed. The two had loved each other. How could he bear to tell Abigail about Richard’s death and break her heart?

  Chapter Seven

  After a fitful night’s sleep and hearty breakfast, Clay left Fish Springs well-rested and full-bellied. The station had been one of the best so far. He narrowed his eyes as they passed a stagecoach’s dust cloud. Salt Lake City was supposed to be a palace in comparison, and he couldn’t wait to get there.

  In contrast to Fish Springs, the next station was almost under his horse’s hooves before he saw it. A shed with no walls covered a bed, a fire, and chair. True to the operation’s priorities, the barn looked like a fine one. He whistled and a man led the next horse out of the stables. Once there, Clay hopped down. “Howdy.”

  The mochila slapped the new saddle as the station hand said, “Howdy and g’bye.”

  He grinned and hopped up onto the new horse. With a small salute and nudge to the animal’s flanks, Clay was off again. Fifteen miles later left him missing green landscapes and the snowcapped mountains of home. The desert had a wild beauty but he’d need time to get used to the expanse.

  Miles passed. He rode over a rickety bridge crossing a dry riverbed. Clay slowed both of them just long enough to drink several gulps from his canteen. He hopped down and poured water into a cupped hand, smiling when the horse drank, too. They continued when the canteen was dry. The stretch was one of the longest he’d run so far. The company could have installed a station between the prior one and the outfit up ahead. He figured doing so meant hauling water, something impractical when they could have the ponies run a little further instead.

  A breeze from the north helped with the midmorning heat by carrying a hint of rain from a distant thundercloud. Outlined against the dark sky, a stone house stood on a barren hill. The wood barn and corral stood close by, leaving him grateful for the shelter.

  He whistled, letting them know he approached. Clay stopped in front of a man about his oldest brother’s age, with a woman and two children who must be the man’s family. “Hello.”

  “Howdy,” the stationmaster said, and moved the mochila as soon as Clay dismounted.

  At the same time, the woman gave him a cup of water. “Caleb, refill the man’s canteen please,” she said in a lilting Irish accent. He removed his canteen and handed it to the child. The boy ran off with it to the water pump. The woman smiled at the small girl. “Sheila, his lunch?”

  The little girl brought a wrapped bundle from around her back. “Here, mister.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s a couple of cold meat sandwiches and an apple,” the mother offered.

  He grinned and swung up onto the horse. “Thank you kindly.” Caleb gave his father the full canteen, who in turn handed it to Clay. “You too, young man.”

  A nudge to the flanks and they were off. He watched the weather. They’d intersect the storm’s path soon. The mail didn’t stop for rain or snow. The mochila’s mail cabin would keep the papers dry. He had no way to put the sandwiches in anything but the cloth they were wrapped in. So, he slowed them to a fast walk while he ate. With just the small apple left, he stopped and let the horse have it.

  A hard and cold wind carried a line of dust to him. He turned his back to the onslaught, shielding the horse’s face, too. The worst passed them in a few minutes but the thick clouds blocked out the light. Raindrops began pelting them and he got back on. He wanted to ride on through to the next stop until the skies cleared.

  Lightning brightened the sky. Thunder crashed around them. He winced at the body shaking noise. He’d been through worse, having ridden through snow so deep the horses needed leading through the drifts. He’d survive this, too.

  The gusty rain moved on, leaving the air fresh. The rain had drenched him but hadn’t softened the road. Thankful for small mercies, he focused on the small home which lay ahead. He let out a couple of whistles and grinned at the sudden activity around the place. They must not have expected him to ride through the storm.

  “Howdy,” Clay said as he dismounted.

  The station hand grinned, missing a few teeth as he moved the mochila. “I reckon you’ve had enough to drink. You’ll be dry by Salt Lake.”

  “I’ll bet so.” He hopped back on and took off. Nature may have given him a free bath, but he still wanted something a lot more soapy next time. The hot, dry air following the storm took care of his damp clothes. By the time he saw a large city in the distance, only his seat was still wet. Clay stood a little in the stirrups to let the air circulate. His pants were dry by the time he rode into the city limits.

  He’d been out in the wilderness long enough that a big city felt too crowded. Unsure of where the station was exactly, he let the pony lead the way. Sure enough, the animal knew where to go as they went into a corral of sorts. A large brick building and smaller wooden stables flanked the enclosure.

  A young man in fine clothes stepped out of the tall building. “You’re on time,” he said, and gave a two-finger whistle. The barn door opened and an older man, not so nicely dressed, led out a saddled pony. The younger man turned to Clay. “Are you done for the night?”

  “Yeah. It’s been a long day.”

  Without a word, the older man moved the mochila and hopped onto the fresh horse. The fancy guy said, “Come on in. He was hoping you were done for the night.”

  Clay followed him. Some of the riders preferred the dark when the world slept. He didn’t. After a bad spill into a creek on a moonless night, he was done with anything after sundown.

  “Pony rider rooms are through there. We have a laundry service, a general store, and a restaurant.” He stopped at an ornate reception desk and pointed to his right. “The post office is through there.”

  “Thank you. A room and a meal sound good.” The laundry service did, too, but he could wash his own clothes and let them dry overnight.

  “You’re in 231.” He slid the key to Clay. “The stay is free, but everything else costs.”

  He nodded and took the key. The stairs to his right curved up to the second floor. Clay found his room and walked in. His run had always been between his station and bunk with the other pony boys, and the next few stations. The hotel was the nicest he’d ever seen by far.

  Clay went to the bed and sat. Cotton-soft, it had to be full of goose feathers. If he lay down, it’d be next we
ek before he’d wake up. He stood, not ready to end the day so soon. One by one, he removed his canteen, leather bag, boots, shirt, and pants. He needed to wash everything. A pitcher of water sat next to the washbasin, so he cleaned up as best as possible. He considered a bath, but the service probably cost too much. Besides, he didn’t want to take the time when there was a hotel restaurant to have dinner in.

  He washed and rinsed his good shirt, wringing and letting it dry draped over a chair. Once dressed, Clay went downstairs and ate the biggest steak the hotel offered. He enjoyed watching the other hotel guests as they went about their business.

  Paid up and in his room, he emptied his bag and updated his station log. He’d need to get someone to initial where he’d been today. The logbook had been a little wet, so Clay checked his larger book. More importantly, he was worried about Abigail’s letters.

  He untied the ribbon and examined each envelope. The fifth letter was a little bent around the edges as he pulled it from between the pages. She’d addressed the address to just Richard Crandall instead of the Mr. Richard Crandall. The familiar inner war of would he or wouldn’t he read what she’d written began until he gave in and opened the envelope.

  Dearest Richard,

  I do like the idea of helping build a new part of the country. Like you, I wasted no time in writing a response to your latest marvelous letter. My life has many joys, but receiving word from you is the brightest star of all. I feel as if I float on air for days after reading your thoughts. I fear I’m wearing out your prior mailings. Rereading every word in your hand eases my longing for you.

  I love my family and friends, and all of my plans revolved around St. Joseph until you singled me out as a pen friend. Now, I imagine a future much closer to the Pacific. My dreams are only, of course, if you’re still interested in a bride. Please reply soon.

  Much love,

  Abigail

  Clay looked up from the page, his heart twisting in his chest. She’d planned on marrying Crandall, eager to hear from him. He glanced at the date. They must have been sending the letters by stagecoach for the romance to move so fast. He reread the letter. She was likely distraught over receiving no reply after her last letter.

  He tucked the last letter into his book. No more sightseeing and lollygagging across the country. He had to get to St. Joe and her as fast as he could ride. Clay sat on the bed and laid back, hands behind his head, and closed his eyes. He kicked off his boots. Stories of riders traveling three-hundred miles a day abounded. He could do it, too.

  Clay sighed and knew, while he’d arrive, he’d also be half-dead. No, he’d have to rest at times or he’d be in no shape for giving anyone bad news, never mind Abigail. Three-hundred might be out of reach, but two-hundred would be possible. He’d stopped a little early most nights so far. If he went from dawn until dark, letting the pony lead the way wherever needed? He could reach St. Joe and her in four days, fewer on good horses.

  He’d be knocking on Abigail’s door before next week. Now that he thought about it, four days seemed awfully soon. If he sent an Express letter to her before his run, she’d know to expect his arrival. She might even be glad to see him. Clay’s eyes popped open. He had to write her before another hour passed.

  He hopped out of bed and padded in his socks down to the lobby. The night clerk, not the one he’d met earlier, didn’t look up. “Yes?”

  “I need to send a letter.”

  The clerk managed to glance at him before going back to his reading. “You’re a Pony rider, huh? Hotel provides you boys anything you want.” He put the newspaper down with an eye roll and stood. “Follow me.”

  Clay trailed behind as they went to a small office. The clerk pulled out a piece of hotel letterhead and an envelope, and looked him up and down. “Have a seat, write your letter. When the ink is dry I’ll stamp it and put your mail in the next mochila going…?”

  “East,” he offered.

  “East. In that case, get to it. The next rider on that run comes by at midnight.” He turned and went back to the hotel counter.

  The large clock in the lobby read nearly eleven. He had an hour to write to her. All of a sudden, the words left him. He sat at the desk and stared at the blank paper. Should he write ‘Dear Miss Sterling’? He felt as if he knew her better than to be so formal. Yet she didn’t know he existed.

  Clay picked up the pen and opened the inkwell. Loading the tip with ink, he began to write.

  Dear Miss Sterling,

  It is my deepest regret to inform you of Richard Crandall’s unfortunate accident.

  He paused. Were his words too harsh? Too impersonal? Or worse, too familiar? He shook his head and continued.

  His mine caved in and crushed him. To death, I’m afraid. I am terribly sorry for your loss. Several of his letters were found in his cabin, which I’m personally delivering to you in the next few days.

  Clay dipped the pen in ink, reloading the tip. Was the word ‘personally’ too personal? He scratched the back of his neck. Probably so, but ink made the sentence impossible to change. He would have to rewrite the entire letter and didn’t have time to do so.

  He reread his last couple of sentences before continuing. She would discover her sewing circle’s photograph wasn’t included. How could he explain the absence? Anything he’d say would tell her he’d snooped into her letters. He thought for a moment before resuming the letter.

  Since his final resting place was deep in a mineshaft, anything on his person is with him for eternity. I can only assume he’s with his most cherished possessions.

  Clay sat back and grinned. Possessions could mean anything. A lock of hair, a pressed flower in a journal, a photograph of a sewing circle maybe. He was confessing nothing.

  I personally wasn’t close with Mr. Crandall, but saw him occasionally at…

  He stopped. Should he mention the saloon? Neither he nor Rich had their own barstool like several of the regulars, but still. A fine, delicate lady like Abigail didn’t need to read the word saloon. Especially not from him concerning her deceased amour.

  …Bartlett’s Dry Goods.

  Which was true, mostly.

  He was a fine man who was well thought of in his part of Sacramento.

  The lobby clock chimed the half-hour. His heart skipped a beat. Ink took time to dry, and if he didn’t hurry, he’d miss the next run.

  I do hope my visit in no way inconveniences you, and look forward to delivering Mr. Crandall’s effects.

  Yours sincerely,

  Clay Winslow

  He shifted in his seat. The last part sounded entirely too happy for the news he was delivering. He did look forward to meeting her, so he was being honest. Clay capped the inkwell with a sigh and replaced the pen in its holder. He would have written the best letter ever, one to rival any of Crandall’s, if he’d had the time.

  The page, now dull on the paper, was now dry enough to mail. Except, he looked at the blank envelope. As many times as he’d read her address, one would think he’d have it memorized. He hurriedly grabbed his book and pulled the first letter out of the pages. He uncapped the ink, wrote her name and address as well as his penmanship would allow, and sealed the envelope.

  Clay put everything away, ink, letter, book, and went back to the lobby with the letter. The large clock said fifteen ‘til midnight. “He’s not been here and gone, has he?”

  “Nope.” The clerk looked up and set down his newspaper. “Let’s see.” Clay handed his letter to him and the clerk said, “Five dollars.”

  He gritted his teeth. “No free mail for riders?”

  “The station keeper has bills to pay. Horse food, stabling, my pay.”

  Fighting the urge to complain further, Clay dug into his pocket and pulled out a few dollar bills. Just because he had the money didn’t mean he liked spending it. “Fine. As long as this makes the next run east.”

  The clerk took the money and stamped a postmark on the letter. “Now it will. Anything else?”

 
“No, thank you.”

  He turned to the back and stopped to ask, “When is your next run?”

  Clay thought for a moment. He wanted to get on to St. Joe. “The first eastern after midnight?”

  “Tough, because that’s four a.m.”

  He wanted more than a few hours of sleep. “The next?”

  “Ten a.m.” A little bell rang. “Midnight run is here.”

  “I’ll take the four o’clock run, then,” Clay said, and the clerk nodded before hurrying out. He went back to his room, lay back down, and tried to sleep.

  ***

  The pounding at the door continued until Clay sat up. “Yes?”

  “Still going on the four a.m.?” the voice from behind the door said.

  “Yes!” He hopped out of bed and opened up. The night clerk stood there and Clay asked, “Time?”

  “Twenty minutes, give or take a few.”

  “I’ll be there.” He raced around, glad to still be dressed, and shoved everything back into his bag. The shirt was a bit damp, but not bad. It, too, went into the leather bag. He put on his boots and was ready to go.

  Chapter Eight

  Clay had reason to ride hard. Abigail and her heart. He had to ease her pain for Crandall and pull her love closer to him. At every station, he moved the mochila from one horse to the other before the station keepers could blink. The road grew increasingly difficult from Salt Lake City to Fort Bridger. He’d ridden more than a hundred miles over some of the highest mountains he’d been on in more than a decade.

  He collapsed onto a bed in the station next to Fort Bridger, almost happy with the distance he’d managed to ride that day. His stomach rumbled and he considered poking around in the kitchen cupboard for a bite to eat or two. He rolled over on the cot, promising his hunger a big breakfast tomorrow morning.

  Full of biscuits and sausage gravy with a couple of boiled eggs wrapped up in his bag the next day, he grinned while on the Green River Ferry. He needed to mark the fee in his log but enjoyed the crossing too much to look anywhere but at the opposite bank. The station sat in the middle of a veritable oasis.