All right. That was better. It was probably a good sign that she expected to work. Even better if she could get work she thought she wanted. Emmet loved Annie, but he was focused more on Luvina Aiken these days. For Frank’s part, Annie came first. He was going to see to it that she got her little house. And that she never again had to stick folded paper inside her shoes.
Emmet apologized to Annie. “I knew St. Joseph was a busy place, but I never expected this.”
“Having trouble finding a room is just a sign that we’ve come to the right place,” Annie said. “You said it yourself. God hasn’t lost track of us and we’re going to be all right. I believed it when you said it this morning, and I still believe it. We just need to stick together and work hard. It’s one night in a nice man’s barn loft. That’s not so horrible, is it?”
“It’s not horrible at all,” Frank said. “Come on, Emmet. She’s right. It’s one night.” He looked pointedly up at the night sky. “And it is night. Let’s turn in.” He didn’t always understand the way Annie’s mind worked. Sometimes it seemed to him that she was downright illogical, but this wasn’t one of those times. Tonight she was being practical, and he loved her for it.
Annie started awake. She barely managed to stifle a screech. Thinking a mouse had just skittered across her feet, she jerked away from the critter. Just before she sprang to her feet to shake out her skirt, she caught sight of the offender. Not a mouse. A cat. More of a kitten than a cat. Black, with white paws, a white nose, and blue eyes.
“Hey you,” she murmured. The kitten lowered its haunches to sit. As it inspected her, its white-tipped tail switched back and forth. A different kind of screech sounded from below as someone slid the huge double doors along a metal track. The kitten bolted, disappearing behind a wall of hay. With a sigh, Annie rose and shook out the blue-and-white blanket she’d wrapped up in the night before. Crossing to the open haymow door, she peered down into the back lot, smiling when she caught sight of Frank working the handle of a pump while Emmet cupped his hands to capture the water.
Frank caught sight of her and made a show of bowing before calling, “Is the Lady Paxton ready to descend from her chamber?”
Feeling guilty for sleeping later than her brothers, Annie hurried to descend and join them at the pump. She scrubbed her face as best she could, thankful that her morning ablutions were sheltered from public view by a row of wagons and carriages lined up beneath the livery sign: RIGS FOR HIRE. BEST PRICES, BEST HORSES. WAGONS. HARNESS REPAIR. BLACKSMITHING. IRA P. GOULD, PROPRIETOR.
Back inside the stable, Frank and Emmet kept watch while Annie “reconstituted” her hair. The key to her trunk hung from a length of velvet ribbon about her neck. Pulling it out, she unlocked the trunk and retrieved Ma’s ivory-handled looking glass. Looking in the mirror confirmed her worst suspicions. No one would hire a girl who looked like she’d slept in a barn. Letting down her hair, she brushed through it, then pulled it back and twisted it into a tight, smooth bun at the base of her neck—well, as smooth a bun as a girl cursed with natural curls could manage, anyway. She took another look in the mirror, turning her head from side to side. Not too bad. Respectable, at least.
After returning Ma’s looking glass to the top tray, she closed the trunk and twisted the key in the lock. The Lord is my shepherd. Please let today be a good one. She dropped the key inside the front of her blouse, making certain the ribbon was tucked out of sight beneath her collar. “All right,” she said, and stepped up between her brothers. “This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” She glanced Emmet’s way, hoping it made him feel better about things to hear her quote a verse he’d taught her.
She doled out the last of the bread she’d baked before they left home the previous morning. They ate quickly, washing down the dried crusts with a shared cup of well water. Finally, Annie said, “While the two of you settle up with Mr. Gould, I’ll go up to the hotel we passed on the way here. If I get work, I’ll ask for written proof of the job and the pay. Knowing we aren’t drifters might help us secure a room with that woman up on Oak Street.”
“You mean the one who looked like she’d just eaten a lemon?” Frank pursed his lips in a hilarious imitation of Miss Eleanor Stanton, “proprietress” of the Oak Street Inn, as the sign in front of the two-story clapboard house had proclaimed.
Annie laughed at Frank’s pantomime. “She wasn’t very nice, but that house—that porch with the rockers—wouldn’t it be nice to come home to a place like that?”
“She said she didn’t have any rooms,” Emmet warned. “There’s no point in hankering after something you can’t have.”
Annie stood her ground. “She probably never has rooms for people she suspects of being drifters. I bet she’ll change her tune if we go back with written proof that we have jobs.”
Emmet shrugged. “All right. If you really want to, we’ll try again—when all three of us have jobs. But you’ll have to wait a bit to go back to that hotel. Frank and I aren’t about to let you wander the streets of St. Joseph without an escort, and if Gould doesn’t want the mules, we’ll probably have to muck out a few stalls to pay for board.”
“He said he’d look at the rig,” Annie reminded him.
“And when he does,” Frank said, “he’s not going to want it.”
Emmet chimed in. “Have patience, little sister. It shouldn’t take us too long.”
“But I can see the top of the hotel cupola from here. I can’t possibly get lost.”
“That’s not the point,” Emmet insisted.
Frank nodded agreement. “He’s right.”
Annie had just opened her mouth to argue some more, when the livery owner stepped outside—followed by a burly stranger he introduced as Luther Mufsy.
The stranger shook hands with Emmet and Frank and tugged on the brim of his hat by way of greeting Annie. “Ma’am.” He spoke to Emmet: “I’ve done a little blacksmithing in my day. Ira said something about the rear axle on your wagon. Want me to have a look? See if it’s an easy fix?”
“We appreciate the offer,” Emmet said, “but we need to sell the wagon—as is.” He glanced over at Mr. Gould, clearly inviting the livery owner to make an offer.
Instead of acting on Emmet’s invitation, Mr. Gould weighed in on the subject of Annie’s heading off on her own. “As to the idea of your walking about St. Joseph unescorted, Miss Paxton, I add my voice to the nays.”
“See?” Emmet said. “I’m right.”
Annie glowered at him. “Then settle up with Mr. Gould and let’s get going.”
“If you don’t mind my inquiring,” Mr. Gould asked, “I didn’t hear enough to know where it is your brothers don’t want you going. Mind telling me?”
“Just up the hill to the Patee House. I want to see if I can get hired to work in the kitchen.”
“As it happens, I know one of the ladies who works there. And I need to talk to Mr. Lewis at the Pony office just off the hotel lobby. I’d be happy to have you come along. I could introduce you to Fern. Can’t make any promises, of course, but with business picking up, I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re hiring extra kitchen help.” He nodded at Emmet and Frank. “If you two will help Luther mind the livery while we’re gone, I’ll consider us square regarding last night. Does that suit?”
Emmet accepted for them all. As he and Frank left, accompanied by Mr. Luther, Annie took Mr. Gould’s proffered arm. “Just so you know,” he said, “Mr. P-a-t-e-e pronounces his name PAY-tee—not Patty.”
“Thank you for telling me. I don’t suppose it would help my chances at working there to mispronounce the owner’s name.”
Mr. Gould shrugged. “An honest mistake. On the other hand, there’s no reason to announce the fact that you don’t come from around here.” The hotel was just ahead when he added, “I should probably warn you about Fern. She can be mighty demanding.”
“I’m not afraid of hard work.”
Mr. Gould smiled. “Then the two of you just
might get on.”
When a local reverend asked to hire one of Ira Gould’s buggies for the day, Frank left Emmet to finish mucking out stalls and helped hitch up a bay gelding Luther referred to as “Dependable Old Dobbin.”
As the reverend drove the hired rig away, Frank glanced behind him to where Emmet was busily cleaning out a stall. Lowering his voice, he said, “About our wagon, Mr. Mufsy—”
“Luther. Just call me Luther.”
Frank nodded. “All right. Luther. Emmet wants to sell it outright, but I’m thinking there’s plenty of work to be had down on the levee, now the ice is breaking up and freight’s moving again on the river. Thought maybe I could start a delivery business. I can’t pay you cash money for fixing that axle, but—”
Luther interrupted him. “No reason to worry about how to pay until we know if I can fix it. I’ll take a look after we get morning chores done.” He paused, then asked if Frank had a plan for “fixing” the aged mules.
“I can get a few more miles out of Bart and Bill,” Frank said, sounding more confident than he felt. “I’m good with horses and mules.” To prove the point, he reached for the lead rope hanging outside the closest box stall. “In fact, why don’t I turn this guy out into the corral, then come back and muck out the stall. Maybe you could take a look at the wagon while I do that.”
“Whoa!” Luther stayed his hand. “That’s Outlaw, the meanest horse this side of a meat market. Kicks. Bites. I helped Ira’s regular blacksmith shoe the son-of-a-gun last week, and you never saw the likes of it. We had to throw him on his side and lasso each foot separately to keep him from kicking the blacksmith all the way to Hades—which is where that horse was spawned, if you asked me.”
Frank peered into the stall. “He talking about you?” When the black horse tossed its head and kicked the side of the stall, Frank forced a laugh. “Oh, yeah. I’m scared.”
Emmet stepped up. “Look at the way he’s standing. He’s braced for a fight.”
“I doubt the peppermint candy treatment would work,” Frank said.
“Candy?” Luther snorted. “Not unless you want to lose a finger.”
Frank glanced over at Emmet with a grin. “Two bits says I can stay on longer than you.”
Luther shook his head. “Even if I was a gambling man—which I am not—Outlaw’s off limits. Unless, of course, you want to try him out later this morning when he’s ‘interviewing’ Pony hopefuls.”
Frank frowned. “What’s a ‘pony hopeful’?”
“Someone hoping to ride for the Pony Express. You know—the new mail run. St. Jo. to California in ten days.” Luther paused. “You haven’t heard of it?” When Frank and Emmet both shook their heads, Luther told them to stay put, then hurried into the livery owner’s quarters. When he returned, he handed Frank a handbill.
PONY EXPRESS
St. Joseph, Missouri to California in 10 days or less.
WANTED
YOUNG, SKINNY, WIRY FELLOWS
Not over eighteen.
Must be expert riders, willing to risk death daily.
Orphans preferred.
Wages $25 per week.
Apply, GOULD LIVERY
St. Joseph, Missouri
“St. Joseph to San Francisco… in ten days?” Frank glanced over at Emmet. “How far is that? Has to be—”
Luther interrupted. “Nearly two thousand miles.” He lowered his voice. “It hasn’t been officially announced yet, but Mr. Gould said he has it on good authority that St. Jo.’s been selected as the jumping-off spot. Keep that to yourselves. It’s supposed to be an all-fired secret.” Frank and Emmet swore to keep the secret, and Luther continued. “First rider leaves April third. Fresh horses every ten or fifteen miles. Switching at Overland Stage stations wherever there is one, but they’ve had to add plenty of relay stations along the way. It’s all about speed. I’ve seen the stock, and there’s some fine animals lined up to make those runs. The Pony paid nearly two hundred dollars for some of ’em.”
Frank whistled low.
“Like I said, some fine animals.”
“And they’re still hiring riders?”
“Yep. Outlaw’s being treated like a king to keep him in shape for the ‘interviews.’”
Frank pointed at the $25. “Is that real?”
“Real as spring rain on the prairie,” Luther said. “I’d be trying for it myself if I was half a foot shorter, a hundred pounds lighter, and twenty years younger.”
“With money like that—” Frank swallowed. “Shoot.” He looked over at Emmet.
“It says ‘not over eighteen.’” Emmet said. “We’re both too old.”
“Not by much,” Frank said. He looked at Luther. “I’m nineteen. Emmet’s twenty-four. But we’re good riders. Better than most.”
Luther shrugged. “I think the age is more of a guideline than a rule. And they aren’t all orphans. I know that for a fact. Mostly they want fellers willing to ride like Old Scratch himself is after them. Night and day, rain or snow.”
Frank grinned. Emmet nodded. Together, they asked, “When do we ride?”
Chapter 3
It was all Annie could do to keep from skipping alongside Mr. Gould when the time came to return to the livery. She couldn’t wait to see Frank and Emmet. “I don’t care what Frank said about her, I think we’re going to get on just fine with Miss Stanton.” She smiled up at Mr. Gould. “She seemed so stern when we talked to her last night. But she didn’t hesitate to show me those two rooms just now—thanks to you. I don’t quite know how to thank you for all you’ve done.” In a rush of enthusiasm, she stood on tiptoe and planted a kiss on the old man’s weathered cheek. If she had a grandfather, she’d want him to be kind, just like Mr. Gould.
“Well now,” Mr. Gould blustered, “I’d say you just did. Don’t give it another thought. And call me Ira, why don’t you. I’ve known Ellie since the two of us were knee-high to a grasshopper. She’s not to be trifled with, but she has a good heart. As for Fern up at the Patee House, just—be sure you keep her happy, or I’ll never hear the end of it.” He cleared his throat. “I, um, I squire Fern to church now and then.”
“I won’t let you down. You have my solemn promise.” Annie smiled up at him. “You don’t happen to need help at the livery do you? My brothers are just about the finest horsemen anywhere.”
“Horsemen, you say.” He sounded doubtful.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Annie said. “Bart and Bill aren’t exactly a good advertisement for their abilities. But—have you heard of Hillsdale Farms?”
“Who hasn’t? Mr. Hillsdale’s sold dozens of mounts to the Pony Express.”
Annie didn’t know what a “pony express” was, but that wasn’t the point. Mention of Mr. Hillsdale had made an impression, and so she continued that thread. “Frank was one of Mr. Hillsdale’s jockeys for a while. Our pa was the head man over the broodmares before Mama died. Pa quit then. Said he needed to stay closer to home and that he’d take up farming. But then he started drinking and—” She broke off. It wouldn’t do to make Ira think she was appealing to his sympathy. When it came to horsemanship, neither Frank nor Emmet needed anyone’s sympathy. “Both Frank and Emmet spent a lot of time in those fancy Hillsdale barns.”
Ira frowned. “Why aren’t they working for Hillsdale instead of mucking out my livery to earn a night’s keep?”
“Emmet’s good with horses, but his heart’s in farming. As for Frank, he and Mr. Hillsdale had a falling out.” She hurried to explain. “Not because of anything Frank did wrong, mind you. It’s just—well, I don’t like to speak ill of a man, but when Frank was riding for him, if a horse won, Mr. Hillsdale took the credit. And if a horse lost—”
“—he blamed Frank?”
Annie grinned. “You really do know Mr. Hillsdale.” Ira laughed, then broke off abruptly when a cheer rang out from a crowd gathered around the larger of the two corrals in the livery’s back lot. Standing on tiptoe, she could just see a black horse pitching
and fighting to escape the hold of several men. How had they managed to get a saddle on the crazed animal?
“You don’t want to see that,” Ira said. With Annie in tow, he led the way to the opposite side of the barn and the wide double doors that opened onto the street.
Annie glanced at a handbill nailed to the doorframe. “That wasn’t there last night. We would have seen it when we drove in.”
PONY EXPRESS. EXPERT RIDERS…
“I nailed it up myself this morning on my way back from the printer. Got a few boys hired to put ’em up around town today.” He paused. “That horse in the corral? That’s Outlaw. The Pony hired me to board him. Outlaw sorts the men from the boys when it comes to riding for the Pony.”
The crowd whooped and hollered—and then fell quiet, as if taking a collective breath. A redheaded youth wearing a red shirt charged past the open stable doors. Shouting something about getting a doctor, he raced off up the street. Just as Annie’s heart lurched, Emmet stepped through the single door they’d used when they returned to the livery last night.
Catching sight of Annie, Emmet called out, “It’s not Frank.” He hurried to where Annie stood, directing his next few words to Ira. “Jake Finney went for the doctor. Broken leg, most likely.”
Annie tottered over to a rustic bench near the blacksmith’s forge and sat down.
Emmet sat beside her. “Darned fool greenhorn had no business trying it. That horse is—evil. After he throws ’em, he wants to pound ’em into the dirt.” He took his hat off and swiped his forehead with a dusty forearm. “You’d best stay here when we go. Won’t be long, now.”
“When you go… where?” Annie asked. Emmet reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a copy of the same flyer Annie had just read. “I know about that.” She snatched it away.
Emmet scratched the back of his neck, then raked his hand through his hair. “You can’t expect us to turn down two hundred dollars a month.”
Messenger by Moonlight Page 3