Real handy.
Something woke her. Annoyed at herself for falling asleep, she sat up. The lantern had burned out, and she couldn’t see a thing. She strained her ears. The rain had stopped, but the squishy sound of footsteps outside made her heart thump.
“Mr. Corbett,” she whispered, but no movement came from his side of the wagon.
She reached in the dark for her shotgun. Forcing her voice low to sound like a man’s, she asked, “Who’s there?”
The high-pitched voice that answered was obviously a man trying to sound like a woman. “It’s just me.”
“Mr. Corbett!” She took a deep breath. “You nearly scared the life out of me.”
He stuck his head through the canvas opening. “It stopped raining, and I was just checking on the mules.”
“What time is it?”
“Almost dawn. We need to get an early start.”
She groaned. Miraculously, neither had succumbed to pneumonia, but every bone in her body ached from sleeping in cramped quarters. With the two of them sleeping inside, there was hardly room to turn over, let alone stretch out.
She was still yawning moments later when she climbed out of the wagon. The eastern sky was gunmetal gray; the western sky still dark. Noticing his steady gaze, she blushed and regretted letting her hair cascade down her back.
Abruptly, he looked away. “No coffee,” he said. “Too wet to make a fire.” He chomped down on a piece of dried meat left over from last night’s supper.
“Maybe someone is still living at the next Pony Express station.” According to the map, it was five or six miles away. “If so, we can get coffee there.”
“Don’t count on it,” he growled.
She quickly pinned up her hair, plopped on her hat, and started for the driver’s seat.
His hand clamped her shoulder. “Before we start, we need to get a few things straight.”
She pulled away from his grip. “Like what, Mr. Corbett?”
“From now on, I do the driving.”
She pulled on her gloves. “I’m perfectly capable of driving my own wagon.”
“Which explains how you broke a wagon wheel and got stuck in the mud.”
“I suppose you can do better.”
“A coyote could do better.”
“I see. Will that be all?” she asked in a cool voice.
His gaze bored into her. “Just one more thing. Be nice to Josie.”
Chapter 7
Can’t stay here. Can’t go back. Gotta keep going.
—Carved into Chimney Rock in 1861 by Paul Shoemaker
They traveled in silence for most of the morning.
Ellie-May pulled off a glove and fingered her brother’s leather-bound Bible and prayed for strength to continue her journey. Oh Andy… Why didn’t you come home or at least let us know where you are?
The question was very much on her mind as they plodded along the wet trail. More than once Corbett was forced to make a detour around a pond-sized mud hole. As a result, it was late afternoon before they arrived at the next relay station, a low-slung hut built from what was commonly called dobie brick. Grass grew on the thatched roof, and a hole cut in the wall two feet from the door served as the only window.
Inside, it smelled moldy and dank. The hut had a fireplace but no furnishings. Cobwebs clung to grease-spattered walls, and the glass pane of the single window was cracked. Empty tin cans and other trash littered the dirt floor. Two mice scampered by, and Ellie-May jumped back.
Her brother had written about the horrible conditions of some of the stations. If this one was any indication, his complaints were valid.
She held herself still, but Andy and even God seemed far away.
Corbett stepped into the house behind her, the thump of his boots causing yet another mouse to scurry across the floor and into a pile of dry leaves.
“Find anything?” he asked.
She shook her head. It was disappointing not to find anyone living there, but not all that surprising. “This wasn’t part of Andy’s run.”
He laid a hand on her shoulder. Unlike the firm hold he had on her earlier, his touch was gentle, seeming to reach inside her. Since her father’s death, she had been very much alone. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized how much.
“Do you mind if I call you Michael?”
He removed his hand. “If we get too personal, I might be inclined to kiss you,” he said, his voice husky.
She spun around, but he was already walking out the door. It took several moments to control her pounding heart enough to follow.
Not ready to face him—and torn by conflicting emotions—she walked around the hut toward the stables in back, hoping to find feed for the mules. I might be inclined to…
The idea was intriguing—no, alarming. Intriguing and alarming. She gnawed on a fingernail. She didn’t want him to kiss her. Of course she didn’t. Absolutely not! Never crossed her mind until he put it there.
She was so lost in her thoughts she failed to notice that she was no longer alone until a movement caught her eye.
An Indian stood not twenty feet away. Heart leaping to her throat, she shrank back. Every horror story she’d ever heard about Indians raced through her mind. His beaded buckskins didn’t look menacing, but the dark eyes glittering from beneath a heavy brow certainly did. His head was shaved at the sides with only a turf of black on top, falling to a single braid in back.
He said something that could have been a greeting or a threat. She didn’t know, didn’t care to know, and didn’t stay around long enough to find out.
Running for dear life, she screamed, “Mr. Corbett…Mr. Corbett…Michael!”
In her panic she ran straight into him, and he toppled backward, taking her with him. They landed in a pile of damp leaves. Startled eyes met hers but only for the instant it took for him to wrap his arms around her waist and kiss her gently, firmly, crazily on the lips.
His moist, warm lips demanded a response, and without a moment’s hesitation, she kissed him back. Her senses reeled and shot to dizzying heights. His hands explored the hollows of her back, and her flesh tingled with pleasure.
He moaned aloud, shocking her into reality. She pulled back and pushed against his chest.
Questioning eyes met her. “Ellie?”
Her mouth flapped like a loose cellar door before she could get the words out.
“Mr. Corbett!”
His eyebrows knitted. “You called me Michael. I told you what would happen if we got too personal.”
“I—” A nearby movement reminded her that Corbett’s nearness was the least of her worries. She quickly rolled off him and scrambled to her feet. “There’s a—”
She gasped. Not just one but three Indians stood a short distance away, and each looked equally menacing.
Corbett’s gaze followed hers, and the blood drained from his face. He jumped to his feet, leaves clinging to his back. “Let me handle this.”
One brave pointed to her and laughed, and his companions laughed with him.
She placed her hands on her hips. The nerve. They were laughing at her bloomers! “How dare they?”
“Hush, we don’t want to upset them,” Corbett cautioned. In a louder voice, he asked, “What can we do for you?”
One Indian stepped forward. “Swap.”
“What…what did he say?” she whispered.
“I think he wants to make a trade.”
“Well, he can’t have my bloomers,” she said with a huff.
Corbett lifted his voice. “No swap.”
The brave held up two fish and pointed to the wagon. “Two fish. One mule.”
Ellie-May stiffened. “No deal.”
The Indian’s eyebrows met. “Two fish. One mule,” he thundered, and this time it sounded more like a declaration of war than a trade negotiation.
“I don’t think they’ll take no for an answer,” Corbett said, his voice hushed. He reached for his gun, and just as quickly all three Indians lif
ted their spears.
Corbett held his hands forward, palm sides out. “We swap.”
“You’re giving up?” she stormed. “Just like that? What kind of marshal were you?”
“The kind who knows when he’s outnumbered.” He arched a dark eyebrow. “I’m trying to look on the bright side.”
“There is no bright side to losing a mule,” she snapped
“Sure there is. Tonight we’ll enjoy a nice fish dinner.” Corbett signaled the Indians to follow him with a toss of his head.
“Wait!” She ran after them.
One brave swung around to face her, spear raised head-high. Without her shotgun, she wasn’t about to challenge him, except to return his glare with one of her own.
Corbett unhitched Josie and led the mule to the brave who handed him the fish.
Talking among themselves and giving Ellie-May’s bloomers one last laugh, the braves took off with Josie in tow.
“Oooh.” Hands on her hips, she clenched her teeth. “You had no right to give away my mule!”
“I didn’t give her away. I swapped.” Grinning, he held up two catfish.
The twinkle in his eyes only incensed her more, and she practically spit fire. “There’s no way Molly can pull this wagon by herself. Now I’ll never get to Chimney Rock!”
He shook his head. “And you accuse me of having little faith.”
She frowned. “And what is that supposed to mean?”
“You’ll see.”
A loud scream, followed by gut-wrenching shouts, made her spin around. In the distance, Josie kicked and bucked and made a terrible racket. The three braves did their best to contain her, but they proved no match for the flying hooves and snapping teeth.
Josie butted one Indian head-on, sending him flying back like a rag doll. Ellie-May covered her mouth in horror. The mule then turned on the others. Ears pinned back, tail whipping around in a circle, she charged. The two braves turned and ran for their lives, the third Indian not far behind.
Corbett laughed, his loud guffaws filling the air.
“It’s not funny,” she said. “Someone could have been seriously hurt.”
“It would have served them right.” He put out his hand. “Ah, here she comes.”
Josie didn’t even glance at Ellie-May. Instead, she strutted right up to Corbett and pressed her nose into the palm of his hand.
Corbett gave the mule an affectionate pat on the head. “That’s my girl. I knew you could do it.”
Josie bobbed her head up and down as if to agree.
Ellie-May’s mouth dropped open. “You knew she would get away, didn’t you?”
“ ’Course I knew,” he said with a silly grin. “I told you to be nice to Josie.”
Chapter 8
Excitement was plentiful during my two years’ service as a Pony Express rider.
—Carved into Chimney Rock in 1861 by Bill Cody
The days that followed were long and dreary. Sometimes it rained, on occasion it snowed, but always it was cold. The trail grew increasingly worse, and some days they barely covered more than a few miles.
November turned to December, and with it the air turned frigid. The wagon rocked back and forth on the rutted trail like a ship on a stormy sea. More than once, Corbett had to pound away ice before they could reach springwater.
They stopped at every former Pony Express relay station along the way. Some were deserted, one had burned down, another was nowhere to be found. But some, like the Starr Ranch, still served as trading posts, offering a place to rest and purchase supplies.
None of the ranches had much in the way of livestock. Supplying traveler needs was far more profitable than raising horses or cattle.
The fort established to protect the trail was all but deserted; federal troops had been sent south to fight rebel forces. Since no private enterprises were placed on government land, the fort was never home to the Pony Express, but riders often stopped for supplies or simply to share news. No one had heard of Andy.
Talk around the fort was of a possible Indian uprising now that the troops were gone, but the few braves they met were more of a help than a hindrance. For a handsome fee, two Lakotas even ferried them across the Platte River at Cottonwood Canyon.
They encountered herds of antelope, but it was the buffalo that fascinated Ellie-May most. Never had she seen more odd-looking animals. It hardly seemed possible that such skinny legs could hold up the thick, bulky bodies.
If the long, torturous journey wasn’t bad enough, the tension between her and Mr. Corbett was taut as a fiddle string. He didn’t mention the kiss, nor did she. But the memory seemed to take on a life of its own, making it imperative to watch every word and gesture.
Even the slightest touch of hands, no matter how accidental, made her heart skip a beat. So she carefully called him Mr. Corbett, and he was equally scrupulous in formality.
“Did you see the size of that buffalo, Mr. Corbett?”
“Indeed I did, Miss Newman.”
The farther west they traveled, the more graves they passed. Late one afternoon, they reached an area where hardly a foot separated one grave from the next. Ellie-May’s spirits plummeted as she read the hastily scrawled epitaphs. Several siblings in one family succumbed within a twenty-four-hour period.
Overcome with emotion, she directed her gaze straight ahead and willed herself not to look left or right.
“Have any brothers or sisters?” she asked.
“Five living,” Corbett replied. “All older than me. One brother drowned.”
She studied his profile, and the urge to smooth away his tight expression was almost unbearable. If it wasn’t for the memory of his lips on hers, she might have done just that, friend to friend.
“I saved Andy from drowning once,” she said. “It was a long time ago, and I doubt he even remembers.”
“He remembers,” he said.
The certainty in his voice surprised her. “How do you know?”
“You always remember the one who saved you.”
Somehow she knew they were no longer talking about drownings or even brothers. Something more personal had crept into the conversation. Something that had hovered like a shadow since the day they kissed now threatened to take shape.
He held her gaze for a moment before they both turned away: he to coax the mules into picking up speed and she to read the name on yet another grave.
At long last they reached Mud Springs. The sod station had lost its battle with mud, and sludge oozed from its stone foundation.
Corbett didn’t even bother to stop. Instead, he drove the wagon around a muddy buffalo wallow, and a flock of brown-speckled birds took to the sky.
He pointed ahead. “Look.”
Ellie-May craned her neck. “What is it?” She was shivering so much she could hardly get the words out.
“Courthouse Rock,” he said. “The smaller one is Jail Rock.”
The larger rock was well named, its huge ragged shape giving an impression of judicial protection.
“Chimney Rock is about twelve miles west of them,” he added.
“Praise the Lord,” she whispered. “We’re almost there.”
“Not quite. We’re still a good twenty-five miles away.”
She closed her eyes and envisioned her brother with sketchbook in hand and tongue between his teeth. He was probably drawing even now.
Drawings of the war had started to appear in newspapers. Was that what Andy was doing? Drawing war pictures? It would certainly explain why she hadn’t heard from him; he didn’t want to worry her. The thought depressed her. She couldn’t imagine her gentle brother sketching battle scenes. He much preferred God’s world to man’s, and that’s why he held such high regard for Chimney Rock. Nothing like it existed in Iowa.
She opened her eyes, and her brother’s vision faded away. She ran her hands along her arms for warmth.
Corbett reached behind and pulled a blanket out of the wagon. “Wrap yourself in this.”
“Are you sure that’s not just the cold?’
“What I’m sure about, Mr. Corbett, is that God wouldn’t bring me all this way for nothing.”
His eyebrows knitted. “How do you know that?”
“He sent you along when I most needed help. Not just once, but twice. I don’t think that was an accident, do you?”
“Seems to me you got that backwards. I was the one with the rope around my neck.”
“We were both in desperate straits. It’s a miracle that we found each other when we did.”
He narrowed his eyes but kept his gaze focused on the trail ahead. “Don’t put much stock in miracles,” he said. “I’m what you call a realist.”
“So am I, Mr. Corbett. So am I.”
Corbett tightened his hold on the reins and shifted his cramped legs. Realistic? Miss Newman? What a laugh. She was about as realistic as a mirage.
Her upturned nose was red from the cold, and her glazed eyes worried him, but as usual she sat straight as a schoolmarm, her dainty hands gripping her brother’s Bible. The gaze glued to the shadowy rocks ahead held no room for doubt, and he envied her faith, however misplaced he feared it might be.
It was hard to look at her rigid exterior without thinking about the warm, soft, and passionate woman he’d held in his arms and kissed. Would he ever see that side of her again? He doubted it. If she found out he kept the Chimney Rock Indian attack from her, she might not want anything more to do with him.
Not that he could blame her. He should have told her. Wanted to, had even started to, but the words wouldn’t come. And the longer he hesitated, the easier it was to justify his silence. The express company would have notified Andy’s family had he been killed. They wouldn’t send a package without explanation, would they?
Coward. Corbett clenched his jaw. Like it or not, she had the right to know about the Indian attack. That way she could prepare herself for the worst.
Tonight he would tell her as soon as they set up camp. No more excuses. He glanced at her and frowned. Telling her would break her heart; but not telling her was breaking his.
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