A Pioneer Christmas Collection

by Kathleen Fuller

  Chapter 9

  Here he comes! And there he goes. The fleeting ghost of a Pony Express rider.

  —Carved into Chimney Rock in 1861 by Samuel Clemens

  For the next few hours, Ellie-May hardly took her gaze off the clay and sandstone formations ahead. They could now pick out Chimney Rock. They’d driven several miles since first spotting the distant landmark, but it didn’t appear one whit closer.

  She pulled the blanket tight around her shoulders and yawned. She tried to stay awake, but her lids felt heavy as cast iron. Talking to Corbett was no use. He’d grown increasingly silent in the last few hours. A broom would offer more in the way of companionship.

  She tried praying, but she couldn’t concentrate. Never had she felt such bone-wrenching exhaustion.

  It was still light when Corbett drove the wagon beneath a grove of trees, but it would soon be dark.

  He hopped to the ground and stood by the side of the wagon, looking up at her. “We should reach Chimney Rock by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “A whole week before Christmas.” She forced a smile. “I’d say that was a miracle, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’ll withhold judgment until we get there.”

  Her gaze drifted to the distant landmark her brother called the hand of God. “Sometimes you can best appreciate miracles from a distance,” she said. It took years before the miracle of Jesus’ birth was fully realized.

  “Guess you could say the same about trouble.” He started to add something more but stopped abruptly and walked away, muttering something about tending the mules.

  She watched him for a moment before climbing out of her seat. Feeling breathless, she stopped to rest before ambling to the back of the wagon on rubbery legs.

  After sitting all day, a walk wouldn’t hurt. She reached into the wagon bed for the empty basket and walked slowly through the tall prairie grass, looking for firewood. It was too cold for snakes—a blessing, indeed.

  The few twigs scattered about would make good kindling but little else. Her throat parched, she felt lightheaded, and a wave of nausea washed over her.

  Leaning against a tree, she waited for the dizziness to pass. If only it wasn’t so hot. What was wrong with her? Please, God, don’t let me be ill. Not now. Not when I’m so close to finding Andy.

  She pulled off her hat and fanned herself. Never could she remember feeling so tired. Her body ached, and her head hurt. It took awhile before she was able to gather enough strength to drag herself back to camp.

  Vision blurring, the basket slipped from her hand. “Mr. Cor—”

  Everything went black. The ground gave way beneath her feet, taking her with it. Suddenly, she felt herself rise, and her head fell against a soft warm cloud. At first she thought she was in heaven, but a quick flutter of eyelids told her she was in Mr. Corbett’s arms.

  Corbett hated traveling at night, but he didn’t dare wait till morning. Not with Miss Newman so ill. After she had collapsed in his arms, he’d carried her to the wagon and laid her down. He took off her boots and sponged her fevered brow. He did everything he could to make her comfortable, but her breathing grew more labored with each passing hour. Fearing she wouldn’t survive the night, he hitched the mules to the wagon and set out, hoping against hope he would find a farm, a ranch—something that would shelter them against the bitter cold.

  Surprisingly, neither Josie nor Molly balked at having to travel all night. It was as if they somehow sensed the urgency that drove him, smelled the metallic fear coating his mouth.

  Never had he known such unforgiving darkness. Not even in his prison cell during the year spent in the black hole of solitary confinement. The air was dank with the threat of rain if not snow.

  One rut or badger hole could break a mule’s leg, and that would be disastrous. To prevent such a misfortune, he walked ahead of the animals, swinging a lantern back and forth. The light barely penetrated the black shroud of night, but it was better than nothing.

  No one in their right mind would travel under such conditions. He wasn’t even sure if he was still heading west. Without so much as a single star to lead the way, he could just as easily be traveling south or east or in circles.

  Not only the road worried him; so many stations they’d passed had been deserted. It was entirely possible that Chimney Rock Station would be, too.

  Miss Newman accused him of having little or no faith. So what was he supposed to do? Trust God to lead him to a ranch house? Or better yet, a doctor?

  Now that would be a miracle.

  He grimaced. Weeks ago he had walked out of prison with his life in tatters and faith in God shattered. Inside, he’d felt as hollow as an empty barrel. He never thought to smile again, let alone feel. But this intriguing woman in her ridiculous bloomers and floppy straw hat changed all that. Not only did she make him laugh, but she’d somehow managed to break down the protective wall meant to keep people out.

  That wasn’t all that crazy woman had done; now she got him thinking about miracles. Got him thinking about God. Not his father’s unrelenting and punishing God—no comfort there. Instead, he found himself hoping—more than that believing as Ellie-May did—that a kind, loving, and merciful God was guiding him through that long, lonely night.

  The thunder of horse’s hooves filled the air. Ellie-May ran outside and stared at the spot in the distance until it grew large enough that she could make out the rider. It was a man on a sorrel; actually it was a boy. Though they were the same age, everyone always thought Andy younger, and she had come to think of him that way, too.

  He was dressed in black trousers and red shirt, a slouch hat perched upon his golden hair. He handed her something as he flew by—a picture—but when she looked down, the canvas was blank.

  Her eyes flew open. “Andy?”

  Only it wasn’t Andy looking back at her, washcloth in hand. It was an older face. Rugged. A kind face. Concerned. Her mind scrambled until she remembered his name.

  “Mr. Corbett.”

  “Hello…” He cleared his throat and turned to toss a washcloth into a basin. “I’m sure glad to see you.”

  She placed a hand on her forehead and stared at the wood-beam ceiling. She moistened her parched lips. “Where am I?”

  “We’re at the Madison farm. Harvey Madison and his wife took us in.” He filled a glass with water from a pitcher and slipped a hand beneath her head. “Madison was the Chimney Rock Pony Express station keeper.” He held the glass while she drank.

  The water soothed her dry throat. He lowered her head to the pillow and set the glass on the bed stand.

  Trying to make sense of her muddled thoughts, she waited for the fog to clear before asking, “How…how did we get here?”

  He explained how he walked all night to find help. “You were burning up with fever.”

  She studied his face. “You did that for me?” She thought about the times he’d adamantly refused to travel at night.

  He gave her a crooked smile. “I can’t take all the credit. I’d have walked right by the house had it not been for Josie. She stopped and refused to budge. That’s when I smelled smoke from a chimney fire.”

  “Josie did that?” She rubbed her forehead. “How long have I been sick?”

  “Seven days.”

  “Seven!” It didn’t seem possible.

  “Christmas is tomorrow. You pretty near slept right through it.”

  She grimaced with disappointment. She wanted so much to spend Christmas Day with Andy. “Did…did you talk to the station keeper about my brother?”

  “Yes.” He set the glass on the bed table. “He remembers him well.”

  Even in her weakened condition, her heart leaped with joy. She tried sitting up, and the room turned topsy-turvy.

  He sprang to her side. “Whoa. Take it easy.”

  “I have to talk to him. Maybe he knows where Andy is now.”

  Hands on her shoulders, he gently pushed her back until her head landed on the pillow. “There’ll be ti
me later for that. Right now, you need to get your strength back.”

  His serious expression gave her pause. Was it her health he worried about or something else? “What is it? Tell me.”

  He straightened. “You’ve been very sick. Didn’t think you’d make it.” His voice broke. Dark shadows skirted his eyes, and fine lines creased his normally smooth forehead. Had he lost sleep over her?

  “I’m sorry.” She took hold of his hand. Sometimes she could be so singleminded. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”

  His eyes darkened with emotion. “Wanted to make sure you got your twenty-five dollars’ worth.”

  Recalling the crazy way they met, she forced a wan smile. “I got more than my money’s worth.” His debt fully paid, he had no reason to stay, but the thought of him leaving was like a knife turning inside.

  He laid her hand on the bed. “I’ll get your breakfast.” He turned.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  His back to her, he stood motionless for several moments before leaving the room.

  Chapter 10

  I fought Indians, rattlers and thieves for this? To deliver a bag of advertisements?

  —Carved into Chimney Rock in 1861 by Wild Bill Hickok

  How is she doing?” Harvey Madison asked from his chair in front of the fire. One foot on a stool, the former station keeper leaned over to rub his leg. The flames cast a copper glow on his rugged face and turned his white beard orange.

  Corbett sat opposite him. “She’s awake.”

  Mrs. Madison stood at the kitchen door, wiping her hands on her apron. She was a tall, thin woman with white hair and a well-lined face. “I’ll heat up some soup for her.”

  Corbett nodded. “Much obliged.”

  Harvey sat back. “I still can’t get over how you found us in the dark.”

  “Lucky for me you had a fire going.”

  Madison had explained that by some stroke of luck, he’d risen before dawn and started a fire, hoping the warmth would help ease the pain in his leg.

  “Never thought this bum leg would be good for anything, but if it helped you find us. I guess that’s something. The good Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  “That’s for sure.” Corbett rubbed his whiskered chin. He needed to shave. Hadn’t done much of anything these past few days except tend the mules. Mostly he sat by Ellie-May’s side and forced liquids down her throat. Sleep, if it came at all, was spent on the floor by her bed. At times he read aloud from Andy’s Bible, hoping the sound of his voice would coax her back to consciousness.

  “I don’t think we should tell her about her brother,” he said. “At least not until she’s stronger.”

  Madison stroked his beard. “Such a waste. Nice kid. Had the same blond hair as his sister. Always drawing. Said he wanted to be an artist like that Audubon fellow.” He shook his head. “The rider from the fort was late arriving. Had he been on time, Andy would have already left and might have escaped the Indian attack.” He paused. “Soon as I heard gunfire, I grabbed my rifle, but it was already too late. The Indians had taken off with all our horses.”

  Four had died that day, including two riders and two stock tenders. All were buried a short distance from the now-deserted relay station seen from the stables.

  Elbows on his lap, Corbett rubbed his hands together. For once the smell of bacon and freshly ground coffee held no interest for him. How could he best tell Ellie-May about her brother?

  He wasn’t good with words. Never had been. Even his teachers had complained. Hadn’t bothered him before. Being a man of few words had actually been an asset when he was a U.S. Deputy Marshal. Talk was cheap, and one thing outlaws knew was value. If his height didn’t impress them, his gun certainly did. Nothing worse than a silent man holding a weapon.

  The rules were different when dealing with a woman. You couldn’t just look at a woman and expect her to know what you were thinking. Otherwise, Ellie- May would know he loved her. She would know how much he longed to hold and kiss her. Know how much he wanted to comfort and protect her. He couldn’t come right out and say that, of course. Without a job or any kind of a future, he had nothing to offer except a criminal record. She deserved so much more.

  “I should have told her what Wender said about the Indian attack. That would have prepared her for her brother’s death—”

  A gargled cry stabbed at his heart, and his gaze shot across the room.

  Ellie-May stood by the doorway, clad in a white flannel gown, her eyes wide with horror.

  Anguish seared through him as he jumped to his feet. “Ellie—”He almost fell over a chair trying to reach her. He held out his arms, but she slapped his hands away.

  Accusatory eyes bored into him. “You knew?”

  “I didn’t know, not really. I knew there was a possibility, but—”

  She shook her head and lashed out at him. “You let me come all this way and never said a word!”

  “I wanted to.” He rubbed his forehead and tried to think. “Please—”

  “Don’t touch me!” With a moan of distress, she spun around and slammed the door in his face.

  The next day—Christmas—Ellie almost missed the grave markers. Four of them stuck barely six inches out of the snow and twenty feet from the deserted relay station. A wooden sign hanging over the front door of the rectangular sod building read: PONY EXPRESS.

  She fell on her knees and frantically raked through the white powder with gloved hands.

  The first two headstones belonged to Joseph Wells and Eric Beller. Jimmy Dorring was the name on the third one, which meant the fourth and last marker had to be Andy’s.

  Gasping for air, she frantically brushed away the snow, blinded by tears. Blinking, she sat back on her heels. Andrew Newman’s name was burned into the wood in big, bold letters. She didn’t want to believe what her eyes told her was true; her dear brother was gone.

  “No, no, no!” she cried. His name didn’t belong here. It belonged in art galleries and on palace walls. That was his dream. Not this!

  Her body wracked with sobs, she rocked back and forth, crying his name and shouting at God. “You brought me all the way here for this?” Finally, she collapsed in the snow.

  She might have frozen to death had Corbett not found her. By then she was too distressed to fight him off. He wrapped her in a warm coat and lifted her ever so gently into his arms and carried her into the deserted Pony Express building.

  Unlike most other relay stations, this one was neat and clean and furnished with a table, four chairs, and a cookstove. Gingham curtains and a quilt-covered sofa provided a homey feel.

  Corbett set her on the bear rug in front of the stone fireplace. He quickly arranged a stack of logs in the firebox and struck a match to a clump of dry leaves. Hot flames climbed up the chimney, and warmth began radiating outward.

  He pulled off her gloves and rubbed her frozen fingers with his own until the red flesh faded to a healthier pink.

  He then pulled her sobbing into his arms. He ran a hand down her back with soothing strokes until her sobs subsided.

  “I was wrong,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I should have told you about the Indian attack.” He lifted her chin and gazed into her eyes. “You had such hope and faith, and I hadn’t seen much of that. Not for two years. Maybe longer. I couldn’t bear to take that away from you. From…from us.” His voice grew husky. “Can you ever forgive me?”

  His words stabbed at her. He wanted her forgiveness, just as her father wanted Andy’s. Only it was too late for Pa.

  Fresh tears stung her eyes as she lifted her hand to his cheek, his rough whiskers poking through her numbness. How could she not forgive this man? He’d stayed by her side for days and weeks and truly saved her life.

  “I don’t blame you for not telling me,” she choked out. “I would probably have done the same.”

  He pulled her into his arms and held her close. She clung to him, and somehow his nearness made the terrible pain
inside more bearable. When at last he pulled away and stood, she feared the black hole of grief would consume her.

  “Are you ready to go back to the house?” he asked. “You haven’t fully recovered from your illness.”

  Glancing around the room, she shook her head. Her brother had been here, had probably warmed himself in front of this very fire. Perhaps even sketched at that very table. “I want to stay here.” Near Andy.

  “Will you be all right if I leave?”

  She gazed up at him. “Don’t go.”

  He looked down at the hand clutching his arm. “I’ll only be gone a short while. I want to tell Mrs. Madison to go ahead and start Christmas dinner without us.”

  “You should eat,” she said.

  “Not without you.” He hesitated, his face suffused with unreadable emotions. “I’ll be back.”

  After Corbett left, she spotted a mochila on the floor, and her breath caught. Was it Andy’s? She scrambled to her feet and quickly checked each pocket—nothing. She wanted so much to find something of Andy’s—his sketchbook—and it sickened her to think it had probably fallen into the hands of his killers.

  She then noticed a door ajar, and this led to a second room furnished with four bunks. Anguish seared through her as she touched each tick mattress in turn, but nothing indicated which, if any, had been Andy’s.

  Overcome with grief, she left the room and threw herself on the rug in front of the fire. She must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew, Corbett walked through the doorway brandishing a basket covered with red gingham and tied with a big red bow.

  “Mrs. Madison insisted on packing us Christmas dinner complete with roast beef, squash, potatoes, and mincemeat pie.”

  She had no desire to eat, but she forced a smile for his sake.

  He set the basket on the table and added another log to the fire. “Josie’s missing. I should go and look for her.”

  Alarm shot through her. Oddly enough she’d grown quite found of that fool mule. “Oh no.”