The Pony Express Romance Collection

by Blakey, Barbara Tifft; Davis, Mary; Franklin, Darlene

  “She’s laid up in bed.”

  “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

  He shook his head. “She’s having a difficult time right now.”

  BethAnn wasn’t sure what that meant. “I can cook.”

  Wayne shook his head again. “I can’t let you do that.”

  The other man stepped forward. “Sure you can.”

  “Really. I don’t mind.”

  Before Wayne could protest again, and he looked as though he was about to, the other man hooked her elbow. “Right this way, Miss White. I’ll show you to the kitchen.” He led her through the doorway, through the room with tables, and through a wide, doorless threshold into the kitchen.

  The heat of the room hit BethAnn in the face, and she instinctively held her breath. She opened the door to the outside. The cool evening air refreshed her. “What’s wrong with Mrs. Greenberg? Is it serious?”

  “Hope not. She’s got a little one in the oven. She’s been having dizzy spells. When she fell a month ago and hit her head, Wayne ordered her to bed. He’s afraid of her getting hurt worse or losing the baby. We all are.”

  The poor woman. BethAnn didn’t mind cooking one meal. Mrs. Greenberg might also appreciate a good meal. She grabbed two aprons from a peg and handed one to Molly. “How many are we cooking for?”

  “Nigh on seventeen, including all of you from the stage. But ten of those are hungry wranglers and riders who haven’t had a decent meal in a month. So they’ll be pretty hungry.”

  She could do that. “Where are the food stores?”

  He reached down and lifted a trapdoor in the floor. “Most everything is in the cellar.” He took a stick and lit it in the stove then touched it to a lantern wick. “Follow me.”

  The cellar was quite large and well stocked. It would have to be to feed so many hungry men. Mr. Greenberg’s wife had done a great deal of canning.

  BethAnn surveyed the contents quickly and decided on a quick stew with canned meats, potatoes, tomatoes, and various other vegetables. With everything already cooked in the canning jars, the stew would be ready in a jiffy. Make a few dozen biscuits to go with it, and the men would be satisfied.

  The man carried the fixings up the ladder in several trips. He had taken everything, and her arms were empty. As she moved toward the ladder, she stopped and smiled then cradled four large canning jars of apples. It would be pie for dessert.

  With her hands full, she had no way to hold on to the ladder.

  The man’s beefy arms reached down through the opening. He appeared to be lying on the floor. “Here, hand those up. I don’t want you hurting yourself, not with the prospect of a decent meal. Who knows how long before Wayne or one of the other men does finally kill us with their cooking.”

  She handed him the jars one at a time, and he set them on the floor next to him. Then she climbed up.

  He lowered the door and put the jars of apples on the table with the other jars and supplies he’d carried up. “Please tell me there is sweet pie in my near future.”

  She smiled and put her finger to her lips. “Shhh. Don’t tell anyone. I want it to be a surprise treat.”

  “Yippee!” He swung his arm in the air. “If you need anything else, I’ll be behind the stable, cooling my forge furnace.” He stepped outside.

  “Wait.”

  He turned.

  “Oh, who are you—I mean, what’s your name?”

  He dipped his head. “I’m Rusty. The blacksmith.”

  “Do you have a surname?”

  His mouth hitched up on one side. “Not if you’re planning on using it. And, please, don’t be putting no mister in front of my name.” He walked away.

  Not quite proper, but BethAnn supposed she had no choice and turned to Molly. “I’ll get the stew going. You want to make those pies?”

  Molly nodded eagerly. Fortunately for these men, she made delicious pies, even won ribbons at the state fair two years running. And putting her in charge of the task would get her mind off nearly being trampled.

  Thank You, Lord, for having that rider save Molly.

  Fox. That’s the name the rider had responded to. Too bad he wasn’t here to eat a decent meal—if Rusty’s claims about the meals here weren’t exaggerated.

  Less than an hour later, BethAnn took four various sizes of cookie sheets, crowded with more than four dozen biscuits, out of the oven. Molly slipped in her three apple pies.

  BethAnn heard footsteps, lots of footsteps, from the dining hall. Then a loud voice proclaimed, “I smell me something edible.” And several more voices concurred.

  BethAnn took two steps sideways and stood in the doorway.

  Five men sniffed the air while they lit lanterns around the darkening room. Soon light glowed from all four walls.

  She cleared her throat, and the dirty faces turned her way. Their dopey smiles slipped, and all but one went slack jawed. That man let out a long whistle.

  “Supper’s not ready yet.”

  As though they hadn’t heard her, the bench legs scraped and boots thumped as the men scrambled to find a place at the table.

  Mr. Greenberg stepped through the doorway at the other end of the dining hall. “You heard her. Supper’s not ready. And none of you are eating until you wash up.”

  The thumping and scraping repeated as the group scrambled to get outside.

  “You’ll have to pardon their manners. They aren’t used to having womenfolk around much. I’ll keep everyone out until you’re ready. And I’ll make sure they’re cleaned up before coming in.”

  BethAnn nodded her thanks. “Supper will be ready in a few minutes.”

  “I’ll tell the other men to wash up as well. I really appreciate you cooking for all of us.”

  “We’ve enjoyed it. And we have a surprise for dessert.”

  Mr. Greenberg swallowed hard. “Dessert? The men’ll like that.”

  The cast-iron kettle was too big and heavy to carry to the table, so BethAnn had Molly ladle the stew onto high-sided tin plates while she put four plates stacked with biscuits on the tables. Wayne stood in the doorway, but she could hear the men in the next room whispering and straining to see into the dining hall.

  She motioned to Wayne that he could let the men enter.

  He stepped aside, and the men filed in silently.

  Wayne gave a warning every few men. “Remember to wait for the blessing.”

  The men sat like gentlemen, glancing both ways up and down the table. With only biscuits in front of them, they had to be wondering if that was all they were going to get.

  Wayne stood at the far end and said a blessing over the food.

  “We have stew for all of you. We’ll bring it out.”

  The men smiled and murmured their approval.

  BethAnn returned to the kitchen and found that Mr. Greenberg was right behind her.

  “I’ll help you carry the food.”

  “We can do it.” She picked up a tray with two bowls on it and a small plate of biscuits. “This is for you and your wife. I figured you’d want to eat with her.”

  “Thank you, but I can’t leave you alone with the men. They might start acting like barbarians.”

  “We’ll be fine. If the men act up, we’ll withhold dessert. You should be with your wife.”

  “I do believe you can handle them.” He walked out.

  She and Molly served the men, who behaved themselves all through the meal, shoveling the food in about as fast as she could bring it out. Near the end of the meal, the men began sniffing the air again.

  “I smell something sweet.”

  “Me too,” several echoed.

  “Cinnamon.”

  “I smell it, too.”

  All faces turned toward BethAnn and Molly. She sent Molly to check on the pies.

  Molly came back and shook her head. “They need a few more minutes.”

  “If you’ll pass your plates this way—” BethAnn didn’t even get to say they could be ready for dessert. Stacks of t
in plates clattered their way rapidly to her end of the table. She and Molly gathered them. “We’ll be back in a minute.”

  Molly pulled the pies from the oven. By cutting them into eight slices each, every man—and woman—would receive a piece with some left over. Would she be able to hide a slice away and have Mr. Greenberg give it to Mr. Fox?

  BethAnn and Molly washed up the dishes—that had already been wiped clean with biscuits.

  Wayne swaggered into the kitchen.

  BethAnn looked up. “We’re almost done here.”

  “You want a job? The pair of you.”

  She turned and stared at him. Was he serious?

  “My wife is going to be laid up for a few more months. If my men don’t get regular, decent meals, I think I’ll have a mutiny on my hands.”

  Chapter Two

  The next morning, as BethAnn watched the stagecoach roll away just after dawn, her stomach clenched. Had she made the right decision by staying? Certainly she was far enough away from Salt Lake City to keep Vince Hall from finding her. Her meager funds wouldn’t have gotten her and Molly much farther anyway. This way she had the means to earn money so they could travel on. Surely they would be safe enough here for a week or two.

  The blacksmith strolled up to her. “I speak for all the men when I say ‘thank you both’ for staying on.”

  The men who had helped see the stagecoach off also said thank you before heading off to various tasks.

  Rusty lingered. “Allow me to show you around the station.”

  BethAnn took Molly’s arm. “That would be nice.”

  The blacksmith walked them across the grounds. “You’ve seen the main station building already. And the cellar.” He showed them the smokehouse, bunkhouse, larder, stables, and the corral with several horses.

  Molly stepped up onto the bottom rung of the fence. “Can I ride a horse?”

  Before the blacksmith could grant her permission, BethAnn said, “No. It’s too dangerous.” Then she turned to Rusty and changed the subject. “When does Mr. Fox return?”

  The man tried to hide a smile. “Day after tomorrow.”

  She would have to make sure she had something special for him.

  “And there’s no mister, just the Fox.”

  “He has to have a given name. Is Fox his last name?”

  Rusty shook his head. “Don’t know. He’s only ever been the Fox. He’s the last original rider from when this station started being a Pony Express station. I came a couple of months later.”

  “He has to have a real name.”

  “S’pose so, but he won’t tell any of us. No one knows it. Excepting Wayne probably knows, on account he divvies out our pay.”

  Until she knew what it was, he would be Mr. Fox. She would make sure to ask Mr. Greenberg. “What happened to the other riders that started out at this station?”

  “Some moved on to other stations. Some quit. Riding’s a hard job. Not everyone has what it takes.”

  Mr. Fox obviously did.

  “And some…well, some head out on their run and don’t make it to the next station.”

  “How awful.” She thought of Mr. Fox being in danger and prayed he returned safely. “Why would anyone choose to be a rider?”

  “The pay’s good. Some do it for the adventure.”

  “Did you ever consider riding for the Pony Express?”

  “I don’t qualify. I’m too tall and weigh too much.”

  She took in his taller stature and muscled features. “If you could, would you?”

  He shrugged. “I like smithing. There’s something about taking a rigid piece of metal, bending it to my will, and turning it into something useful.”

  While he showed her around the station, BethAnn studied the blacksmith. He towered over all of the riders, including Mr. Fox, and was as tall or slightly taller than the wranglers. He had broad, strong shoulders and muscular arms. Things that would come in handy if Mr. Hall tracked her all the way out here. Rusty could defend her and Molly. Though only an inch or so taller than Mr. Hall, the blacksmith had more strength than a dandy like Mr. Hall would ever have. It would be prudent to stay close to the blacksmith. He could defend her if the need arose.

  A couple of hot dusty days later, Fox raced through Echo Canyon, returning to his home station. The sun blazed down on him, a far cry from his cool evening run. He preferred to be here in the canyon. Coming back was like coming home. At least, the only place that had truly felt like home since he was in knee breeches.

  At Halfway Station he leaped off one horse, transferred the mochila, and swung up onto the next mount, kicking it into high speed. The same horse he’d left Head of Echo Canyon Station on three days prior. His mustang, Juniper. One of his few possessions.

  When he got off Juniper, he wouldn’t be back in the saddle for three or four days. This trip was the first time he regretted taking a run. He’d pined after a girl whose name he didn’t even know. The only name he had for her was Molly’s big sister. And he would never see her again. Maybe Wayne knew her name and where she was headed. Maybe he could write to her. Only to ask after Molly’s well-being, of course. Maybe she would write back, and they would develop a regular correspondence that would turn into a relationship. Then when the Pony ended in a few months, he could go to wherever she was.

  He rounded a bend, and his home station came into view.

  A pony and rider stood ready for the transfer.

  Juniper picked up speed and barreled into the yard. Fox reined her in. The mustang skidded to a stop, kicking up dust. When returning home, his pony liked to come in fast without any encouragement from Fox. He was sure the horse did it just to show off.

  As soon as Fox jumped down, the new rider lifted the leather mochila and fitted it over the saddle of the readied pony. Cyclone pranced, eager to run.

  Wayne removed the padlock on the way pocket, the only one of the four that could be opened along the route. He could retrieve any letters for the boys at the station, but none today, and marked the time card. He tucked the time card back before locking the pocket again and sending the rider on his way. As usual, the stop and transfer didn’t take more than two minutes.

  The stationmaster gripped Fox’s shoulder. “Any trouble?”

  Fox shook his head.

  “Good.” Wayne strode off.

  Fox was hot. He was sweaty. And he was hungry.

  Should he clean up first? Or eat first? The polite thing to do would be to clean up, but Wayne never minded an incoming rider eating before bathing. And he was too hungry to wait.

  He washed his hands on up to his elbows then his face and down to his neck. He hoped George or Kentucky were on lunch-cooking duty. He could use a halfway decent meal.

  He strolled into the main station building and into the dining room. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the delicious aroma. Who had cooked? Certainly not George or Kentucky or any of the other men at the station. Had Mrs. Greenberg felt strong enough to get up? Maybe she was tired of the marginal food. Would Wayne have let her get out of bed and risk the baby?

  He kept his feet moving toward the kitchen’s threshold. He would dish himself up whatever was left over from lunch. If it tasted half as good as it smelled, he’d be the happiest man alive.

  He stopped short in the wide entrance at the sight of a pair of skirts. First, the girl turned around and smiled. Then her older sister with golden hair. She was still here? Or did he have heatstroke from his ride and was imagining her? Could one see a mirage indoors?

  He stared and took in every detail of her he could before this apparition disappeared.

  Blue.

  Her eyes were blue. The color of a clear summer sky.

  Her hair the color of golden honey.

  Her lips the color of pink wild roses.

  Words muffled in his ears, but the young lady’s mouth hadn’t moved. How had she done that? He shifted his gaze to the girl, a younger reflection of the older.

  She stared at him with a
quizzical expression. Her head tilted. She must have asked him a question.

  He sighed. “Blue.”

  She giggled. “Blue? Does that mean yes or no?”

  He blinked to focus and dispel this figment of his imagination. But she remained before him, as well as her bigger sister. “I’m sorry. What?”

  “Do you want lunch?”

  The older sister spoke in a lilting tone. “We presume that’s why you came in here.”

  “Yes. Lunch.”

  “Well, have a seat, and we’ll bring it right out.”

  “I can dish my own. I don’t want to trouble you.”

  “No trouble.” She waved her hand at him. “Go, sit.”

  He mutely obeyed. He swung his legs over the end of the bench nearest the kitchen, feeling like an idiot. All tongue-tied and staring. He hadn’t expected to see her. Had been sure he would never see her again. Built her up to unreal proportions. Now here she was.

  Calm down, Fox. She’s just a person after all. But the prettiest person he’d ever laid eyes on.

  He had too much trail dust and sweat on his clothes to eat in front of a lady. He pushed on the rough-hewn table to stand.

  “Where are you going?” Molly’s sister carried a steaming plate of whatever wonderful smell came from the kitchen.

  And Molly carried a cup of coffee and a plate with three biscuits.

  “I’m not fit to be eating. I’m going to go clean up.”

  The older sister set the plate in front of him. “Nonsense. You’ve been on horseback for hours, racing across the countryside. You are entitled to a little trail dust.” She planted her hands on her hips.

  He realized he was still half standing.

  Molly set the plate and cup on the table and mimicked her sister’s posture.

  Everything smelled delicious. He lowered himself back down. “I guess it wouldn’t be wise to argue with the cooks.”

  The older smiled, and her eyes lit up. “Thank you again for saving my sister’s life the other day.”

  “Weren’t nothin’. All in a day’s work.” If it had been one of the men at the station he’d knocked out of the way, he would have teased that he had been thinking only of the horse’s welfare, whose value outweighed the men many times over.