“I’ll pray for that very thing while you’re sending the telegram.” Kimi smiled at him again, and her eyes radiated with love.
Gabe hurried out the door, saddled his horse, and rode into town. Mr. Webster offered a great opportunity for Gabe to travel all the way to the country’s capital and see all the wonderful things there. But he couldn’t live with himself if he sacrificed those he loved for his own selfish ambitions.
When he arrived in town, he sent the telegram, and then put the thought from his mind. He would ask Kimi to marry him and he’d do it right this time. If she accepted, then they would lead a peaceful life on the reservation and serve the God they had grown to love.
The following week, Gabe drove into town with Kimi and her parents. The elder Hansens were taking the stage back to the reservation in another few days and wanted to do some shopping beforehand.
The Hansens proceeded into the general store. Gabe and Kimi were about to follow when the telegraph master rushed over to Gabe and handed him a telegram marked URGENT.
“What could Mr. Webster want? I hope he’s not angry with me for turning down his offer.”
“Only one way to find out,” Kimi said.
Gabe tore it open, almost afraid of what it would say.
“Kimi, you’re not going to believe this. Mr. Webster says I could bring you with me to Washington. He found you a job working as a translator between the government and the Sioux.”
“Washington, DC? Wow, that’s quite a change from these parts.”
“He says he sent two tickets for us to take the stagecoach back east.”
Gabe took her into his arms and smiled down at her. “Come to Washington as my wife.”
She touched his cheek and nodded in acceptance.
Epilogue
A warm spring sun shone on the small group gathered around the Weber relay station for the wedding. Wildflowers had sprung up in the past weeks, and Kimimela reveled in the bright colors that swept over the landscape.
Someone had a violin and played music as Kimimela stood before the man she loved. He looked handsome in his Indian buckskin, his raven-colored hair slicked back.
Mother had woven some beads in her hair, and she wore a necklace made from leather, precious stones, and multicolored beads. She had learned that loss was part of life, but with God’s grace she would get through any tragedy—with Gabe by her side, of course.
Debby Lee was raised in the cozy town of Toledo, Washington. She has been writing since she was a small child, and has written several novels, but never forgets home. The Northwest Christian Writers Association and Romance Writers of America are two organizations that Debby enjoys being a part of. She is represented by Tamela Hancock Murray of the Steve Laube Literary Agency. As a self-professed nature lover, and an avid listener of 1960s folk music, Debby can’t help but feel like a hippie child who wasn’t born soon enough to attend Woodstock. She wishes she could run barefoot all year long, but often does anyway in the grass and on the beaches in her hamlet that is cold and rainy southwest Washington. During football season, Debby cheers on the Seattle Seahawks along with legions of other devoted fans. She’s also filled with wanderlust and dreams of visiting Denmark, Italy, and Morocco someday. Debby loves connecting with her readers through her website at www.booksbydebbylee.com.
Echoes of the Heart
by Donna Schlachter
Dedication
Dedicated first and foremost to God the Father. Without Him, no story is worth telling, and to Patrick, the best husband in the whole world.
Chapter One
Hollenberg Pony Express Station, Kansas Territory May, 1860
Catherine Malloy braced a hand against the doorframe as the stage rounded a turn. A cloud of dust encircled the coach, filtering through the gaps in the doors, the curtains, the floor, and the roof, threatening to choke her. She coughed politely behind her gloved hand, cringing at the sight of the stains on her once-white hand coverings. Her spirits were as rumpled as her sleeves and skirt. Would the dirt ever come out?
But no matter how primitive the conditions, no matter how hostile the natives or how cold the winters—all stories she’d heard about the Wild West—she would not turn back.
She had nowhere to go.
When she’d excitedly read the advertisement in the magazine to her friend Maggie, neither had truly contemplated just how far the Kansas Territory was from Boston. Four days on the train to St. Joseph, Missouri, had been just the beginning. Three days in this bouncing torture chamber, surrounded by surly men, snot-nosed children, and sharp-tongued women caused her to question her sanity and her decision more than once. She’d already eaten more dust than she’d known existed.
In Mr. Troudt’s first letter, he’d explained that he ran a way station and needed a wife. Neither she nor Maggie knew what that was. They knew a man from Australia, who talked about working at a sheep station. Perhaps a way station was similar.
Not that any of that mattered. She had no reason to go back. No family.
No job. Not after the way Master Talbott had approached her.
She shifted her drawstring purse from its place on the floor behind her feet. Its weight clanged against the boards. While not her ill-gotten bag of coins and jewelry, the packet weighed on her heart and her conscience equally.
She glanced at her fellow passengers as they rocked in time with the movement of the stage. A man in a suit who looked like a banker or a lawyer. Next to him, a minister coming west to seek his flock, as he’d told her at least a dozen times in the past four days. Sitting beside her, a woman traveling through to California, who’d said little to anybody, instead keeping her face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Catherine had lost count of the people with whom she’d shared cramped quarters. Most were strange traveling companions, to be certain. Not that she was looking for a bosom friend.
She would stay here. Hollenberg Station, Kansas Territory. Where the Oregon and California Trails brought emigrants past what would become her new home. Very different from her parents’ house where she’d grown up. Not at all like the even grander Georgian house she’d lived in with her aunt and uncle.
Until he’d squandered her inheritance and forced her into servitude in the Talbott mansion.
The only good from that whole debacle was Maggie.
A lump filled her throat, threatening to cut off her breath. Maggie had taught her how to survive when she thought life no longer worth living. Taught her to curtsy, to keep her gaze low, to smile when asked to do the impossible, and to keep quiet when told to do the unreasonable.
She shivered. But she was no automaton. When the master of the house had made his intentions clear, she’d refused his demands.
She knew her days in that household were numbered.
And then she’d seen the advertisement in the penny magazine. She had hoped this was her way out. In her excitement, she’d read the notice to Maggie since her friend could neither read nor write. And Maggie had instantly latched onto the notion that this was God’s answer to her own prayers for a way to leave Boston.
Catherine sniffed at the idea. God had no interest in her life. Maybe in Maggie’s, but if that was true, why hadn’t He removed her from her dreary position, the long hours of hard work, the drudgery of servitude?
Despite her doubts about God’s hand in the matter, on Maggie’s behalf, she had penned a response to Mr. Benjamin Troudt, Hollenberg Station, Hanover, Kansas Territory.
A month later, a letter arrived at the mansion addressed to Miss Margaret Thomas.
And the whirlwind long-distance courtship commenced, punctuated by monthlong pauses where they wondered if he would respond. And when he did, such giddy excitement.
Mr. Troudt described a beautiful place, using language as pretty as poetry. Despite the fact he wrote to Maggie, Catherine imagined herself cooking in the kitchen, making delicious meals for her husband and his ranch hands. She saw herself weeding their garden, feeding their hens, riding beside her husba
nd into town to purchase supplies.
It was a nice dream.
Except it belonged to Maggie.
The stage jerked to a stop, almost throwing her from her seat. She dug her heels into the scarred wooden floor, her satchel jostling behind her feet. She waited while the others disembarked, allowing herself the luxury of a moment’s peace. A glance out the window showed a landscape still dry from the winter, waves of last year’s prairie grass waving in the chill wind. Trees, their leaves dusty and wilted, dotted the landscape. Such a contrast to Boston, where the cherry and apple trees, festooned with their pink blossoms, reminded her of brides and weddings. Even northern New York and Pennsylvania celebrated the coming of summer.
Had she really made the right decision? She didn’t know this man from Adam. His letters read as though he was well-established, running what sounded like a thriving ranch, living in a large home. He’d mentioned working hard, finding favor with his neighbors. He’d talked of the numbers of horses he took care of every day, and apparently he employed several men whom he referred to as riders.
And now she must convince Mr. Troudt she was Margaret. The woman he needed. The wife he wanted. His letters had said as much. The first, in response to hers, had stressed the amount of work she’d be responsible for, as well as his longing for a wife. She’d replied on Margaret’s behalf that she thrived on hard work and that she desired a husband and family. His second letter, much more personal, asked that she come immediately, using the enclosed ticket.
I would appreciate if you could find it in your heart to leave behind the fineries of Boston to make your home with me.
Maggie was so excited she could barely work. The advertisement for a wife had filled her friend’s mind with ideas and plans Catherine once hoped were to be her own. And after the altercation with the master of the house where the two worked, she needed to believe life could be different. Marriage, a husband, a home of her own, and children to raise would restore her reputation.
Yes, today was a good day to be alive.
Despite the pain in his leg and a blister on his left thumb, Benjamin Troudt thought this a good day to be alive. He dragged his crippled right leg behind him in the dust. Step. Drag. Rebalance. Repeat. He groaned at his seemingly slow progress. Today was not the day to be hampered by anything—not the weather, not a recalcitrant horse.
And not a gimpy leg.
A dust devil kicked up a mini-tornado in the yard ahead, twirling around like his thoughts. He had a lot of responsibility on his shoulders. The Hollenbergs, the owners of the station, were in Wichita, caring for Sophia’s gravely ill father. They expected to be gone for several months, perhaps longer.
They’d left him in charge. Starting today.
Now he could prove he was man enough to run this station.
His right foot twisted beneath his weight, and he bit back a groan. Physical limitations. “Get used to them,” the doctor had said. “Don’t expect things to get better. Work around the situation and get on with your life.”
That was all well and good for him to say. The old man was seventy if he was a day. Hale and hearty with a cheery wife, a home of his own, and four grown children. Unlike Benjamin, who at thirty-four, crippled, poor as a church mouse, and at threat of losing his position, was unlikely to find any woman who would want him.
As his stockman changed out the stage’s team, Benjamin checked the rolling prairie to the west. Where was Warton? The route manager stopped in every week or so as he checked in at his assigned stations between St. Joe and Scottsbluff, Nebraska Territory.
As he slapped dust from his pant leg, he admitted that this was no dream job or perfect situation. He was only here now because Warton felt guilty about his accident. And so he should. Benjamin gritted his teeth. Practical joke, indeed. He could have been killed riding that cantankerous horse. Warton deserved to spend the rest of his life helping Benjamin with his reports, just as he’d done for the past couple of months.
Warton owed him.
Benjamin paused near the corral as Jake released the old team into the corral. With Mrs. Hollenberg gone, he hoped none of the passengers planned on buying dinner. For him, it would be leftover soup and biscuits. No cook himself, he hadn’t really considered how he would manage until the owners returned. What if somebody complained? He shook his head at his foolishness. His mother would say he was just borrowing trouble. Probably something she’d read in the Bible, no doubt.
Well, he didn’t believe all that stuff. If God existed, surely He’d have kept him safe from that ornery horse. God could have done that.
Nope. He and God weren’t on speaking terms.
Catherine gathered her wilted skirts, straightened her hat, and stepped from the coach. The shotgun rider offered her a hand, which she gratefully accepted. The dry ground felt hard as cobblestones beneath her buttoned-up boots, and the hem of her dress attracted dust like a magnet.
She stared at the yard around her. Several chickens pecked at a small tuft of grass. The driver busied himself unhitching the team of four horses, their chests slathered with saliva from their hard run. The man who’d ridden shotgun climbed up the back of the coach and tossed down her luggage and the minister’s single satchel. She grimaced as her bag hit the ground with a thud. She hurried over and grabbed the leather handle.
A shadow fell across her, and she straightened, releasing the bag. Heat rushed to her face at the appraising look of the man standing much too close. She took a step back.
He wore a kerchief around his neck, and sweat stained his homespun shirt beneath the arms and across the chest. His worn dungarees and scuffed boots indicated either an ignorance of common decency when it came to dress, or a near-destitute status. Was this one of the riders she’d be expected to cook for?
He looked more like an untamed savage. Surely he wasn’t—
The man tipped the brim of his hat with a calloused hand. “Ma’am.” His gaze traveled down her length and back up, pausing a heartbeat too long just below her chin. “Jake is what most folks call me. I’m the stockman here.” His drawl said southern, but his leering grin bespoke something else. “But you can call me anything your heart likes.”
Her breath caught in her throat. She’d heard that manners west of the Mississippi were rough, but she certainly hadn’t expected behavior so forward or suggestive. “Take me to Mr. Troudt, please.”
He shuffled his boot in the dust and nodded at the carpetbag in her hand. “That yours?”
“Yes.”
He acknowledged her response with a quick nod. “I’ll carry your stuff inside.”
Well, that was nice of him. Perhaps her earlier conclusions were a tad hasty. “Thank you, Jake.”
To her right, a man watched them carefully, as if studying insects under a microscope. Had he never seen good manners before?
She fell into step behind the stockman, fixing her focus on the one-story building before her. Dismay rose in her throat like a sour drink. Bare board siding. Front door hanging ajar on leather hinges. Flattened tin cans used to patch the walls. Not exactly the large house she’d imagined. Not even a medium-sized dwelling. More like two rooms and a kitchen. The barn was at least twice as big as the house. Better-maintained, judging by the whitewashed boards and shutters at the windows.
Which said a lot about how much Mr. Troudt valued his animals.
And what he thought about his future wife.
And where was Mr. Troudt? True, their relationship was more business arrangement than courtship, but still, couldn’t the man at least make an effort? Or wasn’t her arrival worth the bother?
Perhaps he thought she wasn’t worth the trouble?
She paused, using her hand to shade her eyes against the late-day sun. One or two young men—boys, really—lounged against the rails, smoking and chatting.
Beneath her feet, the ground rumbled, and she hesitated. She’d heard of earthquakes in San Francisco but surely not here. A stampede of cattle? Buffalo? Heart pounding, throat
too dry to utter a sound, she glanced around, frantic to locate the source of the tremors. Should she run? Should she stand her ground?
Uncertain what to do, she remained frozen in place.
And still, to her right, the strange man with the brown felt hat remained rooted in place like a windblown scarecrow in a newly planted field.
A shout, and she wheeled to her left.
A scream. And not just any scream.
Her scream.
Benjamin sensed the incoming Pony Express rider before he saw him. The hooves pounded on the sunbaked trail, heralding the boy’s arrival, but his own feet weighed a hundred pounds each, rendering him unable to help the young woman who had alighted from the stage. Who was she? And why was she bringing her luggage with her?
The young woman stepped into the path of the rider, mere feet from those flashing hooves and half-ton of horseflesh, unmindful of the danger.
He stepped forward, dragging his cumbersome appendage behind him. In his mind, he saw himself running across the twenty or so feet separating them. But the reality of his movement jerked him back to the present.
He would not reach her in time.
Instead, his stockman dropped her bag, whirled about, and covered the distance in four long strides. Wrapping an arm around her waist, Jake pulled her from the path of the oncoming horse and rider just in time.
The two stood together for what seemed like hours before Jake released his grip on her and resumed his task of taking her luggage into the way station.
Benjamin hurried over as fast as his straight leg would allow as she reached the first step leading into the station. “Ma’am, are you all right?”
Her hazel, tear-filled eyes lifted to meet his, holding his gaze.
She nodded.
He tipped his hat to her. “I’m glad you weren’t injured. The way station yard can be a dangerous place. You mustn’t allow your attention to wander.”
The Pony Express Romance Collection Page 38