Her mouth tightened into a hard line. “Perhaps you could ask your riders to be more considerate of those who live here.”
Live here? What was she talking about? He cleared his throat. “Nobody lives here, ma’am, except me and Jake, my stockman.”
Not exactly true, of course. The Hollenbergs lived here. But she wasn’t going to be here long enough to know about them.
She pulled her shoulders back as though defying him to correct her. “I am Margaret Thomas, Mr. Troudt’s fiancée. And when Mr. Troudt finds the time to show his face, he’ll confirm that fact for you.”
Benjamin’s mind raced. Surely this woman was mentally unbalanced. “I am Mr. Troudt. Benjamin Troudt. Stationmaster. And either you are mistaken or misinformed. No woman lives here. I am not engaged to marry.”
Chapter Two
Inside the station, away from the sweltering heat of the day, Catherine swallowed, her mouth dry. “Sir, I am not mistaken. I have the magazine with the advertisement right here.”
Gasping shallow breaths, Catherine dug into her carpetbag for the proof. Her fingers found the pages she sought, and she pulled them from the bag, taking care not to dislodge or display her underthings as the two men towered over her. “Here.”
Mr. Troudt froze in place as though afraid to touch the paper.
When he didn’t move, she read the words. “Wife wanted.”
When he stared at the page as though the words were written in a foreign language, Catherine huffed. Didn’t he even know what his advertisement said?
He looked up, his brown eyes creased at the corners with wrinkles. From the sun? Or perhaps from extreme pain? She wasn’t sure—wasn’t even certain she cared to know. Knowing might make her heart soften toward this man, and she didn’t want any excuse to keep her from moving on if this didn’t work out.
“That isn’t my advertisement.”
She huffed again. Is this how she would be rejected? Would he pretend this was all a practical joke or a huge mistake? She pointed to the short paragraph, but she didn’t need to read the words.
They burned in her heart and her hopes.
She drew a calming breath. “Wife needed. Must be healthy and strong, neat and tidy in appearance, and willing to take on tasks of running a household and way station in Hanover, Kansas. Reply to—” She looked up at him. “I have your letters, as well.” She thrust the pages toward him, watching his reaction. “These are your letters, aren’t they?”
His eyes widened. “I don’t know anything about this.”
“You did write them, didn’t you?”
His mouth opened and closed a couple of times before he responded. “How could I? I can’t—”
She’d been a fool to think he’d believe she was Margaret.
She’d been an idiot to think she could simply step off the stagecoach and into a new life.
One with a hope and future.
She nodded. No point in wasting energy on a man—or a situation—where she wasn’t wanted. “I can see this isn’t going to work out. I’ll leave tomorrow.” She glanced at the building. “Do you have lodgings for me for tonight?”
A look passed between Mr. Troudt and the stockman.
Jake’s top lip lifted in a half-sneer, but the stationmaster’s frown stilled the man.
An entire conversation took place in front of her, with not a word spoken.
She already knew where Jake would have her bed down this night.
Benjamin’s stomach convulsed in time with his thoughts. The hazel eyes staring back at him reminded him of a rabbit he’d once caught in a leg-trap. The animal had twisted and jerked, trying to escape.
She had the same trapped look.
His heart ached to be the solution she sought, but he barely managed to keep a roof over his own head. How could he hope to support a wife? But how to explain without hurting her further? “I didn’t write those letters. There must be some mistake.”
The frown that drew down her brow still didn’t mar her beauty. “Are you Benjamin Troudt of Hollenberg Station, Hanover, Kansas Territory?
“Yes, but—” Words failed him. He dropped his gaze. “I’m sorry.”
Eyes blazing, she faced him. “‘Sorry’? Is that all you have to say for yourself?”
No, he had much more he wanted to say. Stay. Forgive me. Look past my gimpy leg. Someday love me.
But he couldn’t say those things.
She deserved more than he could offer.
Perhaps this beautiful jewel of the East was the victim of as cruel a practical joke as he had been. Somebody—a man, it seemed—was likely laughing at both of them right now.
Benjamin paused and stared at Jake and the two Pony riders staring at him. Were they behind this? He shook his head. Unlikely, since none of them could read.
No, the culprit had to be somebody literate.
Somebody like—no. Not Warton. Surely he wouldn’t be so cruel?
Still, there no mistaking the fact she had come here expecting marriage. To the man who wrote those letters.
But he wasn’t that man.
She wrung her hands together. “I can keep house.”
He shook his head. “You can’t stay here. Your reputation—”
She clenched her fist, squeezing her small drawstring purse as though she wished her hands were around his neck. “Is there another stage today?”
He dug in a pocket. “Do you have funds—”
She brushed aside his words. “I will be just fine. Without you.”
He nodded, unable to speak, his words trapped in the maelstrom of conflict within him.
She sniffed then glanced around the room that doubled as passenger rest area, ticket office, and general store. “Don’t worry about me.”
She hefted her carpetbag then whirled about and headed for the yard where the stages pulled in.
Benjamin stared after her.
What he wouldn’t give to have a woman like her beside him, supporting him. A perfect helpmeet.
The perfect wife.
Catherine dropped her bag at her feet beneath a rough-barked tree. A small cloud of dust wafted off on the afternoon breeze. Sweat dribbled down the small of her back, and she wished she’d had the presence of mind to ask to use the facilities and perhaps wash her face and hands before stalking off and cutting all ties with that despicable man.
What had happened between the time he’d written those kind and gentle letters and her arrival?
She wiped at the perspiration on her forehead with a handkerchief then grimaced at the dark smudge left on the square of cotton. Ugh. She needed a clean hanky. She sank to the ground, tucking her legs beneath her, spreading her travel-worn skirts around her.
A sob rose in her throat. She’d lost her best friend to cholera. She’d lost her honor and position to a lecherous employer, who had made her living conditions unbearable and spread lies about her, implying she was promiscuous and with child.
And now she’d lost her only hope of redemption to a man who had gone back on his word.
She unfastened the closing strap on her bag and dug into its contents for the small bundle of hankies tucked into a corner. Maggie’s hankies, each embroidered with a fancy M. Bold and colorful like Maggie herself.
She extracted the top square, the blue initial reminding her of Maggie’s eyes. Tears blurred her vision, and she swallowed back the despair and longing threatening to choke her.
She studied the horizon. The Oregon and California Trails merged several miles back before splitting again just past the way station. She hadn’t thought to ask if the next stage was going east or west. West, she hoped, although she doubted she had enough coins to pay the fare to the next town in either direction. Perhaps she could offer the driver a watch. No, that might arouse suspicion. Perhaps a bracelet or a locket.
She nudged at the satchel. The metal inside clinked together, ill-gotten gain, through no fault of her own. Of why she couldn’t go back to Boston. No, those items belonged to someone
else.
Whatever had Maggie been thinking?
Catherine hadn’t known her friend as well as she thought she did.
A poor judge of character after all.
As evidenced by Mr. Troudt’s reaction.
Ever since the lovely Miss Margaret Thomas exited his humble abode, Benjamin had delayed returning to his duties, instead telling Jake some paperwork needed his immediate attention. As crude as his stockman was, he was no fool.
Benjamin couldn’t face her again. To do so would only cause his mind to wander to the what-ifs, to imagining what life could be like, if only…
If only the promise of adventure and fifty dollars a month plus room and board hadn’t fed his wanderlust. If only he hadn’t answered the poster advertisement calling for riders for the new Pony Express. If only he hadn’t fallen from that cantankerous pony in St. Joe. If only…
But that was all behind him now. Nothing could change the past. He was a cripple. Damaged goods. No woman would want him.
Nothing could change the present.
And nothing could change the future. Miss Thomas would leave. And even though he wasn’t the man she thought he was, imagining that she had come here for him would sustain him for a long time.
A shout from the yard caught his attention. He tossed his quill pen on the desk and strode to the door.
A covered wagon separated from the main train and rolled through the knee-high prairie grass, heading for the way station, the driver whipping the four-horse team into a lather. Benjamin crossed the yard, not looking in Miss Thomas’s direction but feeling her presence as surely as if she walked beside him. He shielded his eyes from the sun and waited until the wagon got within hailing distance. Often typhoid fever afflicted these wagon trains, and he couldn’t take a chance spreading the disease.
He held up a hand. “Who goes there?”
The driver pulled his team to a halt then glanced over his shoulder into the bed of the Conestoga wagon. “Carl and Emma Simpson. My wife is pregnant, and the babe is coming. Is the doctor here?”
Benjamin shook his head. “Doctor was here yesterday but he went on to Marysville. You should be able to make that in about four hours or so.”
Simpson and his wife had a quiet conversation, and then he applied the brake and stepped down. “Please. You must help. The babe is ready now. She can’t go on.”
Panic rose like an artesian well in Benjamin’s throat. “Nobody here knows anything about birthing a baby.”
Simpson went around to the rear of the wagon and lowered the tailgate. He nodded toward the woman sitting under the tree. “What about her?”
“She doesn’t belong here.”
Chapter Three
Catherine straightened from delivering the Simpson baby. After she had laid the wriggling child in his mother’s arms, she pressed her hands into the small of her aching back.
“She doesn’t belong here.”
While that might be what Mr. Benjamin Troudt wanted to believe, her lack of belonging hadn’t stopped him from asking for her help.
She smiled at the mother and baby resting in the bed of their wagon, cushioned by homemade quilts, propped up on feather pillows. Outside, her husband paced, his boots crunching on the dry grass.
Catherine stuck her head through the drawn canvas barrier separating her from the outside world. “Mr. Simpson, you have a fine son.”
The new father whooped, and several of the men gathered around—including that despicable Mr. Troudt—clapped him on the back in congratulations.
She swiped at a loose tendril of hair that insisted on falling into her eyes, wishing for a bonnet to control the unruly mass. The baby whimpered, and Catherine turned. He was an overly large baby and caused a difficult delivery. His mother needed stitches and plenty of rest.
Catherine doubted Mrs. Simpson would get enough of either.
She released the latch on the tailgate, and two men stepped forward to help her down. She smiled her thanks to each in turn.
Mr. Simpson stepped forward. “When can we leave?”
“Your wife should rest. She had a hard delivery, and she really needs a doctor.”
He glanced past her. “A doctor? Is she sick?”
“No.” Heat rushed to Catherine’s cheeks. How to explain—delicately—what his wife needed? “The child was large.”
“Good. I hoped for a strong, husky boy.”
“And your wife is—uh—small. Which is what made the delivery so hard for her.”
“Is she going to be all right?”
Catherine nodded. “She will need some attention from the doctor. Then she should be able to travel in due time.”
Mr. Simpson peered over Catherine’s shoulder again. “How long? The train isn’t going to wait for us.”
Mr. Troudt clapped the man on the back. “Have no fear. We have a number of wagon trains passing through here each day. You can latch on to one when you’re ready.”
The father eyed the sky to the west. “Can’t waste time here in the middle of nowhere.” He locked eyes with Catherine. “How long?”
Her mouth dry, Catherine stared at the man. Did he have no concept of the pain his wife had just gone through to birth their son? Did he not understand how tired she was? How much she needed rest and good food? “I’m not a doctor—”
Mr. Simpson nodded. “Three days.”
Mr. Troudt pushed his hat back on his head. “I don’t think the doctor will get here that fast.” He glanced at Catherine then back to the new father. “How about I put you to work here in exchange for your room and board until your wife is well enough to travel?”
Mr. Simpson’s mouth drew down. “I dunno. Don’t want a charity job.”
The stationmaster continued. “What did you do before you headed west?”
“I was a blacksmith.”
“Perfect. I use a circuit smithy, but he’s at the home station in St. Joe’s. The Express just bought new ponies that need to be shoed, so he’ll be there a while. I need some work done, and I’ll bet Miss Thomas has some ideas for kitchen thingamabobs and the like that we need around the station. I can give you a room to yourselves, three meals a day for both of you. In return, you give me your smithy skills.” He turned to face her. “Will you stay? At least while Mr. Simpson and his wife are with us? I will pay you for your time.”
“Miss Thomas has some ideas…”
Unable to form the words, she merely nodded, although her heart raced at the thought. Perhaps this was his way of apologizing for his previous reaction.
Maybe he did want her as his wife after all.
Mr. Simpson considered the offer for several long minutes while Catherine held her breath, studying Mr. Troudt’s features. Based on the stationmaster’s treatment of her, she’d not thought him to be overly compassionate or considerate, yet he had shown himself to be both.
Perhaps she needed to rethink her opinion of him.
She shook herself mentally. No. He had given her a reprieve—a short reprieve. She could not allow herself to think of him as wanting anything more than to rid himself—and his station—of her.
Mr. Simpson nodded slowly. “Fine.”
The two men shook hands, then Mr. Troudt led the smithy toward the barn.
Catherine leaned against the wagon and breathed a sigh of relief.
Mrs. Simpson’s presence meant she wouldn’t have to leave today.
But Mr. Troudt’s reminder that she must leave when the Simpsons left meant she would have to leave soon.
Because she would not stay where she wasn’t wanted.
And she couldn’t stay where her heart threatened to betray her by developing feelings for a man who had none for her.
Benjamin led the way into the barn, Mr. Simpson close on his heels. One of the station dogs rose from its place just inside the door and stretched, its haunches raised high, and its mouthful of teeth bared.
Mr. Simpson paused at the sight. “Does he bite?”
“Yep.”
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When the man hesitated, Benjamin chuckled. “But not people.”
Simpson’s eyes narrowed a moment before his face relaxed. “Good. Show me what you need.”
Over the next thirty minutes, Benjamin walked Simpson through the barn, the small shed outside where the traveling smithy worked, and the station house itself where travelers ate and slept.
Once the man was acclimated to his temporary home, Benjamin left him to move his family into the largest sleeping room at the far end of the loft area before turning his attention back to his immediate concern: Margaret Thomas.
What had he been thinking? Asking her to stay just long enough for him to get used to having her around? And what must she think of him—a cripple with a mind as changeable as the weather?
In an effort to still his restless mind, Benjamin selected the sorrel gelding from the corral, tied it to a rail, and then began the mindless job of brushing the animal.
Benjamin poured his energy into the task, but still Miss Thomas invaded his thoughts. Her face flashed across his mind, and he leaned harder into the brushing. At one point, the gelding shifted its weight and stepped on Benjamin’s toe.
He slapped hard against the half-ton of horseflesh. “Ouch, you stupid creature. Off!”
He limped around in a circle, holding his throbbing foot, while the horse sidled and turned its head to eye him.
As the pain subsided, Benjamin turned his focus back to the task at hand, chagrined to see that in his desire to block out Miss Thomas, he’d brushed against the grain of the hide.
No wonder the poor creature had stomped on him.
He patted its neck. “Sorry about that, boy. I’ll pay more attention.”
Feeling the need to seek wiser counsel than his own, Benjamin leaned his head against the horse’s side and closed his eyes. “Lord, help still my confused thoughts. She can’t stay here. She doesn’t want to be anywhere near me. And if I can’t have her—”
“—then I want her to leave as soon as possible.”
Passing near the corral on her way to the washtub after checking on Mrs. Simpson again, Catherine paused and shifted the clothesbasket full of soiled birthing cloths.
The Pony Express Romance Collection Page 39