The Pony Express Romance Collection

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

  He nodded. “My grandfather taught me how to do five-ply braiding, so it’s durable, but soft. I thought maybe you could use it for the gray horse. What did you name him?”

  “Lobo.” She murmured the name so softly she barely heard her own voice. An unaccustomed tightness in her throat forced her to swallow several times before speaking again. “This was very thoughtful.”

  “I figured since he’s still kinda head shy…”

  “The softness’ll be perfect. Thank you.” She glanced across the corral where Lobo stood head-to-tail with Jasper. She dug in her pocket to see if she still had carrot pieces tucked there. “I want to try it on him.”

  She pulled out a few carrot chunks and held them out so both horses could see them as she approached. Lobo nickered a welcome.

  She fed both horses the treat, and while they munched, she held the halter where Lobo could sniff it. She rubbed the soft hide against the side of his head and waited. Lobo seemed more interested in finding another piece of carrot than investigating the halter. She carefully slid the straps up and over his head and ears. Lobo didn’t flinch.

  Mercy’s heart soared. Another step in his progress. She turned and sent Fletcher a triumphant grin, and he responded in kind. The moment their smiles intertwined, a tremor spiraled through her middle. Unwilling to identify and unable to control the emotion, she turned back and crooned to Lobo.

  With a gentle tug on the halter, Lobo willingly plodded alongside her to the fence where Fletcher waited.

  “Looks great.” But his gaze wasn’t on Lobo or the halter.

  The tenderness in his eyes robbed her of her good sense. The scars on her heart screamed at her to run, but something within her spirit whispered to wait…stay…

  After repeatedly telling herself Fletcher was no different from the others—the riders or her former suitors—that quiet voice wove a thread of uncertainty.

  Fletcher had never been intoxicated in his life, but mesmerized by Mercy’s soft brown eyes, he felt close. She was pleased with the gift and the effort he’d put into it. Pleasure skittered around his belly. If he wasn’t careful, a silly schoolboy grin might stretch across his face and reveal more than he wanted her to know.

  Instead, he tugged the brim of his hat a bit lower and stacked his arms on the top fence rail. “Got a message in yesterday’s mail from the Overland Stage Company. Cold Springs was a stage stop before the Pony Express started using it as a relay station, and it will still be a stage stop after—”

  He bit back the rest of the sentence, as if leaving the words unspoken would prevent the inevitable death of the Pony Express. His earlier resentment over not being allowed to ride paled a bit. Unemployment wasn’t really a huge concern—Overland had offered him the permanent position of stationmaster, even after the telegraph put the Express out of business.

  Mercy seemed to read his thoughts. “Will you stay on here?”

  Fletcher tapped the toe of his boot against the fence post. The thought of not seeing Mercy every day left a hollowness inside him. He studied her face. Awareness of his attraction to her grew by the day, but this went beyond attraction.

  “I’ve been offered the job if I want it.”

  She stroked Lobo’s neck. “Sounds like you don’t.”

  He let a sigh roll from his chest. “I don’t see myself living at an outpost in the middle of nowhere, waiting for the stage to come and go for the next twenty years, so I suppose I will be looking for a job. I hear tell some of the stage lines are already closing down because of the war anyway.”

  A tiny crease formed between Mercy’s brows. “The war is between the northern and southern states. It won’t affect folks out here in the territories, will it?”

  “I suppose it depends on a man’s convictions. There’s no question slavery is wrong. In my mind, it’s no different than the treatment Smitty gave Lobo and the other horses.” He propped one foot on the lowest fence rail.

  “What’ll you do then?”

  He shrugged. “With my lack of skill with a rifle, I’m afraid I wouldn’t make a very good soldier. But there must be other ways to aid the war effort. In the meantime, I have a nest egg saved up that will keep a roof over my head until I decide what to do.”

  The pinch between her brows deepened. “I’m worried about my brothers.”

  The desire to wrap her in a protective embrace sent a restless quiver through his hands. He jammed them into his pockets. “I can understand. My brother pulls some pretty harebrained stunts, and sometimes I worry if he’ll survive till his next birthday. But even when he makes me so mad I could spit, I still care about him. Wouldn’t surprise me if he goes off to join the army as soon as the Express closes down.”

  “Will you try to stop him?”

  The wistfulness in her voice pulled him closer to her, but the fence separated them. Despite how tough and pigheaded she tried to act, the direction of the conversation let him catch a glimpse of her insecurity.

  “I could try, but I doubt he’d listen. But no matter what happens—if he joins up or not—I’ll pray for him.”

  Mercy looked away. “I’m not sure God cares if I pray or not.”

  “You’re wrong, Mercy. He cares a great deal.” He touched two fingers to her chin and tilted it up so she had to turn widened eyes to him. “I don’t know what happened to make you think God doesn’t listen to you, and it’s none of my business. But if you’ll let me, I’d like to share something with you.”

  She patted Lobo and sent him ambling back to his friends. “What’s that?”

  “My mother’s favorite scripture. My pa carved it into one of the logs in the cabin where I grew up.”

  Her eyes clouded over, but she nodded.

  “It’s in Psalm 34. It says, ‘I sought the LORD, and he heard me, and delivered me from all my fears.’ Ma used to say worrying was a waste of time when she could pray instead.”

  Mercy climbed through the fence rails and stood facing him. “So you think every time you pray, God listens?”

  Fletcher gave her a slow smile. “Yes, but what I’m saying is every time you pray, He listens.”

  Doubt stamped its imprint on her features, and she pressed her lips together as if forbidding release of what she wanted to say.

  Fletcher leaned one elbow on the fence rail. “Can’t you think of a single time you prayed and God answered?”

  Mercy sent her gaze across the corral. “Yes. I asked Him to help heal Lobo. I’d tried everything I knew, but it wasn’t enough.” She turned back to him. “He must’ve listened, because Lobo is better.”

  “God cares, Mercy.”

  Hesitancy still edged her countenance, as if she weighed more than his words.

  Fletcher adjusted his hat brim against the sun. “You’ve probably already guessed that I wanted to ride for the Express.”

  A tiny smile tweaked the corners of her mouth. “I figured as much.”

  “They wouldn’t hire me as a rider. I’m too big, too tall, too heavy.” To his surprise, speaking the words didn’t sting. “Yes, I asked God to let me be a Pony Express rider. But just because I didn’t get to ride doesn’t mean God didn’t hear me. It means He said no. He has something else planned for my life, and He hasn’t shown me what that is yet. When God doesn’t answer the way we want Him to, it’s because He knows what’s best for us better than we do.”

  He put his hands on his hips and looked her in the eye. “I needed to say that because I needed to remember it.”

  The prairie wind tossed the loose ends of Mercy’s hair, and she brushed them from her face. “And I needed to hear it.”

  Chapter Seven

  Mercy saddled a pony she’d been calling Jackrabbit and led him to the yard in front of the barn. A bit bleary eyed, she’d wrestled with Fletcher’s words all night, and they continued to echo in her head and heart this morning.

  “When God doesn’t answer the way we want Him to, it’s because He knows what’s best for us better than we do.”

&n
bsp; The struggle wasn’t just about whether or not she believed God cared or listened. The feelings she could no longer deny colored the way she regarded Fletcher. She didn’t want to fall in love again—she didn’t. But arguing with God over the matter was useless. God always won.

  Tommy Creech was scheduled up next to ride. He exited the station and tied his bandanna around his neck. This would be a double exchange—a fresh horse and rider. He’d grab the mailbags and continue the westbound leg of the journey.

  A small cloud of dust in the distance indicated the rider was a few minutes ahead of schedule. Tommy must have seen it, too. He squinted and curled his lip into a scowl. “I’m gonna give that Harlan a run for his money.”

  Mercy thrust her hand out to block him from mounting. “Don’t forget what Fletcher told all of you.”

  He knocked her hand out of the way and vaulted into the saddle. “You think you can threaten me? Watch my dust.”

  The rider drew closer, and Mercy didn’t have time to argue with the hotheaded kid. “I don’t make idle threats. You injure this or any other horse, and you’ll answer to me.”

  The incoming rider thundered in, tossing the mail pouches to Tommy, who galloped off toward Fremont Springs. When she reached to catch the reins of the foam-flecked horse, the rider half dismounted and half fell to the ground.

  As Tommy had said, it was Fletcher’s brother. Harlan staggered to his feet and limped to the trough where he dunked his head in the water. Fletcher strode from the station.

  “Harlan?”

  The kid straightened and shook water from his hair. “Whooee! That was a ride!”

  Fletcher reached his brother. “Why are you limping?”

  Harlan shrugged. “I took a spill. But I made up for it. From Platte Station to Cold Springs in just over seven hours, and half o’ that ride was in the dark. Ain’t nobody gonna do better.”

  Harlan’s braggadocio-filled announcement tightened Mercy’s stomach. The other riders viewed Harlan as the one to beat. Whatever he did, they’d try to outdo. She led the lathered-up horse to the back side of the barn where she could tie him in a sliver of shade. She loosened the cinch and hoisted the saddle from the animal. “I’ll bring you some water and grain after you’ve cooled off a bit.”

  She slung the saddle over a low rail in the barn, and then went to grab a brush and currycomb. After Harlan’s crowing about how fast he’d made his leg of the route, Mercy intended to examine the horse thoroughly.

  Sure enough, once the foamy sweat began to dry in the prairie wind, wounds in the animal’s sides became visible. She led the horse a few steps into the sun to get a better look. The flesh was broken and bleeding along the horse’s ribs—right where Harlan had dug his spurs.

  Anger seethed through her, but she restrained herself long enough to care for the weary horse’s needs. After she brushed him and applied liniment to the open wounds to keep the flies off, she let him have some water.

  Tasks completed, she stomped to the station. Even before she set foot inside she could hear Harlan bragging.

  “You boys don’t got a chance.”

  A chorus of disagreement met his bluster. Mercy entered as Harlan limped to the stove and poured himself a cup of coffee. Wiley Sterne followed him.

  “C’mon Harlan, me ’n’ you is friends. How’d you make that kind o’ time?”

  Harlan set his coffee aside and propped first one foot and then the other on a chair while he unfastened his spurs. He held them up for Wiley to see. “This is how you get a horse to move.”

  Even from the doorway, Mercy could see he’d filed the rowels on his spurs to sharp points. Incensed, she closed the space between them and grabbed the spurs from Harlan’s outstretched hand.

  “Hey!” But Fletcher’s brother wasn’t fast enough.

  Mercy seized a rag from Enola’s worktable and yanked open the stove, tossing the spurs into the flames.

  Harlan bellowed curses and grabbed Mercy by the shoulders, shaking her till she thought her teeth would rattle. She tried to swing her foot back to thrust a kick into his shins, but the violent motion kept her off balance.

  “Take your hands off her!” Fletcher dragged his brother away from Mercy and drew back his fist.

  “Fletcher, no!” As much as she wanted to knock some sense into Harlan herself, she couldn’t let Fletcher punch his own brother.

  Fletcher put Harlan up against the wall and growled through clenched teeth. “Don’t you ever—ever lay a finger on her or speak to her like that again.”

  “But she threw my spurs in the stove, the little—”

  “Enough!” Fletcher shoved Harlan against the corner of the table. They glared at each other for several long moments before Harlan stomped out the door.

  Only then did Mercy realize she was still shaking—not from Harlan’s manhandling, but from the anger that roiled within her. The heartlessness of men never failed to infuriate her. She stalked out the back door and headed toward the barn to check on the horse again.

  “Mercy.”

  She slowed her steps. When Fletcher caught up with her, storm clouds darkened his eyes.

  “Are you all right?”

  She stiffened her jaw. “Of course I’m all right.”

  They stopped in the back doorway of the barn and Fletcher glanced over his shoulder, presumably to see if Harlan followed. His brow dipped in consternation.

  “Did you really throw Harlan’s spurs in the stove?”

  She lifted her chin. “Yes, I did, and I’d do it again.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Why? What happened?”

  She tipped her head toward the barn. “Come and see for yourself.”

  She proceeded to where the horse was cross-tied in a stall. She untied him and led him outside in the sunlight where Fletcher could examine the wounds left by the brutal spurs. He muttered under his breath as he ran his hand over the horse’s side.

  “Harlan did this?”

  Mercy nodded. “He filed down the rowels until they were sharp points, and he gouged the horse with them.”

  Fletcher clamped his teeth and hissed. “I wish I could say I’ll make sure it never happens again, but I can’t promise that. I will promise to take action against any rider found to be abusing a horse, and I’ll make sure the riders know it, so they can’t say they haven’t been warned.”

  She wanted to believe him. Fletcher hadn’t given her any reason to doubt him, and to continually compare him to Lester Waring and Cliff Rutledge was unfair. But her anger needed an outlet. “Why? Why are men so cruel, so uncaring, so self-centered?” She spat the words as a snake did venom.

  Fletcher reached out and touched her shoulder where his brother had, only a few minutes before, dug ruthless fingers into her flesh. But Fletcher’s fingertips, in contrast, lit as gently on her shoulder as the early morning sun.

  “Not all, Mercy. I promise.”

  Fletcher’s frustration with his kid brother billowed within his chest. Trying to talk sense into Harlan was like trying to stop the wind from blowing across the prairie. Maybe after they both calmed down…

  But calm wasn’t to be his companion. Hours after he’d extinguished the lantern, Fletcher rose from his bed. The quiet station belied the restless thoughts that stirred and tangled through his mind like tumbleweeds. He padded to the front door and opened it.

  Chilly night air wafted over his face as he stepped outside. Late September brought welcome relief from summer’s heat. Autumn’s frost was only a week or two away. God’s starry canopy enveloped him with pinpoints of light. How small he was in the vastness. But God saw him and already knew why he couldn’t sleep. He knelt beside the corner of the barn.

  “I guess You’ve been waiting for me, haven’t You?” The peace of God’s presence welcomed him into its embrace. “Lord, You know everything that’s been going on. My brother’s taking foolish risks and doesn’t care who or what he hurts in the process. I guess You know the riders have this contest going on, and I’m afraid so
meone is going to be injured. With the telegraph connecting pretty soon, I’m going to need to find work, because I don’t want to stay here.”

  The prospect of remaining as the stationmaster held no challenge or interest. But the monotony of the job wasn’t the only disagreeable aspect of accepting Overland’s offer. The truth was he didn’t want to stay there without Mercy. He expected her brothers to show up any day and drag her away, and he didn’t want to think about how lonely the place would be in her absence.

  “Lord, I can’t get Mercy off my mind. I don’t want to ask why she’s so distrustful, because if someone hurt her, I’d want to hunt them down, and revenge isn’t Your way. So I pray You’ll bring peace and comfort to her heart. Let her see how faithful You are.”

  He rubbed his hand over his eyes. Was it right to pray for Mercy to return his feelings? There was no point in holding back anything from God. The Lord wouldn’t be surprised to know he’d fallen in love with Mercy.

  “Heavenly Father, I want to tell her how I feel, but she’d probably think I’ve lost my mind. But I haven’t. I’ve lost my heart. So please, Lord, help her understand that not all men are selfish and cruel. That’s going to be hard for her to accept, so You’re going to have to do something special for her. But that’s all right, because Mercy’s special.”

  When Mercy decided to walk out to the barn, she didn’t expect anyone else to be up and stirring. So the voice carrying on the night air startled her. Had she forgotten to saddle a horse for an incoming rider? No, she’d checked before she turned in. The next rider wasn’t due in until around ten o’clock in the morning.

  She recognized Fletcher’s voice, but who was he talking to? Harlan? She edged closer, expecting to hear them arguing.

  He was kneeling by the barn, alone…and praying…for her. She covered her mouth with her fingers to muffle her gasp. The skin on her arms tingled and her pulse raced.

  He mustn’t know she’d eavesdropped on his prayer. She flattened herself against the side of the barn until he told God good night and went back inside.