He prayed for me. The thought spun through her head like a prairie twister.
Perhaps there were good men who put the feelings of others ahead of their own, men of character and honor who chose to do right. Admitting she was wrong meant allowing herself to be vulnerable again. Dare she let down her guard?
She couldn’t deny Fletcher had set himself apart from the others at the station, and he’d proven himself far different from Lester or Cliff. The carefully constructed wall she’d kept around her heart began to crumble, one brick at a time. He implied—no, he promised that he wasn’t like the others. The real test would be whether or not he kept his word.
“God, please don’t let me be hurt again.”
Chapter Eight
Mercy jogged Lobo around the corral with only a saddle blanket and the soft halter. Another week and he’d be ready to work again. Part of her was proud of his recovery, though she knew she couldn’t take credit for it. Fletcher was right—God had heard and answered her prayer. But in a hidden place deep within her, she harbored the secret hope that none of the Pony Express riders would use Lobo for any of the remaining runs. Perhaps she should talk to God about that and see if He was still listening.
Hoofbeats pulled her distracted thoughts back to awareness. No riders were scheduled in or out for at least three more hours. She scanned the yard and couldn’t mistake her eldest brother’s buckskin horse loping toward the station, followed by Jesse’s black gelding and Bowie’s palomino.
She slid off Lobo and climbed through the fence rails. Lobo nickered after her as she walked to the hitching rail to meet her brothers.
Jesse wrapped her in a hug and lifted her off the ground. “Chicken livers, I sure have missed you.”
Mercy laughed as he plunked her back onto her feet.
Sawyer snorted. “He misses your cookin’.” He gave her a one-armed squeeze around her shoulders.
Bowie held his arms out. “I missed you ’cause I didn’t have anyone to tease.”
She noted as she hugged her youngest brother that Bowie sported a few whiskers on his chin. When had he gotten old enough to have facial hair? Had she really only been here two months? Because seeing her brothers suddenly made the time feel much longer.
Bowie led their horses to the water trough while Jesse headed inside—no doubt to find Enola and talk her into feeding him. Sawyer walked with Mercy toward the back corral where Lobo still stood at the fence watching her every move.
Sawyer squinted. “This isn’t one of the horses that was hurt, is it?”
“Yes. This is Lobo.” Mercy dug in her pocket for a piece of carrot. “If you look closer, you can see the scars on his left shoulder and chest.” They reached the fence, and Mercy noted with satisfaction that Lobo didn’t shy away, even at Sawyer’s approach. Lobo wrapped greedy lips around the nugget of carrot on her outstretched palm.
Sawyer gave a low whistle. “He sure was messed up. But he looks good now.” He tousled her hair. “As mad as I was at ya for bein’ so pigheaded to insist on stayin’ here, I’ll admit you sure worked wonders.”
Mercy shook her head. “It wasn’t me. God did it.”
“Huh?” Sawyer tossed her a puzzled look.
She smiled. “I’ll tell you all about it sometime.” She rubbed Lobo’s nose. “So what brings you to Cold Springs? You aren’t deliverin’ any more horses.”
“Nope.” Sawyer adjusted his hat. “We’re headin’ southwest of here. Got some good information about a large herd of horses grazin’ in the hills. The army is payin’ top dollar for well-broke horses.”
At his mention of the army, Mercy’s throat tightened. Bits and pieces of news about the war had traveled up and down the Pony Express line. Mercy had tried to ignore it, but there was no ignoring a threat that could pull her brothers into the fray. “How many horses are they needin’?”
“I talked to a Major Burkett—guess he’s the one in charge of buyin’ horses. He said if we can show him we can deliver the horses he needs, he’d give us an open contract.” Sawyer rubbed a grimy hand over several days’ growth of whiskers. “It’s good money.”
Bowie sauntered up to join them. “I’m plannin’ on joinin’ up as soon as—”
Sawyer silenced him with a glare. “We’ve been all over this. I need you with us. Jesse and I can’t catch and break enough mustangs to satisfy the army’s demands. It’s at least a three-man job.” He folded his arms over his chest.
Bowie shot a pointed look at Mercy. “If you would come home and help with the breakin’ and trainin’, I’d be free to join up.”
Mercy’s breath caught as Sawyer directed their youngest brother to the station to see if Fletcher was about. As soon as he was out of earshot, Sawyer turned to her.
“So how’s your job goin’ here?”
“I like it, Sawyer. Really. You know I’ve always loved workin’ with horses, but this is different. These horses needed me.” She looked in Lobo’s direction. “He was hurt the worst. The others have already returned to service.”
Sawyer fell into step beside her as they strolled past the barn toward the station. “It ain’t no secret the telegraph’ll be up and runnin’ in another couple o’ weeks. The Pony Express might even sell their horses to the army. What happens to your job then?”
Mercy lifted her shoulders. Sawyer wasn’t asking a question she hadn’t asked herself—and God—a few times already. “Guess I’ll join you mustangin’. But I gotta tell you, I love what I’m doin’ here.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “That all you’re in love with?”
Even the cooler autumn temperatures couldn’t stop the heat from creeping into Mercy’s face. “I don’t know, Sawyer.”
They paused outside the back door of the station, and her big brother laid his hand on her shoulder. “Just don’t get hurt again.”
She shook her head. If he was telling her not to fall in love, he was too late.
“As far as your job goes, I reckon the station will stay open for the Overland stages. They’ll still need a hostler. Stay as long as you’re needed.”
She cocked her head and sent him a questioning look. As if reading her thoughts, he pulled her a few steps away from the door and lowered his voice.
“I’m afraid if you come with us now, Bowie will leave to join the army.”
The incoming rider pulled a wadded scrap of paper from inside his shirt and tossed it at Fletcher. A blink of an eye later, the wiry young fellow flung himself onto the horse whose bridle Mercy held and galloped off.
Fletcher shoved the paper into his pocket, pretty sure of what it said. He didn’t want to add any fuel to the riders’ challenge. He watched as Mercy glanced over the horse before she took him to the barn. Fletcher knew without asking she was searching for signs of abuse.
He walked to where she was running her hands over the animal. “He all right?”
She nodded. “Just tired from his run. Maybe the riders are takin’ what you told them seriously.”
“Maybe. At least some of them are.” Should he tell her about the last “discussion” he’d had with his brother, and how they’d nearly come to blows when Harlan had stated he intended to win the challenge and didn’t care how he had to do it? He decided to keep it to himself.
Mercy gathered the horse’s reins and pointed her chin toward Fletcher. “Aren’t you gonna read it?”
She must have seen the note the rider tossed to him. He withdrew it from his pocket and skimmed over it. Pretty much what he expected. He glanced around to make sure none of the riders were within listening distance.
“‘Wires now a hundred and ten miles west of Fort Kearny.’”
She just gave a resigned sigh and led the horse to the barn. Fletcher followed.
“Sawyer told me he and your other brothers were selling horses to the army.” He watched her face to see if her expression changed. “I figured they’d want you to come along and help with the breaking and training.”
Mercy didn’t lo
ok up from her task of seeing to the horse. “Depends on who you ask. Bowie wants me to go with Sawyer and Jesse so he can go join the army. Sawyer wants me to stay here so Bowie won’t join the army.”
He arched his brows. Sawyer had really told her to stay? “This message means the telegraph is only about twenty miles away from Cold Springs to the east. Some of the riders have talked about seeing crews planting poles and stringing wire this side of Julesburg to the west. The Express won’t be around much longer.”
The corners of Mercy’s mouth turned downward. “That news is only gonna make the riders all the more determined to win the challenge. What if—” She pressed her lips closed.
Fletcher knew what she was about to say, and he wished he could assure her no horses would suffer. But offering such a promise could result in the breaking of the fragile trust that existed between them.
September faded into October, and waiting for the next missive regarding the telegraph had everyone on edge. Despite his repeated warnings to the riders, Fletcher had overheard them goading each other more than once. To occupy his thoughts and nerves, he sat on the narrow porch braiding another soft halter.
Mercy led out a saddled horse and trotted him around the yard. Distracted by the sight of her, Fletcher laid aside his work and joined her. “Who’s on the schedule?”
“Jamie Nevin is coming in from Cottonwood. He’ll take this run all the way to Alkali.”
Fletcher nodded. Jamie wasn’t a hothead like some of the others, and had already stated he intended to return to Indiana and work on his uncle’s farm after his final Express run. The quiet young fellow had been one of the few not caught up in the riders’ challenge.
Mercy pointed east. “Dust cloud. Here he comes.” She positioned the horse to the rider’s advantage and waited.
But when the rider thundered in and hauled on the reins to slide his mount to a halt, it wasn’t Jamie. Harlan leaped from the exhausted horse to the fresh one, shouting out his time from Cottonwood and waving a stout stick in a triumphant gesture. No one had ever ridden that leg of the route faster. Fletcher pressed his lips into a grim line. Why was Harlan riding in Jamie’s place?
Before the dust settled, Mercy shook her head and growled. “Nooo…”
Dread pooled in Fletcher’s belly. “What’s wrong?”
She spoke through clenched teeth. “He rode this horse nearly to death. Look at the way he’s heaving and quivering.” She took hold of the animal’s bridle and led him slowly to the barn, stopping every few yards when the horse appeared to stagger. Obviously lame as well as winded, the horse bore swollen welts on his hindquarters and bloody wounds on his sides—evidence that Harlan had filed down another set of spurs.
Mercy leaned her forehead against the horse’s. “You’ve had a bad time of it, haven’t you, Dash?” Her voice trembled.
Hot anger seethed through Fletcher as Mercy led the horse slowly. He rolled up his sleeves. “How can I help?”
“Lame or not, he needs to walk for a few minutes so his muscles don’t tighten. We’ll take it slow. C’mon, Dash. I’ll take care of you.” Stopping every few steps, Mercy ran her hands down the horse’s legs. “Fetch a bucket of warm water and rags. Tell Enola I need to make poultices. She’ll know what I need.”
Fletcher grasped Mercy’s arm and tugged her around to look at him. He placed his hands on her shoulders. “I will not tolerate the treatment this horse received at the hands of my brother. I promise I’ll see to it that Harlan is fired.”
Mercy raised her arms, and for a moment he thought she would shove his hands away from her shoulders. But she grabbed his wrists and squeezed, her fingernails digging into his flesh.
Her eyes blazed. “What difference does it make now? The Pony Express will close down in…what? Another week? Maybe two? Why bother now?” Her voice gained a fever pitch and her anguished cry pierced through him.
Fletcher bore his gaze into hers as he moved his hands to cup both sides of her face. “Because I made you a promise and I intend to see it through.”
Chapter Nine
Hours after the others had gone to bed, Mercy hung another lantern on a nail, throwing more light into the stall where she’d been coaxing Dash to stay on his feet. The poor horse stood with legs splayed and still heaved with every breath. She patted his neck and reapplied the poultices to the wounds in his sides.
“Good boy, Dash. Just keep standin’.” She tried to tempt him with handfuls of grass, but the horse wasn’t interested.
Her own stomach complained of missing supper, but she feared Dash would collapse if she left him long enough to grab a few bites of Enola’s stew. She only wished the horse was hungry.
She soaked a rag in water and forced it into the horse’s mouth, hoping some of the water would trickle down his throat. But it was the raspy sound of Dash’s labored breathing that scared her the most. Each wheeze indicated the animal might not make it till morning. Should she go awaken Fletcher and ask for his gun? A shudder waffled through her at the thought of pulling the trigger, but watching the horse suffer was just as heart wrenching.
She squeezed her eyes shut and racked her brain, trying to think of every remedy she knew. “Please, God, tell me what to do. You helped me with Lobo. Help me again.”
Steaming water and onions.
Her eyes flew open and she looked around the barn—quiet except for Dash’s strained breathing and the occasional snort or tail swish from one of the other horses.
“Of course. I remember Pa usin’ onion steam once. I was just little, but as I recall, that old mare lived another few years, so it’s worth a try.”
She stroked Dash’s face. “You stay up now, y’ hear? Don’t you go down.” She shortened the cross ties, preventing the horse from lowering his head too far.
She took one of the lanterns and hurried as fast as she could through the dark to the lean-to where Enola slept. She awakened the Cheyenne woman and told her she needed lots of hot water. Enola didn’t grumble, but she scowled when Mercy rummaged through the pantry and took a whole basket of onions.
While Enola stoked the fire and set kettles of water to heat, Mercy cut onions until tears ran down her face. She welcomed the strong fumes. She’d wanted to cry since Harlan galloped out, leaving Dash on the brink of having to be put down.
As soon as the first kettle was steaming, she poured the hot water into a bucket with a handful of onions and gave the pot back to Enola to refill and heat. The woman patted Mercy’s hand.
“You save horse. Enola help.”
Mercy sent her a grim smile, grabbing the rope handle of the bucket in one hand and retrieving her lantern with the other. “Thanks.”
She returned to the barn, praying Dash would still be standing. She re-hung the lantern and eased into the stall, patting the horse’s side as she went. She set the bucket where the steam would rise to Dash’s face and he’d breathe it in.
“Please, God, help me do the right things to save this horse. Help him breathe easier and rest.”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I came to check on the horse. Saw the light out here.” Fletcher’s quiet voice fell on her ears like rain on the parched prairie.
She met his gaze, but couldn’t push words past her tightened throat. Not only had God reminded her of Pa’s old remedy, He’d sent Fletcher right when she needed him.
Fletcher’s eyes traveled to the bucket of hot water with its potent steam. “He’s not going to drink that, is he?”
Mercy shook her head. “He’s breathin’ the steam. Hopefully it will help his lungs and windpipe to open.”
In the flickering lantern light, a smile of admiration glistened in Fletcher’s eyes. “I’m not surprised you’re out here at midnight, but I’d venture to guess you haven’t gotten any rest. Why don’t you show me what to do, and then you go sleep for a couple of hours?”
“No. I’m not leavin’ him until I know he’s going to be all right.” She pressed a poultice onto the open wounds again.
&nbs
p; “I figured that’s what you’d say.” He moved opposite her in the stall and squinted at Dash’s wounds. “What can I do to help?”
She gave him a grateful smile. “Can you go see if Enola has more hot water ready? Make sure the water is steamin’ and throw in a handful of onions.”
He nodded and slipped out, leaving Mercy to reflect on her answered prayer. She pulled a blanket over Dash and continued praying. “Thank You, God, for not leavin’ me to do this alone. I know You were already with me even before Fletcher came out. He was right. You do hear me when I pray, and You never leave me.” Tears spilled down her face. God was with her.
Several minutes later, Fletcher returned with a bucket of scalding water in one hand and a couple of quilts under his arm. He helped her trade out the fresh, hot water for the bucket of cooling water. Then he arranged the quilts on a nearby pile of straw and pointed to them.
“There’s frost in the air. Wrap one of those quilts around you and get some rest. I’ll carry the buckets for a while.” His voice brooked no argument.
“If I fall asleep, you wake me up if Dash needs me.” She dropped to the quilt-covered straw.
A hint of a smile lingered on Fletcher’s lips. He was likely amazed she didn’t try to butt heads with him over his insistence that she take a break. Chagrin nipped her. She didn’t deserve his help or his respect.
She tried to relax and close her eyes, but the sound of Dash’s continued struggle to breathe troubled her. Fletcher paused beside her.
“I’m going for more hot water and onions. You rest.”
She listened to his retreating footsteps and contemplated the man. She no longer wanted to ignore the stirrings he caused within her. He was like no other man she’d ever met, and the words he’d spoken to her earlier that afternoon still echoed. He intended to keep his promise no matter what. She could only imagine what that would mean for his relationship with his brother.
Fletcher finished writing his letter to Pony Express headquarters in St. Joseph with his recommendation that Harlan be dismissed for brutal treatment of more than one horse. The eastbound rider was due in shortly, and Fletcher intended to make certain the letter was in the mail pouch before the rider left Cold Springs.
The Pony Express Romance Collection Page 49