Messenger by Moonlight (21 page)

Resisting the urge to cry with relief, Annie produced a mock frown to accompany an affectionate scolding. “I thought you said you ‘broke the best’ when you broke Outlaw.” She tapped her own head where his was bandaged. “Looks to me like ‘the best’ was out here in Nebraska—and the best broke you.”

Wincing, he reached up and touched the bandage. “Aw… I’m aw-right. It’s jus’ a bump.” He started to sit up, winced, and lay back down. “Got a headache’s all.” He grimaced. “A bad one. Don’t remember much. Dark night. That mare—straight outta Hades. She stepped in a hole. I woke up feeling like someone with a hammer used my head for a nail.” He touched the bandage. “Twelve stitches.”

“I heard. And the stage brought you here.”

“Yep. Prolly thought I was drunk, layin’ there in the grass. Sure glad they stopped.” He shrugged. “I didn’t lose the mail, though. Still got my job. Soon as I can do it again. I’m not quittin’. Don’t you worry.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Annie said—although she had thought about it. A little. On the ride over. “I’m sticking around to make sure you don’t do anything foolish.”

He frowned. “What about your job?”

“George said to stay until I can take you back with me.”
She forced a smile. “So be forewarned. If I have to, I’ll tie you to the bedpost to ensure you follow doctor’s orders.”

“Hunh. Like to see you try that.”

“It wouldn’t be hard today.”

Frank closed his eyes. “Got that right.”

A middle-aged man with a stern face and kind gray eyes stepped into the cubicle. “I’m Dr. Fields. You must be the sister. Annie, I believe Frank said?” He held out his hand and Annie shook it. “As long as he doesn’t go back to riding too soon, he’s going to be fine. But it’s going to take some time. And he’s going to have to be patient.”

Annie tapped the back of Frank’s hand. “You heard that, right?” She turned to the doctor. “Patience is not one of my brother’s virtues.”

“I suspected as much,” the doctor said. “But he’s going to have to develop some if he wants complete healing. We don’t understand all that much about the brain and I’m not particularly well informed regarding the latest research. What I do know indicates that rest is the most important part of recovery from something like this.”

Again, Annie looked down at Frank, but it seemed he’d fallen asleep. “Can I take him back to Clearwater?”

“I’d like to keep an eye on him for at least a few days,” the doctor said.

Lydia spoke up. “Wade and I already discussed that. You’ll stay with me.” She smiled at Frank. “Until the famous ‘moonlight messenger’ is ready to ride.”

Without opening his eyes, Frank muttered, “Lydia’s got it all worked out.”

“
We’ve
got it worked out,” Lydia said, smiling at Annie. “He’s agreed to be good so he’ll be ready for the cotillion by the end of the month. He’s promised me the first dance.”

Frank gave a weak salute.

Dr. Fields asked for a moment “with my patient.” Annie kissed Frank on the cheek and followed Lydia outside. This was no time to talk about Emmet’s leaving. That could wait until Frank was feeling better. Lieutenant Hart was waiting on the hospital porch, having already taken the horses to the stables. As he led the two ladies toward his quarters, he identified each of the buildings facing the parade ground. “Commander’s quarters, adjutant’s office, quartermaster store, commissary store.” He paused. “Those three across the way are soldier’s quarters. I’ve been staying in the middle building since Lydia arrived.”

Lydia chuckled. “He’s hoping to use my presence to land a larger apartment the minute someone transfers out. If I stay, he can make the case for needing it.”

They stopped outside a north-facing, two-story building with a sweeping front porch. “We’re on the ground floor on the right,” Lydia said and led the way up the stairs and through the door.

The apartment was a row of small rooms with a walkway running straight through to the back door. The simply furnished parlor boasted a small writing desk in front of the single window looking out onto the porch. The lieutenant had deposited Annie’s saddlebags on a chair in this room. “We’ll get a cot set up in here today.”

The next room, a tiny bedroom, was crowded with two large trunks and an assortment of bandboxes and traveling cases that obviously belonged to Lydia. The modest kitchen was outfitted with a small cookstove, a table by the window, two chairs, and a small worktable. Open shelving served as both cupboard and pantry. Annie could see why the lieutenant was hoping for something bigger. Her room at Clearwater
was more comfortably furnished—and larger—than these. As for the kitchen, there was no comparison.

Someone knocked on the front door. Lieutenant Hart leaned out and looked down the hall. He grunted softly. “I thought she might at least give you time to freshen up.”

“She who?” Lydia asked.

The lieutenant didn’t answer directly. Instead, he looked over at Annie. “The ladies of Fort Kearny are very meticulous about making calls. And that is my cue to take my leave.”

Lydia leaned close and said, “He means he’ll be hiding out until Miss Collingsworth and her mother have departed. The young lady has had her eye on my brother since arriving with her parents a few weeks ago.”

The lieutenant sputtered something about the young lady in question being a “mere child” and scooted out the back door. Lydia looped her arm through Annie’s and drew her to the front of the apartment to meet the two ladies waiting on the porch.

Annie was already awake when a bugle sounded in the night. Throwing her blanket aside, she snatched up her skirt and dropped it over her head. Next came the blouse, which she buttoned with trembling hands, stuffing it into her skirt as she rushed to the front window to peer outside.

Lydia spoke from the doorway to the bedroom. “First call,” she groaned. “Were you up already?”

“Just awake. But—I thought it meant something bad, so I hurried to dress.”

“I thought I wrote you about it. Life here is ruled by that infernal bugle. You’ll learn to ignore it.” She paused. “No, that’s not quite right. You’ll adjust. Like someone with a clock that gongs and chimes its way through the day. You still hear it, but you don’t consciously react.”

“How often does it go off?”

Lydia tapped the tips of the fingers on her left hand as she counted off more than a dozen different calls, from First Call to Reveille and, finally, Taps.

“And you recognize them all?”

“It becomes second nature. You’ll see—if you’re here for more than a few days.” She waved Annie toward the back of the apartment, joking that they would have their own “mess call” in a few minutes. Annie watched while Lydia donned an apron. “I’m very sorry for the reason you’re here at Fort
Kearny,” she said, “but I won’t pretend not to be delighted to have company.” She pointed to one of the two chairs at the kitchen table. “Sit. We’ll walk over to the hospital as soon as we’ve had breakfast.”

Annie sat, but by the time the lady slid what she called a Johnny cake onto her plate, Annie was gripping the edge of the table to keep herself from getting up and taking over. Poor Lydia. In all the weeks she’d been at Fort Kearny, she hadn’t learned much when it came to cooking on a two-burner stove. If the raging fire she started was any indication of the way she usually worked, it was a wonder she hadn’t set fire to the building by now. As far as the Johnny cakes went, Annie was grateful there was coffee. Even bitter coffee was useful when it came to washing down what amounted to a disk of scorched cornmeal.

When Lydia slid another disk onto her plate, Annie protested. “I’ve had plenty.” She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “It feels too strange for someone to be cooking for me.” She glanced toward the front of the apartment. “And it’s past time I was at the hospital with Frank.”

Lydia set the iron skillet aside and sank onto her chair. “They’re really awful, aren’t they?” She stabbed the cake on her plate with a fork. Finally, she picked it up, went to the door, and tossed it outside. “Abominable. You were very kind to choke even one down.”

“The coffee’s good,” Annie said, and took another sip to prove the point.

“Barely drinkable.”

“I’ve had to grind up toasted grain and call it coffee.” Annie lifted the mug as if to toast her friend. “This is good by comparison.”

Lydia grimaced. “We should just hire a cook. The officers’ wives all have them—hired from the ranks of the enlisted
men’s wives working over on laundress row.” She drank down the rest of her own coffee and set the mug down firmly. “But I’m stubborn. I don’t want to admit defeat.”

“If you really want to learn, I can show you a few things.”

“Would you? You wouldn’t mind? Do you think I could master that pie you served at Clearwater the day I arrived on the stage?” Lydia pointed at the stove. “And how to build a proper fire?”

“I grew up cooking on one of those little stoves,” Annie said. “It’s the big beast at Clearwater that gives me fits. At least it did for the first few weeks. I think I’ve finally got that figured out.”

Lydia jumped to her feet. “Let’s get started. I mean—let me get dressed and we’ll go see Frank and then when he needs a nap we can come back here and—thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.” She smiled. “I can write an article about it. ‘The Lady in the West Learns to Cook.’”

While she waited for Lydia to dress, Annie stepped out the front door and onto the porch. She truly liked Lydia, but it was strange to be friends with someone for whom cooking was fodder for rich Easterners reading “Travel Notes from a Lady in the West”—people sitting before fires they hadn’t built in homes they didn’t clean. She thought back to the maid serving the family in the mansion she’d passed on her way into St. Joseph, Frank’s reaction to her fascination, and her own thoughts about how it would be all right to serve others for the privilege of handling fine things. The Patee House seemed very far away.

Midmorning of Annie’s third day at Fort Kearny, she was sitting in the chair beside Frank’s cot watching him sleep when
he opened his eyes and looked over at her. “You should get back to Clearwater before George Morgan complains to the Pony Express and we’ve both lost our jobs. There’s no reason for you to waste time watching me sleep.”

“First of all,” Annie said, “I’ve only been here an hour or so. And second of all, George would never do something like that.”

Frank arched an eyebrow. “It’s
George
now?”

“It is.” Annie shot him a piercing look. “And I don’t care to be teased about it.”

“O-o-o-kaaaaay,” Frank drawled. “The
George
notwithstanding, Emmet will worry more than he should if you’re still over here when he next rides in. If anything changes with me, Lieutenant Hart can bring the news. I don’t imagine he’d mind an excuse to pay you a visit.”

Emmet.
Annie took a deep breath. “About Emmet…” As she talked, the deep crease reappeared between Frank’s eyebrows. And deepened.

“Of all the rotten luck,” he muttered, swearing softly. “Two hundred dollars a month down the well.”

“Don’t think about that,” Annie said. “Just get better. Once you’re back in the saddle, we’ll start saving again. We won’t have as much as we planned, but—just don’t worry about it. Please.” She leaned close and lowered her voice. “And don’t tell anyone, but I’m rather enjoying it here. I’ve finally found time to write Ira. And I’m giving Lydia cooking lessons.”

“
Cooking
lessons?” Frank barked a laugh. His hand went to his bandaged head. “Ouch. Don’t make me laugh.”

“She’s going to write an article about it. ‘The Lady in the West Learns to Cook.’ I can’t possibly abandon her until she’s flipped an edible Johnny cake.”

Frank studied her for a moment. “Lydia’s nice, isn’t she?”

“You sound surprised.”

He shrugged. “She’d fit right in with all those dandies who were looking down on us the night we walked into St. Jo. Except she doesn’t ‘look down’ on us in that way.” He paused. “You think she really meant it—about the dance? My name at the top of her dance card and all that?”

Annie sighed and shook her head. “I hate to admit it, but she’s probably just saving you the humiliation of being ignored. Surely you remember how all the ladies at the Patee House acted. How they avoided you. Why, if I hadn’t been there, you probably wouldn’t have had more than three dozen dance partners, you poor thing.”

“Only three dozen? I thought sure it was four. Guess hitting my head made me forget the particulars.”

Annie laughed. “If you’re feeling well enough to rewrite the past to aggrandize your charm, I do believe you’ll be ready to leave the hospital in no time.” She bent to kiss him on the cheek. “Rest. I’ll be back this afternoon.”

After exiting the hospital, Annie made her way past the young trees lining the parade ground. According to Lydia, a former post commander had ordered them transplanted from the banks of the nearby Platte River. How hard would it be to keep a tree alive over at Clearwater? Just one tree by the chicken coop would make such a difference. She could already imagine how nice it would be to step into a shady spot just outside the back door. The well wasn’t far away. It would be easy to keep a tree watered. She could do that at the same time she watered the rosemary plant. Assuming the rosemary lived through winter. She would need to get it dug up and brought inside the moment she returned to the station. She glanced up at the blue sky.
Please. No killing frost until I get back.

Her musing about transplanting trees was interrupted
when Lieutenant Hart strode up from the direction of the post office. “How’s the patient this morning?”

“On the mend but not ready to leave the hospital yet.”

“The captain’s wife is hosting her weekly quilting bee over in the officer’s quarters. Lydia’s already there. May I walk you over?” He offered his arm.

A servant answered the lieutenant’s knock and then backed away from the door to admit him and Annie. Although the parlor was easily three times the size of Lydia’s, it was still crowded to the point of overflowing because of the quilting frame dominating the center of the room.

“Ladies,” Lieutenant Hart said, “I present Miss Ann Paxton.”

From the opposite corner of the room, Miss Collingsworth called out, “Why, if it’s not the lovely
cook
from Clearwater road ranch.”

Lydia asked for a report “on the patient.” Once Annie delivered it, she invited her brother to “run along.”

“Unless you’d care for a glass of lemonade,” Miss Collingsworth offered.

“Thank you,” the lieutenant said, “but duty calls.” He turned to go.

Miss Collingsworth protested. “Please, Lieutenant Hart, we are in need of advice.” She glanced around the quilt. “I’ve been put in charge of the refreshments for the cotillion, and a problem has presented itself just now.” She held both hands up as if tossing things from one to the other as she said, “Pumpkin or sweet potato pie? Bread stuffing or cornbread? Turkey or ham?” She looked pointedly at the women seated around the quilt. “Some of us feel that with the election looming in only a few weeks, we should show our support for the Union and serve only
Northern
dishes. Others insist that we give equal attention to Southern favorites.”

“And some of us,” a woman with a distinct Southern accent retorted, “believe that the political situation has been carried entirely too far by our Northern ‘sisters.’” She rose from her chair. “Cinda. If you are determined to politicize your position as chair of the refreshment committee, then—do what you will with your little ‘grand cotillion.’ I’ll stay home.” She dropped the thimble into the bag at her wrist. “I declare, if I hear one more word about that homely rail splitter from Illinois—” She broke off. Gulped. And turned to Annie. “Miss Paxton. I do apologize to you. But I cannot and I will not sit here and be insulted because the self-righteous among us seem to think Abraham Lincoln should be anointed for sainthood and my beloved South remanded to Hades.”

As the lady in question charged for the door, Lieutenant Hart moved aside to let her pass before following her outside. Lydia broke the uncomfortable silence. “Well, then. I’d say you have your answer, Cinda. Both pumpkin
and
sweet potato.” As a nervous titter sounded in the room, Lydia looped her arm through Annie’s and drew her to the quilt. “Annie’s staying with me while her brother mends.” She pointed to the recently vacated chair on the far side of the quilt. “Sit there, dear. Ladies—I think it best to table the topic of refreshments and move on to decorations. Mrs. May had a lovely idea for creating swags from native grasses—hopefully we can all agree that will neither celebrate nor excoriate any particular political party. And I suggest we stick with harvest colors when it comes to ribbons and such.”

Annie didn’t know what
excoriate
meant, but more nervous laughter relieved the tension in the room. She looked down at the quilt. The lady who had just stormed out wasn’t a particularly good stitcher. Annie picked up where she’d left off, listening as the ladies talked. It sounded like the cotillion would be a wonderful event.

At one point, Miss Collinsgworth called out to Annie. “I do hope your employer will allow you to come.” The words were sincere. The tone was not.

“Of course she’ll attend,” Lydia said. “I happen to know she’s already been invited. As my brother’s guest.”

Miss Collingsworth’s false smile disappeared. She glared at Annie.

She’s jealous. And you’re enjoying it far too much.
Annie hurried to correct Lydia. “Your brother has been very kind, but I’ll be riding over with George Morgan.”