Orphan Moon (The Orphan Moon Trilogy Book 1) (41 page)

*****

Winnifred’s telegram read:
 

Congratulations my darlings. I shall head to San Antonio with Starling and be prepared to stay several weeks. Will be leaving Hog Mountain Ranch in Esperanza’s and Julio’s capable hands. Should be in San Antonio by Christmas. Will send telegram to Jameson at the Menger Hotel as you instructed. Love, Aunt Winnie
.

Jameson’s telegram read:
 

My best to the happy couple. Unfortunately, Miss Beauclaire’s condition worsens each day. Time is of the essence if a reunion is possible. I’ve received Mrs. Justin’s telegram and have secured a room for her adjacent to Miss Beauclaire’s. Do Hurry
.

Leighselle’s telegram was the one Barleigh lingered over. Reread. Folded and unfolded, over again. She silently mouthed the words “I love you, Mother” to see how they felt in her mouth, in her mind. Each time she spoke the words, they became more a part of her, taking root in her heart, growing a fraction with each beat and pulse.

Hughes leaned forward, lifting her chin, seeking Barleigh’s eye. “Darling, say it aloud. Practice how it feels to hear them spoken.”

“Not yet. I don’t want to jinx anything.” Barleigh smoothed the paper on her lap and read it again.

Leighselle’s message read:
 

I’m so happy for both of you. How very perfect. Hughes, I understand why you told Barleigh. Yes, you HAD to! I should never have asked you not to in the first place. I wish for nothing but to get to see her again, to get to hold her again, before I leave this world behind. She sounds like a remarkable young woman. Tell her that I love her, have loved her always, until I can tell her myself, face-to-face. I’m doing my best to hang on. Please do your very best to hurry
.

*****

The Menger Hotel was congested with hordes of people in town for the holiday season. Hughes took Barleigh’s hand and led her through the crowded lobby full of festive folks in high spirits, past the shiny black grand piano, and toward the back stairwell. Taking them two at a time, he pulled her along with him. The burgundy and pink floral carpeting muffled the sound of their feet as they ran down the hall toward Hughes’s old room, the room Leighselle now kept.
 

Standing before the door, Hughes looked at Barleigh and said, “Are you ready for this?”

She leaned past him and pounded on the door. “What does that tell you?” She smiled at him. “Yes. I’m ready.”

After a long pause, Hughes knocked again. “Hello?”

They waited, their eyes meeting, holding, then separating.

Hughes knocked on the door, more insistent, speaking into the crack of the door frame. “Leighselle? Are you in there?”

Barleigh stood next to him, a gloved hand pressed to her mouth.
 

Hughes put a hand on the doorknob and turned. It opened. He pushed the door into the cold, dark room that smelled of lavender and lye. He stepped inside, looking around, taking note of what he was seeing, of what he was not seeing.

Easing out into the hallway, he turned to Barleigh, shaking his head. “The bed’s been striped to the mattress. No coals or ashes in the fireplace. It smells of rubbing alcohol and lye soap. This room’s been vacant for a while.”

“After all we did to get here, and we’re too late.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.
 

“Darling, I’m so sorry,” he said, swallowing hard, holding back his own emotion.
 

“We didn’t make it in time. I knew it. I knew as soon as I gave in to the notion of loving her that she’d, she’d . . . .”

Hughes took her in his arms and held her tight against his chest. “I’m so sorry, my love.”

“I should have said it aloud. I should have set the words free, that I loved her. Then, they would be out there floating around somewhere, and might find their way to her.” Barleigh pulled her face into Hughes’s lapels and sobbed.
 

“Let’s go find Jameson and Winnie,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “I’m sorry. I hate that I didn’t get you here sooner.” He closed the door behind them.

They looked into the room next door, after knocking and getting no answer. Barleigh recognized the coat and hat on one bed, and on the floor was a baby’s doll.
 

“Well, at least we know Aunt Winnie and Starling have arrived. I wonder where they are.” Barleigh picked up Starling’s doll, placing it on the other bed.

“It’s lunchtime. Let’s head down to the Colonial Room, if we don’t find Jameson in his room first.”

Jameson didn’t answer the knock at his door, so Barleigh and Hughes made their way to the crowded Colonial Room. Tables of jovial hotel guests filled the room with boisterous conversations and bright laughter while dining on a sumptuous feast.

“I don’t see Aunt Winnie,” said Barleigh, glancing around the room.

Hughes turned around in a slow, complete sweep of the room, eyeing each table. “Jameson isn’t here, either. Perhaps they’ve chosen the patio.” He put his hand on Barleigh’s back and steered her toward the side door.

Sunshine poked through thick palm fronds that hovered over the patio, creating a soft and inviting shade, the winter temperature in San Antonio still pleasant for outdoor dining. At the farthest end and away from the door, Hughes spotted a table. White pressed linen cloths and silver butler service gleamed. Crystal glasses sparkled. A floral arrangement was placed in the center, the candle awaiting the need for a fire.
 

Jameson, with his back to the wall for observing the comings and goings of others, stood and waved them over as soon as he saw Hughes.
 

To Jameson’s left and right sat two well-dressed women, one holding an infant, the other sipping from a sugar-rimmed, cut-crystal glass of lemonade, with an infusion of dark amber liquid swirling throughout. Both women looked up and smiled.

Barleigh’s breath caught in her throat. She reached for Hughes’s hand, but her eyes were on the frail, thin woman sitting at the table across from Aunt Winnie who was sipping the lemonade. The delicate woman, whose smile, fine features, and cat-like eyes mirrored her own, held Starling against her shoulder, patting the baby’s back, a half-empty bottle of milk on the table.
 

“That’s her. That’s my mother,” said Barleigh, knowing, not asking.

“Indeed, she is. Leighselle Beauclaire has surprised me yet again,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled.

While the crowd of festive holiday travelers dined on their opulent feasts and the wait staff bore plates and trays of food and drink to and from tables, a beaming Hughes Lévesque took his wife by the hand, and together they made their way to the table at the far end of the sun-drenched patio.

<<<<>>>>>

Acknowledgments

While this book is a work of fiction and the characters are figments of my imagination, the swing stations and home stations mentioned are accurate according to the Pony Express route, and two actual riders are mentioned by name, Eagan and Haslan. The experiences my characters endure along the Pony Express trail are fabricated; however, some mirror purported factual events, such as the wolf scene where the rider was saved by bugling his horn to frighten away predators. Efforts to censor the mail, tamper with the mail, and steal the mail were abundant during the prewar years; however, the conspiracy specifically targeting President Lincoln’s letters to California began as a seed of my imagination and grew into an actual plot.

Research for this book was made easy by two valuable and enjoyable resources:
The Pony Express Trail: Yesterday and Today
, by William E. Hill, and
Orphans Preferred
, by Christopher Corbett. I kept Mr. Hill’s book open and on my desk for three years and would refer to it many times for his invaluable insight regarding particular stations and trail conditions along the route. And, in an NPR interview about his book
Orphans Preferred
, Mr. Corbett’s words fueled my imagination when he said: “The history of the Pony Express is rooted in fact, but layered in fiction.” Hearing his interview spurred me to do two things: purchase his book, which was a fun and fascinating read, and then it motivated me to throw my own hat in the ring and add another layer to the fiction and the myth of the Pony Express.

Along with the above mentioned books, I found other informative literature through the Saint Joseph (Missouri) Convention & Visitors Bureau, the Pony Express Museum, and
www.ponyexpress.org
and
www.xphomestation.com
.
 

While researching historical data on Quanah Parker and the Comanche raids in North Texas, I came across S. C. Gwynne’s
Empire of the Summer Moon: Quanah Parker and the Rise and Fall of the Comanches, the Most Powerful Indian Tribe in American History
. I must have read it at least four times, and then kept it handy when I needed a reminder of the brutality of life on the western frontier.

Although I am part Native American Indian (maternal great-grandmother was full-blooded Cherokee and paternal great-grandmother was full-blooded Blackfoot), I don’t pretend to speak any native tongue. The Lakota Siouan language I used for my book was taken from
The Full Text of the Lahcotah: Dictionary of the Sioux Language
, University of Pittsburgh Library System, authors J. K. Hyer, W. S. Starring, and Charles Guerreu (originally printed in 1866—not in copyright and no longer in print). I cross-checked this information with
www.native-languages.org
. Because of the many dialects of the Siouan language, I wanted to make sure the words I chose were correct. I apologize to any Native American if I’ve not done an accurate job—please email me—I’d value your coaching for future manuscripts.
 

Though the Pony Express operated for less than two years, it was during a critical time in America’s history, and both the ponies and the riders captured our imaginations and our hearts. We’re still writing (and reading) stories about them more than 150 years later.

A Note From the Author

This is the “
Thank You
” page—the most important page of the book. Then why is it at the back? I see it as being at the bottom of a pile of pages, holding everything up that’s on top. Because, without all the people I have to thank who’ve helped me and who’ve encouraged me along the way, this book wouldn’t have legs to stand on.

To my early readers, Renee Jordan, Megg Elliott, Beverly Helton, and Susan Bertram, I owe all of you much thanks, many sushi dinners, bottomless wine and endless chocolate, and more gratitude than I can describe.

To my adorable father-in-law Theodor Lukas, whose first language is German, thank you for being my first “official” reader and purchaser. Hearing your laughter and seeing your tears as you read showed me that a good story transcends language barriers.

To my dear friend Ines Eishen, whose words of encouragement when I was your student and you were my English Literature and Creative Writing professor gave me the courage to follow my dream,
grazie
. I’m grateful for our lasting friendship—it feeds my soul.

To Carol Dawson, author, editor, and courageous leader of the summer editing retreat in Alpine, Texas, sponsored by the Writers’ League of Texas. Thank you for your kind honesty. It hurt cutting my first twenty-five beautifully written, eloquent, poetic pages, but you were
so
right. “Get to the nitty-gritty,” you said. Yes ma’am.

To Sara Kocek and David Aretha at Yellow Bird Editors, thank you so much for your expertise in polishing my manuscript and in advising me with your straightforward answers to my many questions. I can’t imagine having a more positive, professional experience during the editing, revising, and rewriting process. I’m looking forward to our next collaboration.

To Gary B. Haley, my old high school chum, thank you for your eagle eyed proofing and critiquing. Gary is the accomplished author of the novel
The Attunement
,
a fast-paced thriller reminiscent of the Jason Bourne stories.
 

To Baron, Ryan, Angie, Malachi, Erik, Marla, Miriam, and Krista, I love you all. Now, someone please pop the Almondage!
 

*****

And to you my dear readers, I offer my sincere gratitude for taking the time to read my book. I hope you enjoyed the story and characters, and perhaps learned something new about the American west and the Pony Express. If you feel so inclined, please leave a review on the
Orphan Moon
Amazon.com page
and on
Goodreads
.
For Goodreads, you can follow the link provided. For an Amazon review, just scroll to the end of the book and Amazon provides a convenient review capability right on your Kindle or Kindle reader app. Your review is invaluable and provides the feedback I need to become better at my craft. You can also leave feedback on my website at
www.TKLukas.com
and at the
Orphan Moon
Facebook page. If you would like to receive periodic updates about my projects and excerpts of works in progress, including books two and three of
Orphan Moon,
please leave your name and email address at the following link:
http://www.tklukas.com/contact-me-newsletter
. You can look for books two and three of the
Orphan Moon
trilogy in 2016.

About the Author

T. K. Lukas, an accomplished equestrian and author of the award-winning contemporary short fiction
Of Murder, Mayhem, and Magnolias
, lives with her husband on a small ranch in rural Palo Pinto County in North Central Texas. Their three grown children are scattered across the globe. Along with international travel, she and her husband enjoy spending as much time as possible riding their horses through the woods, taking their dogs for walks, and watching their Belted Galloway cattle get fat. She is currently working on the second book in the “
Orphan Moon
” trilogy.
 
Visit her at her website
www.TKLukas.com
and at the
Orphan Moon
Facebook page.