Rider's Desire

  Rider’s Desire

  The American West Series

  Laura Stapleton

  Text and Cover Image Copyright © 2018 Laura L Stapleton

  Cover by Cheeky Covers

  All Rights Reserved.

  No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author or publisher.

  Names, characters, and some incidences are imaginary and complete fiction. The places are real whenever possible and some geographical names have been changed since the story took place.

  Acknowledgements

  I couldn’t have written this without William E. Hill’s The Pony Express Trail book. His research helped immensely. Any historical mistakes in Rider’s Desire are my own or created for literary license.

  Dedication

  For my husband. I love our road trips.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Santa Fe Woman-Bonus Material

  The American West Series

  The Complete Oregon Trail Series

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Clay Winslow nodded at the stack of dusty letters in their postal box. “Crandall never picked up the last one? Looks like a man lucky enough to have family might be a little more interested in what they write to him.”

  Daggart Bartlett shrugged. “It’s not his folks so much as a woman. The letters smelled real nice until he got a hold of them. I didn’t understand it, either, and thought maybe he’s been married before and is a smarter man now.”

  “I heard that,” said a woman from the back, behind the wall of post office boxes. “You’ll be talking out of the other side of your mouth when you’re hungry tonight.”

  He winked at Clay and said, “She loves me.”

  Mrs. Bartlett walked up to the cash register, one of her hands resting on a very pregnant belly. Clay figured she’d be a lot prettier if she were a lot less stern-faced. “Ma’am,” he said with a nod.

  “Hello. Is he taking care of you, or just jawing around as usual?” She didn’t give him a chance to respond. “That man loves to talk a stone post to death.”

  “He’s fine, Mary.” Daggart waved a hand at her. “No need to fuss.”

  She gave an unladylike snort. “He’s also a pony boy and is most likely needing you to hurry up so he can leave.”

  Clay couldn’t hide his smile. “I’m good, ma’am. The next bundle goes out first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Well, don’t complain if you’re still here by then.”

  The shopkeeper leaned in to Clay and said, “It’s her condition making her extra crab— uh, conscientious. That’s all.”

  She shook her head and wandered out of the room. “Don’t mind me. What do I know?”

  Daggart pursed his lips and stared down at the counter until her footsteps faded. Giving Clay a grin, he said, “I tried my best to not love the woman. Have to admit, she smiles and I’m lying in the mud, waiting for her to find me again.”

  He figured there had to be a story behind Mr. Bartlett’s mud comment, but the letters bothered him. Clay had been a Pony Express rider for too long, and their neglect wouldn’t leave him alone. “What do you do with mail no one wants?”

  “You mean these?” Daggart reached back, grabbed the stack, and pulled the first and last letter. “Crandall had been pretty regular about reading and sending replies to this little ol’ gal from back East until his accident.”

  He pushed them both where Clay could read. The first one was from a Miss A. Sterling. After struggling to read the smudged postmark, he figured she’d sent the letter in January. “I’ll bet she was snowed in and desperate for anything to do.”

  Daggart chuckled. “As many as she’s sent, I think you’re right. Rich told me a little bit about the lady he’d been writing. He seemed to like her enough to write once a month.” He looked behind him for a second before tapping the last letter sent. “Don’t know if I like anyone that much.”

  Clay grinned and kept his voice low so Daggart didn’t get grief from Mary again. “I’d have to be in a lot of love, too.”

  “Yeah, well.” He stacked the letters on the counter. “Avoid that mess as long as you can, Winslow. Else you’ll end up in a general store and henpecked by a good woman.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” He nodded at the stack of goods. “How much do I owe you?”

  “A dollar fifty.”

  He paid and put what items he could in his pockets. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Don’t be a stranger, now.”

  Clay nodded, and stepped aside as a couple walked into the store. He went outside, the sun bright in the late afternoon. Various buggies and wagons rolled up and down the street. The wheels kicked up dust and people hollered above the noise to be heard. He pushed down his hat, ready to be out of town on his Pony Express run.

  Tomorrow was his turn to ride from here to at least Yank’s station, weather and Indian wars permitting. His segment was a little over one hundred miles. He’d need some rest before his turn tomorrow morning at four. Not everyone went for the daybreak run like him. They didn’t know the beauty they missed as well as Clay did.

  He headed down the wooden sidewalk. Creaks and footsteps of others moving around him created a music of sorts. The noise drowned out most of the other sounds until he stood in front of the saloon. A familiar tune bled through the closed doors and he grinned. A drink or two couldn’t hurt. Hungover on a pony for most of tomorrow didn’t appeal to him, no, but a nice cooling sip sounded good right now.

  Clay went in. A couple of die-hard regulars sitting on the end kept the bar from being empty. One grinned, showed off the teeth he had left, and raised his glass in greeting. He returned the greeting with a nod and settled for sitting somewhere in the middle. Usually he’d come in for a game or two of cards, serious drinking, and conversation. Considering his work tomorrow, he wanted no demands or plans on his time tonight.

  The barkeep stepped up to him while wiping the counter with a rag. “What’s the good word today, son?”

  He grinned at the man who was old enough to be his grandfather. “Scotch. A finger or two of your best, Grady.”

  “That’s all, or should I leave out the bottle for ya?”

  “That’s all.” Clay put his elbows on the bar as Grady placed a mostly clean glass in front of him and poured. He slid a quarter to him and asked, “Have you seen Rich Crandall around here lately?”

  “No, and none of us will.” Grady scooped up the money. “Crandall was killed in that mine collapse last week. You might have been out of town then.”

  He was right. Clay had been on the way back from the station at Cold Springs. “I’d just heard he’d had an accident. Not that he’d died. Did he have a funeral?”

  “Of sorts, with the other miners in the area. No one else, even though he had a little ol’ gal from back East sweet on him.”

  Impressed, but not surprised at how the man knew the town’s business, he took a sip of his drink. “Did he like her, too?”

  “Suppose so. He’d come in, read to himself, scribble something down, and go back to the post office.” Grady wiped out an empty glass. “I never minded. He’d always have a whiskey or two. S
ometimes three while writing her.”

  He figured the two had been writing for eight months. Since Crandall had died so soon, word probably hadn’t reached her about him. “I wonder how she’s going to find out he’s gone.”

  “Maybe some good Samaritan will send her a letter.”

  Clay took another sip. The whiskey burned down to his stomach exactly the way he liked. “Crandall has a stack of mail at Bartlett’s. One of the letters is dated from January.”

  “I’m not surprised. If he kept the letters in his cabin, my bet is anyone in charge of his personal effects expected Bartlett to send them back.”

  He grinned. “Him? His wife wouldn’t let him spend a penny extra on another man’s mail.”

  “Not her, no. Neither would that group Crandall worked with out there. His gal is lucky the others didn’t just ignore the letters and leave them until the next owner threw them in the fire.” Another customer flagged the bartender and he wandered off to take care of him.

  Clay took another small drink. The miners sounded a lot like the pony riders. Worked hard, and kept to themselves unless one of their own needed help. The big difference between the two professions was the bigger stagecoach stations had regular owners and employees. Miners just brought their gold into town for measurement and payment.

  He stared at the last few drops in his glass, glad he worked above-ground instead of below like Crandall. Grady hadn’t said if they left him down there, but Clay would bet if the accident happened deep in the mine they let Crandall rest in peace.

  He felt bad for the lady back East not knowing her friend was gone. At least, Clay assumed no one from the mining company sent her anything about the death. He figured the woman deserved to know what happened to her pen pal. Someone needed to at least send her a note, maybe even mail back her letters in one parcel. He drank the rest of his whisky. Heck, he might be the one to send them to her.

  Clay stared at his empty glass. If he sent them by passenger ship or even stagecoach, she could write Crandall a couple of times more before the news reached her. On the other hand, mail took ten days to get from Sacramento to St. Joseph, Missouri by Pony Express. He scratched his stubbled chin. A pony rider like him could bring the letters to her.

  It might be the alcohol talking, but the trip from here to St. Joe seemed like a good idea. He hadn’t been east of Fort Bridger since he came to the West Coast with his family in ’49. By taking a mail mochila east, he’d get to see the country as an adult. The lady would get her bad news sooner rather than later, and if he hurried before Bartlett’s closed she’d get her letters back, too.

  Giving a goodbye nod to the busy Grady, Clay strolled out of the saloon. He took a deep breath. The air seemed fresher outside, free of cigarillo smoke and unwashed body smell.

  On his way to Bartlett’s, he passed in front of the large shop window. Mary’s hand hovered over the open and closed sign as she frowned at him. Clay grinned, giving her his most charming smile and tip of his hat. She shook her head and turned the sign to closed. He mimed a sad face until she opened up the door for him.

  “Come on in.” Mary waved her apron at him, shooing him further into the store. “I can’t have you crying outside like a beaten pup.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I won’t take long, promise,” Clay said.

  Daggart stepped from behind the counter. “What can I do for you this time?”

  Now that he had the attention of both Bartletts Clay slid off his hat, crunching the brim in his hands. “Well, you see, I ride out tomorrow.”

  “Yes?” Mary prompted.

  He glanced at the stack of sent letters. “I can’t put Rich’s letters in the mochila cantinas because they’re not official mail, but I can keep them in my front pocket.”

  “I don’t reckon I can give you someone else’s letters.” Daggart scratched his head. “Wouldn’t be legal, would it, dear?”

  She drummed her fingers on her belly, lost in thought. “We’ve never had a patron die with no family and a stack of letters. I’m not sure what we should do other than keep them and let the woman claim them in person.”

  Clay’s idea of seeing Missouri again withered in their opposition. Plus, the whisky’s effects were wearing thin, too. “I figured returning the mail to Rich’s friend couldn’t hurt. My family’s from around St. Joe, and I haven’t seen them in years.”

  The three of them stared at each other for a second with Mary’s toe tapping. She spoke first. “Very well, you should take them. You’re killing two birds with one stone.” Turning to her husband, she added, “Give him the letters.”

  “I don’t know if I’m supposed to,” Daggart said while doing as she’d suggested, and picked up the stack tied with a yellow ribbon. “I might be accused of not delivering the mail properly."

  She brushed aside her husband and gave the letters to Clay. “Her address is written on each one and the latest still smells like perfume.”

  He lifted the papers and could catch the slight floral scent. Clay had no idea what flower the lady had used, but whatever it was smelled nice. He read the return address, the street not instantly familiar to him. “It’s been a long while since my family left Missouri. I’ll have to ask at the Patee house for directions.”

  Mary examined him, crossing her arms. “Will you be carrying them in that pocket?”

  Clay looked at his shirtfront, the pocket in question being over his heart. “I’d planned on it, yes.” He smiled at her. “I’ll be wearing my leather vest, keeping them safe from the elements.”

  “Very well.” She smiled at Daggart. “Do you approve?”

  “Do I have a choice, dearest?”

  Mary blushed and turned to Clay. “Thank you for delivering them to the sender. Do be kind to her. She and Mr. Crandall might have been in love.”

  “He seemed to be, anyway,” Daggart grunted.

  Clay tucked the letters into his pocket. “I will, ma’am.”

  “Keep yourself safe, too. Will you be coming back?” She walked him to the shop’s door.

  He nodded. “I’d planned on it eventually. My ma and pa have their farm a few miles south of here.”

  “Take care, then.”

  The door clicked behind him, the lock turning in place as Clay paused to let a lady pass in front of him. Now that the whisky fog had cleared, what the heck had he signed up for anyway?

  The Pony Express route passed through some of the continent’s most arid country. After adding in the Paiute natives on the attack, Clay doubted his decision. He looked back at Bartlett’s before continuing his walk toward the hostel.

  He waited to cross the street as a family’s wagon full of goods and children rolled on by. Seeing the children and their parents reminded him. He wanted to send a letter to his ma before leaving early tomorrow morning.

  A passing rider tipped his hat at Clay. He knew the guy from seeing him around the Hastings building and at various stations while out on a run. The stairs to his floor creaked under his feet. Everyone here hovered in an area between stranger and acquaintance. He had friends, sure. His childhood pals were all adults and starting families of their own.

  He opened the door to his and Riley’s bedroom. The place was empty. Clay released a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Not that he didn’t like the other guy. He did, but having the chance to be alone with his own thoughts appealed more than idle chitchat sometimes.

  Clay took off his hat and stretched out on his bed, hands behind his head so he could better think. His decision to ride all the way to St. Joseph might be a mistake. So many potential catastrophes lay between here and Missouri, and yet he didn’t regret the impulse.

  He kicked off his boots, letting each one fall off the edge of the bed. The lady behind the letters deserved her property. Besides, Clay had new cousins to meet and maybe a few school friends to visit. He’d stop by Miss… he pulled the bundle from his pocket and began thumbing through the envelopes while looking for a first name. Finding it, he murmured
, “Abigail Sterling.” Her name looked nice in curvy penmanship.

  The ribbon holding the letters together was pretty, too. Yellow satin and probably not from Bartlett’s. He grinned. Neither shopkeeper seemed to be on the finer side of anything, much less ribbons or lace. He read Rich’s name before putting the letters back into his pocket for safekeeping.

  The bedroom door squeaked open and Riley strolled in as if he owned the building. “Hey, buddy. Have you had dinner yet?”

  Clay grinned at the kid and sat up. “No. What are they serving?”

  Riley unbuckled his gun holster. “Same slop with different amounts of salt and pepper.”

  He laughed and found his boots. “When you put it like that, how can I resist?”

  “You can’t. Plus, Jimmy is back from Fort Bridger.” He pulled a fresh shirt from a drawer and changed out. “He’s telling everyone about the attacks on Dry Creek station and what’s been going on since then.”

  “Hopefully, not a lot.” Clay rubbed the back of his neck. “I have plans on riding beyond and on through to St. Joe.” He stood. “A Paiute attack will be unfortunate.”

  Riley chuckled while tucking in his shirt. “I’ll say. Nothing says bad off like being porcupined with arrows.”

  “Your new word might be funny if I weren’t the one you’re talking about.” Clay followed the younger man down the stairs. He glanced down at the last step, the white of the letters catching his eye as they peeked from the top of his shirt pocket. As they approached the noisy dining room, he figured Indians killing him wouldn’t matter much to Miss Sterling. She’d never know of Clay’s plans.

  He shook off an impending feeling of doom and raised a hand in greeting some of the more familiar faces at the table. One of the servant girls, Tilly, set a bowl of beef stew in front of Clay while flirting with the newly arrived Jimmy. He didn’t mind. The food distracted him just fine.

  Riley passed the bread plate to Clay while asking, “So, Jim, what did you find at Dry Creek?”

  “Two bodies and a burned-out building.” The group went silent and Jimmy continued, “Looked like I’d missed the attack by a few hours or so.” He tore apart his bread. “I rode up first and a couple of other riders arrived soon after me.”