Rider's Desire Page 10

  He ignored his shyness and continued on as far as he could go for the day and into the night. Some knew who he was and his mission, others didn’t know or didn’t care. By the time he rode up to a station in the wee hours of the morning, he needed sleep. Another rider stood ready to take his place and Clay let him.

  Too tired to make small talk, he walked into the cabin. The stove was cold and he figured on skipping a meal. He hadn’t made time to eat everything the boys at his last overnight station packed for him. Clay turned to the stationmaster. “Do you have water here?”

  “Sure do, some of the best in the country.” He nodded at the canteen Clay wore. “Need a fill? I’ll take care of it.”

  He removed and handed over the canteen to him. “I might be asleep by the time you get back.”

  “I figured as much. If you are, I’ll leave this by your bed.”

  “Thank you,” Clay said, and yawned. He lay down and closed his eyes.

  ***

  He woke up before the sun and in a sweat. Clay didn’t remember the nightmare but still felt the effects. He sat and double-checked his bag and belongings inside. After giving the liquid inside his canteen a sniff, he relaxed. The nightmare was just that, a bad dream already over and gone. He couldn’t even recall what it’d been, just that he was thirsty.

  Clay stood and stretched his legs. He scooped up his things and went outside for fresh air. Leaning against the wooden walls of the station, he took a long drink of water. Dawn already lightened the sky enough to see the plains stretching out in front of him. He’d like to know when the next rider would be headed east but didn’t want to wake anyone to know the answer.

  He watched as the clouds shifted colors. He’d be in St. Joe by the end of the day. Clay grinned. She must have received his letter by now. He’d help her through losing Crandall and be there to pick up her broken heart with his own. Taking a deep breath, the future sparkled in front of him.

  One of the standard-issue Pony Express horns sounded from the west. Clay stood up straight, ready to leave. The station keeper joined him outside while yawning. “I’d better go saddle up Smokey Lou.”

  “Need help?” he asked as the man strolled on by.

  “Nope.”

  He considered going inside to scrounge up some breakfast and coffee. After checking and seeing a cloud of dust to the west, Clay figured he didn’t have the time. Just as the rider skidded to a stop, the keeper brought out the saddled horse.

  The pony boy hopped off and asked, “You’re up?”

  “If you don’t mind?”

  “Naw. I’m ready for a break.” He hopped onto the fresh horse. Galloping hard, he passed Scott’s Bluff, Chimney Rock, and Courthouse Rock. He grabbed what food they’d give him at each station. He’d eat a biscuit here, a quick bite of fresh cheese from another station. Clay refilled the canteen with well water every time, too.

  He took off from Julesburg and forded the South Platte. The river he rode alongside ran slow in the dry August heat. Stagecoaches and soldiers made up the most traffic he met. Nearly no settlers headed west in their covered wagons and he knew why. Anyone headed to Oregon Territory this late in the year was guaranteed to be snow-bound for the winter somewhere desolate.

  A long stretch of flat land and angry Indians lay between him and Fort Kearny. Heeding an earlier warning about the water, he made do with what he carried. Clay even went as far as sharing his water with the horse.

  Any other time, heck, even at the beginning of his journey, Clay would want to learn more about the stations and the people he encountered. But now? When every step brought him closer to a woman he’d fallen in love with? He resented every second of delay.

  By the time he reached Fort Kearny, Clay’s entire body ached. He didn’t want to give up. Yet he didn’t want to show up at the Sterling home half-dead. He let out a whistle and grinned. Though, her nursing him back to health didn’t sound bad at all. He imagined a lot of love and care from an angel in human form and all for him.

  “You staying the night?”

  The station manager’s question jolted him out of the daydream. Another man, older than the usual rider, stood ready to go. Clay nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Food and bed’s in there. Help yourself.”

  His legs wobbling a little, he took the man up on the hospitality. Clay made a meal out of bread and strawberry preserves. He wandered over to his bed. The conversations around him were interesting but he was too tired to give them any more than scant attention. He took off his boots and passed out for the night.

  ***

  Clay opened his eyes. Today was the day. He’d find Abigail and return her letters. Nerves and excitement churned his stomach. He sat and found the large room empty. Hoof- beats outside told him why, as another rider approached. He couldn’t guess the direction but hoped it wasn’t eastbound.

  He stood and yawned while headed for coffee. The pot sat on a warm part of the wood stove. Armed with a fresh cup, he sat at the table and took off his bag and canteen. His neck ached from the strap.

  In between sips, Clay removed his few belongings and marked the stations he’d been to in the log. They all ran together into one big blob in his memory. He wanted to be accurate but exhaustion and daydreaming about Abigail hindered his efforts some.

  “Good morning.”

  He turned to see the manager stroll in. “Morning.”

  “You missed the next run west, but I figure you’re more interested in the eastern one.”

  “You heard?”

  “Yep. You’ve been going like a bullet toward some gal in St. Joe and we’re placing bets you’re hitched before the year’s out.”

  Words swirled around in Clay’s head like a bad meal would in his stomach. Bets on his marriage? He’d feel a lot better about everything after finding Abigail. “I wouldn’t put too much money on me marrying her. We have to meet first.”

  He tilted his head in thought. “We’ll see. In the meantime, I suppose you’ll want to be ready for the next run east.”

  “I do.”

  The manager grinned. “Good answer ‘cause I bet real money on your wedding being sooner instead of later.”

  Chapter Ten

  He changed horses in Thirty-Two Mile station and tried to smile at the cheers. Every stop was the same throughout the day. Congratulations on his impending wedding followed by a sickness in his stomach of dishonesty soon after.

  The expectations had him wanting to turn tail and run. The only things keeping him headed east were Abigail’s letters. He had to follow through. A woman who loved so deeply from afar deserved what little was left from the man she adored. He imagined her pressing the letters as he’d done, in a book and intertwined with the messages from Crandall.

  They galloped through the night, a grim determination replacing Clay’s earlier misgivings. He had to trust the pony they gave him at Troy Station to know the way to St. Joseph. The horse ran right up to the Express’ Patee House. He didn’t hesitate to trot on in through the open doors to the post office despite Clay’s efforts to stop him.

  The Express official stood up from behind the counter. “Well, now. I expect you’re Clay Winslow? We had word from out west you’d be here.” He glanced at the wall clock as Clay dismounted. “I expected you’d be early.”

  Another man, wiry and quick, removed the mochila. He worked quickly, smoothly unpacking the mail and sorting letters into the wall of post boxes behind the counter.

  The official slid a key over to him. “You’re welcome to spend the night since it’s too late to go calling. Room 403.”

  He nodded and took the key. “Thank you. Is the kitchen closed?”

  “The restaurant is but there’re provisions especially for our riders after hours. Go on and help yourself.”

  Before too long, Clay had made a meal of the best bread he’d had in a while and peach cobbler better than anything his ma ever made. Stuffed and tired, he went to his room and collapsed on the bed.

  ***
>
  The next morning, Clay opened his eyes and remembered where he was. Sitting up, he pulled off his canteen and leather bag, vowing to not wear either again for a long while. He stretched his neck side to side before pulling off his boots. Everything he owned needed scrubbing, including himself.

  Clay stood, his butt sore from being in a saddle for so long, and made his way over to the washbasin. The mirror reflected his whiskered face and he grinned. Too short for a beard and too long to be neat, he searched his bag for the straight razor.

  Clean-shaven felt good but he still needed his clothes and body washed before seeing Abigail. Yet he didn’t want to take the time. He wanted to meet her right now.

  Clay undressed and washed his body, and settled for wearing his second-best shirt. If he tucked the tails into his pants, she wouldn’t see the mismatched button. Later, clean and dressed, he grabbed his book, locked his door, and went to the lobby.

  “May I help you, sir?”

  “Yes, I need to know where the Sterling family lives here in town.”

  His eyebrows rose before he cleared his throat. “Head north until Charles Street. Go east. It’s the largest house on your right.”

  Largest? His breakfast began jumping around in his stomach. He couldn’t stroll up to a large house and expect to be welcomed inside. Not a pony boy. While Clay might have big plans for his future, right now he wasn’t anything to halt stagecoaches for.

  He glanced down at the book in his hand and remembered. Whatever intimidation he might feel was nothing compared to Abigail’s heartbreak. She needed what little was left of Crandall. He said, “Thank you,” and headed for the front door.

  Clay left the hotel, walking several blocks to Charles before turning right. A mansion whose grounds took up most of the block had a sign saying Sterling Manor on the wrought-iron fence. He clenched and unclenched his free hand. He’d ridden across the country for her. Time to see if the real woman matched the one in his imagination.

  He knocked on the door. No answer. He looked around for signs anyone was home. Nothing. Leaving the letters on the front stoop was an option. He’d secure them under a rock and visit family before returning home. Clay discarded the coward’s way out. If he couldn’t hand over the letters in person, he’d wait until the situation changed.

  The door handle jiggled, startling him, and an older man opened the door with a whoosh. “I thought I heard something out here. Hello.”

  From the cut of his clothes and his age, Clay figured he had to be Mr. Sterling. The Mr. Sterling. Abigail’s father and the one man in the world he needed to impress. The odd button dug into his skin even while tucked into his pants. He was in no way good enough to court this man’s daughter. “Hello,” he croaked.

  Mr. Sterling waited for a few moments. “Well?”

  Snapped out of his panic, he began, “Good morning, sir. I’m here to deliver letters to Miss Abigail…” His voice trailed off when he saw the young woman on the staircase behind Mr. Sterling. Golden hair curled in ringlets, framing her heart-shaped face. A questioning frown didn’t mar her loveliness at all.

  The young woman smiled at him and stepped forward. “Who is it, Father?”

  He might be infatuated with how Abigail wrote, but the beauty in the foyer grabbed his heart. Her voice belonged in his ears and he needed to hear more. In an effort to keep her attention, he said, “I’m Clay Winslow and sent a letter to Miss Abigail Sterling.”

  “You’re Mr. Winslow?” She rushed over to him and held out her hand. “I’m Abigail.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you so much for informing me of—” she coughed. “Of Richard’s accident. I hate that I wasn’t there in his final hours.”

  Clay struggled to focus, her hand soft and warm in his. “If it’s any comfort, no one could be with him. He was deep in the mine when it happened.”

  Abigail’s chin quivered and her hand slipped from his. “Your letter mentioned the mine was his final resting place?”

  “Yes, with a grave marker.”

  Mr. Sterling cleared his throat and asked, “You’re not related to the Jack Winslow family, are you?”

  He looked away from the woman in front of him to her father. The scowl he found urged him to lie. He couldn’t, though, and nodded. “Yes, he’s my uncle.”

  His frown didn’t ease. “I suppose you know what sort of man he is?”

  Clay remembered the hushed conversations between his parents, the times Uncle Jack raged outside their home, and family events where he, his brother and sister, and their cousin Ellen hid from her pa. “I do. I went with my parents to California. None of us are close to him.”

  “I see.” His expression deepened. “Too bad blood is thick.”

  He returned the older man’s scowl. “We don’t deny our family’s worst branches, but we don’t rush to claim them, either.

  Mr. Sterling grinned. “Isn’t that true for everyone? Come on in, son.” He put his arm around Clay, leading him to a room off of the foyer. “You say you brought something for my daughter from the man she thinks she’s in love with?”

  Abigail followed them. “Papa, I do love him. Loved, I mean.”

  “Darling, I know, but you never met him,” he said over his shoulder before turning to Clay. “In my day, we didn’t depend on letters to do our courting for us.”

  “Hmph.” She sat in an overstuffed chair. “In your day, you relied on stone tablets.”

  The sparkle in the Sterlings’ eyes told Clay this was a subject often joked about. He couldn’t resist joining in. “I know a lot of ponies who would be glad we use paper.”

  She leaned toward Clay when he sat across from her. “You know horses on the Pony Express? I’ve seen them ride out from the stable down the street. Are they all as fast and beautiful?”

  “Every last one of them is. Each has their own personality and markings, but they’re all ready to run once I and the mail are on them.”

  “You?” Her jaw dropped a little before she recovered to ask, “Are you a Pony Express Rider, too?”

  Her smile entranced him and the admiration shining in her face puffed up Clay’s ego. “I am.”

  She clasped her hands. “And you rode across country to deliver my letters to me personally?”

  “I might have,” he croaked. Her adoration lured him into a need to say anything just to see her smile. She wasn’t the regal, dark haired lady of his imagination at all. Instead, Abigail exceeded his idea by being a vivacious and fair featured woman. He smiled at her, unable to look away from her deep blue eyes.

  Mr. Sterling cleared his throat. “Well? Did you or did you not?”

  A little startled out of his daydream, Clay said the first thing in his mind. “Family was my first reason to come here, but after I read Abigail’s letters—”

  ***

  Abigail watched as Clay began to explain and her heart stopped at his confession. He’d read her love letters to Richard. Her faced burned. She’d sent him six letters and, as mortification set in, she couldn’t remember anything specific she’d written. “How many? How many of my letters to him did you read?”

  Clay shifted in his seat and stared at the floor. “Not all of them.”

  “How. Many,” she growled.

  “Six.”

  She gasped, astounded at the invasion of privacy. He’d read every letter she’d sent to her fiancé. Abigail stood with her hands clenched at her sides. “I can’t believe you. I wrote my heart and soul. You had no right, no permission.”

  She walked to the window, hand at her throat. People walked up and down the street. Horses and carriages went past. The world acted as if nothing profound had occurred, yet her life had been tilted just now. She tried to be calm and said, “You pried into my personal thoughts, Mr. Winslow. You’re no better than an average bandit stealing everywhere he goes.”

  Clay stood and went to stand behind her. “I’ll admit I was wrong. However, if you didn’t want anyone else but him to know your heart and soul, you shouldn’t have
written the words.”

  Abigail whirled to face him. “How dare you imply I did something wrong by writing my feelings for him. You’re trying to excuse away your own bad actions in opening my mail at all.”

  “I’m not. It’s just that a lot can happen between here and Sacramento. Miles of desert broken up by Indian attacks. Nothing and no one is one-hundred-percent safe.”

  Horrific news of stations burned to the ground and tales of the worst blizzards had reached their newspapers. The angry young man, tanned by his hours on horseback, glared at her. He could have bundled up and sent her letters back by any other means. She would have learned about Richard’s death months from now instead of a couple of days ago. “You’re right. You risked a lot to bring these back to me, never mind informing me of Richard’s passing.”

  His expression didn’t soften, and Abigail figured she deserved Clay’s ire. Could she have resisted the urge to read an opened envelope on such a mission? Maybe, but probably not. Still, he had taken an oath, she suspected. Even if her letters weren’t part of his official mail, some stranger reading her heartfelt words was embarrassing. She tried to look down her nose at the taller man, wanting to mentally gather some shred of dignity around her. “I’m sorry. I would have expected you to realize the personal nature of the messages and stop reading after the first two or five.”

  “I should have.” He stared down at the book in his hands. “Thing is, I liked the words and the woman writing them way too much to quit.”

  She blinked a few times. Her heart had skipped a beat or two when she first saw him in the foyer. His blue eyes and handsome face had kept her mesmerized until his near confession. But now, Abigail’s anger dissipated in the wake of his regret. He glanced up at her, melting her anger a little more. Mr. Winslow had certainly lapsed in integrity but made up for the lack by riding across the country for her.

  Her conscious nagged at Abigail. Richard had been courageous and good-looking, too. This Clay person knew exactly how much the couple had meant to each other. No matter how kind, attractive, or kindly the man in front of her had been, he’d still behaved like a rascal. She lifted her chin. “I’ll take my letters, now, and bid you good day, Mr. Winslow. Father, I’m going upstairs.”