Rider's Desire Page 2

  The calm voice he used didn’t fool Clay. Not when worry lines creased the younger man’s face. “Did it look like the Paiutes’ work?”

  Jimmy took a bite and chewed for a few minutes. “I’d like to say no, but yeah. They were full of Paiute arrows.”

  Chapter Two

  Murmurs swept the room as Clay shook his head a little. Riding east now seemed a lot more foolhardy than it had even a few minutes ago. He found a chunk of beef in the stew and cut the meat in two with his spoon. A small package of Miss Sterling’s letters with a note from him might be better sent by U.S. post than by his gallivanting across the country.

  He took a bite, the brisket melting in his mouth. Others returned to their chatting and Clay listened with half an ear. Instead, he ran through several ideas on how to write about Rich’s death. Nothing fitting came to mind and he scraped the bottom of the bowl. His only solution was to go himself.

  “What’s on your mind, Winslow?” Riley asked. “Rethinking your run to St. Joe?”

  He grinned. “Something like that, yes.”

  “If I hadn’t seen the bodies with my own eyes, I’d be joshing you about letting a few little ol’ Paiute stop you,” Jimmy said. “Now?” He shook his head and left the room.

  Riley stood with the rest of the table’s occupants and followed Jimmy into the large parlor. Clay went along with them to the main room on their way out of the door. He paused while second-guessing his automatic plans for the evening. Did he really want to spend the rest of the night in the saloon? In his experience, paying for a late night while on a horse the next day hurt enough to keep him here. “I reckon I’ll see you all next month or so.”

  “Decided to go, huh?” Riley said, turning to face him while walking backward. After Clay’s nod, he grinned. “Thought you might, and I’ll try to get out there soon enough to ride past you.” He bumped into another rider with a thud. “Sorry, Walt.”

  Clay waited while Walt tipped his hat and went on outside before he said, “I look forward to seeing you try.”

  He laughed and gave a wave while going along with the rest of the men. Clay stepped up the narrow stairs to his room. He had a couple of books from his mother. Probably not as exciting as the Penny Dreadfuls from his uncle in England. He piled his pillow and a spare quilt against the headboard and settled in to begin reading A Tale of Two Cities.

  The door clicking shut woke Clay enough to realize he’d fallen asleep. He recognized Riley’s form. The guy stepped as softly as his boots allowed and he grinned. “Good morning. Ready for work yet?”

  He sat, kicking off shoes and pants with no grace at all. “I’m not working tonight.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m doing a run tomorrow.”

  Considering how much of the saloon’s whisky Riley had to have in his gut, Clay decided to ease up on him. “Sure you are. Get some sleep and I’ll try to be quiet.”

  Riley let out a snort of a breath before settling into a solid snore. Two seconds and his roommate was dead to the world. He wouldn’t need to creep around after all. He also wouldn’t get another wink of sleep. Clay closed the book lying on his chest and put his feet on the floor. Might as well get ready to go to the Hastings building.

  His gathering up possessions didn’t take long when the agency didn’t want a rider weighed down. One of his ma’s books, his canteen, and a pocketknife were all he’d need. He brushed a hand over the packet of Miss Sterling’s letters. They’d be safe there, mostly. Clay grabbed his leather vest. The garment might not stop an arrow, but would keep everything in one piece. He first put on his messenger bag and his hat. Quieter and a lot more sober than his roommate had been while coming in, Clay left the hotel.

  No one slept at headquarters. Someone manned the Sacramento station day and night. Clay walked in, his footsteps echoing in the quiet room. “Hello?” After a slight rustle, an older man shuffled in.

  “A mite early, ain’t ya?” The elder went to the reception desk and sat. “Mail’s not due to leave for another hour or so.”

  “Riley snores.”

  He wheezed a laugh and gathered stacks of envelopes. “You’re not the first to say so, and I reckon not the last. Since you and I are both up, let’s get you started.”

  Clay followed him to the back. The large stable was quiet. Not having a horse of his own left him grateful to be a rider. He planned on saving up for a nice mare or gelding. Or maybe not. Farms needed oxen more, and Clay wanted to settle down someday. He let the stationmaster lead him to where the mochilas were stored. Either way, riding to Missouri would give him plenty of time to think about his future.

  The stationmaster opened a stall door and led a horse out for him. “This here’s Matilda. Not that you’ll know her past noon.” He went over to grab a lightweight saddle made just for the Express. “She’s been here long enough for me to name her. Call her what you want, though.”

  “I will.” The man was right. Clay wouldn’t be spending much time with the horse, and Matilda was as good as anything else to call her. He watched as the stationmaster swung a loaded mochila over the saddle. The holes cut in the item looked like a leather apron with leather boxes attached for the mail. Small locks kept them secure. A rider was expected to do anything and everything to make sure the mail arrived on time and in one piece.

  “You’ll have enough water as far as Yank’s Station. I recommend refilling your canteen before leaving there.” The stationmaster squinted at Clay’s messenger bag. “You’re gonna ride heavy today?”

  “Yep. Nothing too much, and I’ll take it easy on Matilda, here.” He ran a hand down her neck. The ponies weren’t so much ponies as tough horses who ran at a full gallop. Or, they did so as fast as the terrain would allow. “I’m going on east.”

  “No wonder you’re up and at ‘em so early.” He patted the horse on the rump. “Speaking of early, I wouldn’t take it easy for too long this morning. Time’s a wastin’.”

  Clay put a foot in the stirrup and swung up onto the saddle. “I’m ready and won’t dawdle out there. I’d heard the Paiute were acting up.”

  “Keep your eyes open and if you see an arrow, duck. Our company has the fastest horses on the continent and can outrun any native pony.” He opened the barn door.

  “Hyah,” Clay shouted with a slight heel to Matilda’s flank, and they took off to the east at a gallop.

  The first couple of miles were always the toughest. Almost as bad as the last couple, if a man were honest. He rode through the river-carved canyon and relied on the stagecoach-carved path to show the way. Pine trees blocked him from seeing much more than a few yards in front.

  He and the horse met little traffic in the early morning light. A regular rider on this part of the route, Clay knew the next station was coming up fast. He gave a couple of whistles as a warning to Matilda. She didn’t flinch, and he let loose with a strong whistle to let the Placerville station know about his approach.

  The station-hand wore long underwear as he led a saddled horse from the corral. Neither man made time to chat as Clay came to a dead stop and hopped off. The hired hand threw the mochila over the new horse. He hurried with getting on the fresh saddle and kicking the animal into a gallop.

  His scenery of a pine forest cut in two by a road didn’t vary as he rode on to Sugarloaf Station for a fresh horse. Clay then continued to Strawberry Station, grateful for a long enough delay to eat some jerky offered to him. He had a bit of time and gulped down a couple of mouthfuls of water before settling in and riding to his last stop for the day.

  He gave a whistle. Yank’s Station expected he’d go on his usual run and want to bunk there overnight or longer before riding back to Sacramento. As he approached, two men waited for him along with one saddled horse, just like he’d hoped. Clay hopped off and one man removed the mochila. He threw the mail over on the rested horse’s saddle before getting on and riding away.

  “I reckon you’re ready to put your boots up for the night?” the station hand as
ked while taking the horse’s reins. He tilted his head toward the large house. “Come on in. I’m Louis, the new manager around here.” Before Clay could say anything, he added, “No, not the owner. If all this belonged to me, I’d be doing something other than chores all day.”

  He grinned. “So would I.” Before Louis could lead the horse into the barn, Clay asked, “Is the usual room ready?”

  “Yep, and there’s dinner on the stove for ya.”

  “Thanks.” When Louis gave a wave and disappeared, Clay sighed. The day was over for him. He uncapped his canteen and drank the last clean but warm water. Food sounded good, too, and if he tried, he could detect cooked ham among the forest smells. His stomach growled in response and so he headed for the kitchen.

  He removed his hat while stepping inside. An older woman stood at the washtub with a stack of plates next to her on the long table. He hadn’t met her here before. Miss Ruby must have moved on to other work. “There you are.” She shook water from her hands before wiping them on her apron. “I told the rest of them they were asking for dinner too early.”

  He leaned over the wood stove and stirred the last bits of potato and ham soup. “I can’t say I blame them, ma’am. Is this all for me?”

  “Take all you want. I don’t need leftovers.”

  Clay didn’t need coaxing as he filled a nearby bowl with its accompanying spoon. “Thank you. I’ll bring this back when done.” Spying the stack of dried dishes, he added, “I’ll rinse everything for you, too.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” the woman said, giving him a smile while taking the empty cookpot from the stove. “You’ll want some water. Go on and start eating while I fill you a glass.”

  Clay’s stomach growled again, convincing him to start eating. He sat at the dinner table. The potatoes were almost mush. The ham was so tender each chunk fell apart as soon as he bit down. Perfect, just like his ma cooked.

  “Here you are.” The woman set his glass down on the solid wood table. “I suppose I shouldn’t mention the dessert you missed out on.”

  Clay’s hand paused halfway to his mouth. “Dessert? I should have rode faster.”

  She chuckled. “Knowing how you boys ride, I doubt you could have. I’ll have to make it up to you tomorrow at breakfast, unless you’re out for the first run.”

  “No, I’m not in any hurry. Whoever is scheduled can go.” He stood, drinking the last of the water. “I might take a canteen of more water before finding my room.”

  “Down the hall, last door on the left. And here.” She scooped up his dishes and canteen. “I’ll wash these and refill this for you.”

  “I can, since you’re already done for the night.”

  “It’s no bother,” she said on her way outside.

  Clay wanted to wait for her until a bone-weary tiredness settled over him. It’d been a long day, and his boots weren’t getting any more comfortable. Plus, his leather vest trapped sweat and he was ready to undress.

  He went stone-still. The letters were under his vest and probably soaked through. Clay closed his eyes. Water, ink, fabric. Miss Sterling’s letters had to be ruined. They’d be torn into bits, and he’d have to explain to the lady about her beloved’s death and how her last words to Crandall had been destroyed.

  “Are you all right, young man?”

  He opened his eyes to see the station housekeeper in front of him with a glass of water and his canteen. “Yes, ma’am.” Clay took both from her. “Thank you—I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

  “You’re welcome.” She put her hands on her hips. “If you’re going to sleep, though, I’d prefer if you did so in your bed. You’re likely to keel over while standing in my dining room.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He gave her a nod and backed up a few steps. “Thank you again.”

  “You’re welcome again. See you in the morning.”

  Clay went to his room for the night, now eager to see what sort of mess the letters were in. He hurried inside and pushed the door closed. Now alone, he set down his glass and tossed his canteen and messenger bag onto the bed. He unbuttoned the vest, the leather slippery under his shaking hands.

  Staring up as if in silent prayer, he shrugged off the vest and tossed it onto the bed with his other belongings. His stall tactics weren’t going to fix the messed up letters, Clay figured, and looked down at his pocket. Hands still trembling, he pulled the stack from where they’d been all day. They were damp, but not soaked.

  Relieved, he hurried to separate each from the others. He laid them out on the low chest of drawers to dry. Once satisfied each had enough room from the others, he reached into his pocket for the ribbon. Nothing. He pulled up on his shirt to turn the pocket inside out. No ribbon. How many letters had he left Sacramento with? Six? Seven? God forbid, eight?

  He stared at the six envelopes. Panic left him unable to think clearly. He swallowed. One of the letters seemed almost see-through. It’d been the one closest to his heart and the most drenched with his sweat.

  Clay scratched the back of his neck. He’d have to open the envelope and let the letter dry before riding out in the morning. With a sigh, he glanced outside through the lace curtains. Riders sat around a campfire and were probably telling each other stories he’d heard a hundred times before. He’d much rather be out there with them than in here, faced with a moral dilemma.

  He turned back to Miss Sterling’s letters. She didn’t even know Crandall was dead. Not only that, but how would she know if Clay dropped one of the envelopes if no one told her? Bartlett wouldn’t care, much. Mrs. Bartlett couldn’t have the woman’s address or even know how many letters he’d carried east with him. Even if she cared, she couldn’t do anything.

  Clay glanced back at the group as if to see if someone watched him through the curtains. None did, nor would they care, either. He picked up the first and most damp envelope. It opened easily for him. He pulled a single folded page free and spread the paper out on the dry wood surface. Before he knew what he was doing, his eyes swept over the words.

  Dear Mr. Crandall,

  I have a few questions for you concerning your advert for a mail-order bride.

  Chapter Three

  Clay squeezed his eyes shut but the words stayed, branded into his mind. Mail-order bride? He’d heard about women who traveled west for the promise of marriage. Even a few of the pony riders thought a woman made to order seemed fine to them.

  He turned from the open letter before opening his eyes again. His mama bragged to everyone about how smart he was. How good a reader he was. Now? The ability to absorb the words on a page hung heavy on his morals. Riders didn’t read the mail. They delivered it. Yet, all he wanted to do was read Miss Sterling’s every question for Crandall.

  Clay took a couple of steps to the bed and sat. He kicked off his boots and unbuttoned his shirt, never taking his eyes from the open letter. The drying letters weren’t part of the Express mail. No one would know if he’d read the open one, and he wasn’t breaking any vow.

  A refreshing breeze blew in through the cracked window. He stepped closer to the dresser, the promise of a cooling rain not distracting him from reading more from the lady.

  Dear Mr. Crandall,

  I have a few questions for you concerning your advert for a mail-order bride, he reread.

  While I’m not seeking a husband, I am curious about why a man would request a stranger’s hand in marriage. The ladies in my sewing circle read the requests every Saturday afternoon when we meet. I must confess, sometimes we do laugh at the specifics in various adverts. No one laughed at yours, however. We each considered your request the best in conveying what a man should want in a wife.

  I would like to know more about your thoughts on what sort of woman you expect to drop her Eastern life and marry you.

  Best wishes,

  Abigail Sterling

  He looked up from the letter and into the shaving mirror. The one letter wasn’t intimate, not really. Something you’d find on a newspaper’s op
inion page, surely. Clay scratched the back of his head before finger-combing the unruly dark hair into some semblance of order. He also had a clear line of dirt from neck to forehead.

  He took a washrag and dipped it into the pitcher of water. He wrung out the excess, careful to not splash the papers. The damp cloth felt good against his dirty face. He scrubbed his neck and even took a swipe at his ears to make his mama proud. He put the cloth into the washbasin before lying down on the bed.

  So Miss Sterling and her friends read the mail-order requests every Saturday? Laughed at some of them, too? He moved the pillow to a more comfortable position. Wonder what Crandall thought of the ladies mocking him. Only they hadn’t, and one in particular seemed interested enough to pay postage for a reply.

  Clay turned over on his side and stared at the dresser. He’d love to know what Rich had replied to her letter. His eyes closed as he imagined what a miner might say to a fancy lady in Missouri. He’d have to tell her about the gold mine and how much he’d earned from digging underground. Then she’d reply something about the work being dangerous.

  He figured Rich would shrug off the possibility of cave-ins, even though one ended up killing him. From what Clay knew about the man, he didn’t have a whole lot to brag about. A little claim and digging was all he saw. Not that he had a bunch of appeal to a woman back East, himself.

  His snore woke him a little and he smiled. Crafting a bride advertisement of his own might be something fun to think about. God knew the ride from Yank’s to Fort Churchill would give him little else to consider.

  ***

  A honking horn woke him from a dream, evaporating as soon as he sat up. No matter how he hurried, Clay wouldn’t be able to pack and dress in time to catch the next mail east. He stretched. It was just as well. He’d spend a leisurely morning at breakfast and catch the next ride if possible.