Rider's Desire Read online

“Sure thing, young man. Holler at one of us if you need anything.”

  He nodded, and tried to not rush to his room. Once there, he found that everything was as he’d left it except for the dirty water in the basin. Clay sighed in relief before staring at his bed. Reading a chapter or two before going to sleep sounded good. If he placed Abigail’s, or rather Miss Sterling’s, he corrected, letters in between the pages, they’d keep better and bookmark his place.

  Clay set his canteen on the floor beside the bed before arranging the pillow. He lay down, opening his bag for the book and letters. “Damn,” he muttered, and gathered the scattered papers. Some were wrinkled and all of them were out of order. He put the messenger bag back on the floor.

  He smoothed the letters while sorting them by date again. He put the first letter in the pages of his book as gently as if it were a flower to press. He would have liked to know Crandall’s response to the women’s questions. Asking Miss Sterling once they met was not an option since she’d know he’d read everything she’d written to another man.

  He paused before putting the second letter in the next section. No, he couldn’t ask what Crandall had written in response, but wouldn’t clues to his answers be in her reply? Clay put the letter on the page. He also couldn’t read any more of what she’d written. It wasn’t right to snoop no matter how much he wanted to know why Crandall would be hunting around back east for any woman who’d take him.

  After placing the rest of the mail in between pages, Clay found where he’d left off reading in the book. He scanned the first few sentences and tried to focus. A lot could be gleaned from how a letter began. The salutation might mean everything or nothing at all. He’d also be interested in knowing how Crandall’s answers might have affected Abigail and her friends.

  He gave up trying to read and turned to the second letter’s pages. Just a peek couldn’t hurt, could it? He wouldn’t read the whole thing, after all.

  Chapter Four

  Dear Mr. Crandall,

  None of us felt inclined to mock you. In fact, when I’d mentioned your request the other ladies wanted me to read your letter to them verbatim. A couple agreed you sounded very interesting and have a way with words. We then fell into a discussion of how to live in the wilderness. Thus, we all have additional questions which I’ve been asked to pass on to you.

  Feel free to answer in any order. Do you have your own home or do you share with others for economy? Do you live in the mine? Liese asked the prior question. She thinks living in a mine might be interesting. Consensus is it would not. Continuing on, do you live near any sort of civilization? I assume so because of your letter reaching us at all. Did you plan on marrying the woman without seeing her photograph or portrait? Do you expect to change your mind if she’s unappealing? Would you allow her to change her mind if she suddenly grew homesick? Rachel asked the last. She is rather attached to her family.

  If I haven’t completely turned you away with all of our curiosity, I hope to hear from you soon.

  Sincerely,

  Miss Sterling

  Clay blinked his eyes a couple of times. He’d read the whole damned thing as fast as he’d eaten supper tonight. He rubbed his eyes. A person would think him starved for food, conversation, and everything else in the world.

  Disgusted with himself, he put the letter back into the envelope and then in the book. He lay down proper on the bed, letting the book fall onto his bag with a thud. His mama raised him better than to be a sneak and a snoop. Clay closed his eyes.

  A sunlit parlor with three young ladies filled his imagination. Abigail would read Crandall’s letters to the other two as they sewed. Lace stuff, he figured. They’d all chatter about how to answer him and Abigail would take notes as needed. He yawned. Maybe he’d better go on east tomorrow sometime and get to St. Joe already. Otherwise he’d read every stinkin’ letter, probably twice.

  ***

  The next morning, he double-checked the room to make sure he’d remembered the book and letters. He lifted his book to make sure the razor and extra pair of socks were still there as well. He glanced in the mirror. His hair damp, slicked back and under his hat, he ran a hand over his stubbly face. There’d be time enough when in Missouri to get a decent shave.

  Clay put on the bag and canteen as he strolled into the main room. Clem sat at the table with a man he assumed to be WC Buckland, the ranch’s owner. Clay took his hat off out of respect. “Good morning,” he said to the two men. Miss Jenny walked in with a plate of bacon and eggs. “Ma’am.”

  She smiled and set the food down as Clem said, “Hope you weren’t wanting to make an early start of it, son. The first rider has been here and gone.”

  “I’d thought about it but yesterday kicked my butt.”

  “Came in from Yank’s,” WC asked.

  “Yes, sir.” He smiled a thanks to Miss Jenny’s pouring him a cup of coffee. “The miles aren’t as hard as the climbing.”

  “True. Clem tells me you’re headed east.” When Clay nodded, WC waved off an offer for more coffee from Jenny and wiped his mouth. “You’re in for some tough terrain. Worse than what you’ve seen so far.”

  “I know. We came here from Missouri when I was a boy.” Clem and WC exchanged glances so he added, “I’m older than I look. I’ll be twenty next month.”

  “I’m sure of it,” WC said.

  Clem stood and began gathering his and WC’s dishes. “You going by stagecoach at some point, or just riding on through?”

  “Riding as far as I can since no one pays me to be on a coach or train.” He smiled at Miss Jenny when she sat across from him with her plate. “Mighty fine meal, ma’am.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  Clay picked up his dishes and took them to the kitchen. After stacking them with the other men’s, he was at a loss as to what to do until late morning. He opened his bag and looked at his book inside. Bouncing around on a horse might bump out the letters yet again. It was bad enough they were wrinkled. He didn’t need them torn.

  He went out back and around the corner, headed for the small trading post he’d spotted on his way into the station. A man he hadn’t met yet stood behind the counter.

  “You’re last night’s pony boy, aren’t ya?”

  He nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Come on in, then. We’ve got a small selection, but it’s finer than anything you’ll see on either coast.”

  Clay tried to hide a smile at the man’s sales tactics. He sounded more like a carnival barker than a shopkeeper. “Thank you, I’ll do just that.”

  He wandered around the store and looked at everything offered. The man was right about the quality. Most of the goods appeared to be native-made. He examined the beading on a leather shoulder bag. The flap had a fastener. A nice latch of some sort might be helpful on his own bag, too, in case he bought gifts in St. Joe for his family.

  While the indigenous design would be out of place on his belongings, Clay figured a button or buckle couldn’t hurt. He walked over to the counter. “I’d like something to keep my bag shut. Do you have anything?”

  The man scratched the back of his neck. “Depends. Do you want a hook, or a strap of some sort? I’m fresh out of buckles unless you’re needing one for a saddle.”

  He grinned at the idea of using something so large and held up his messenger bag. “No, just this.”

  “Hm. You might get by with a button. That is, if you’re not afraid of cutting a hole in your flap.” He reached under the counter and brought out a button carved out of wood. “I only have one of these. Some mountain man traded me for a tin of flour and I ain’t been able to sell it since.”

  Clay took the button. He liked the smooth feel of it in his fingertips. “How much?”

  “Two cents.”

  His eyebrows rose at the expense and the storeowner said, “I’ve got transportation costs. Drives every price up.”

  He squinted before fishing around in his pocket to pay the man. Even though he figured the c
ost was a con, the man had a point. Plus, he liked the button. “I suppose so.” He slid over the two pennies and the shopkeeper slid over the button. “Thank you.”

  “Nothing else you need? Nearly everything here is new.”

  Clay laughed and shook his head. “No. I need to keep it light.”

  “You pony boys make bad customers. Take it easy through Paiute country and come back sometime.”

  “Sure thing.” He gave a wave while leaving the small building. On the steps, he realized too late he’d forgotten to get anything to fasten his button and looked at the trading post’s door. Clay wasn’t quite sure what all his new project would entail. He didn’t want to buy overpriced supplies. Especially since he’d have to leave them behind once his button was attached. Maybe Miss Jenny would know how to help him.

  He hurried into the cabin, headed for the kitchen, and found her. “Ma’am, is there any way I could talk you into sewing a button onto my bag?”

  Miss Jenny frowned. “You can’t work a needle and thread yourself?”

  Clay gave her what he hoped was his most charming grin. “I always had my ma sew for me.” He pulled the bag from around his neck. “I’d be mighty obliged.”

  “Hmph.” She took his bag, still frowning. “You’re too old to be such a greenhorn around the house. Come on. I’ll show you how to sew a button.” She led him into the main room. “Leather is tough. I have various shirts left here by the boys and you can practice on one of them.” She picked up a faded blue shirt and a white button. “Here. I’ll get a needle and thread for you. Have a seat.”

  Clay did as she suggested, sitting at the dining table. She rummaged through a trunk, giving a small grunt of satisfaction every so often. “If you’re going to be here a couple of days, you might help me with my mending. Seems I’m far behind.”

  Nothing seemed more stifling than her trapping him in a room with a mound of mending. “I’m leaving this afternoon or I’d try.”

  Miss Jenny came over with a small box and a shirt. “Um hm. Wonder why I can’t get any of you boys to volunteer to help me.” She pulled a needle out of the pincushion and threaded it. “Never mind. This is for you.” He took the needle and she said, “Take a button as close to the others as you can find and we’ll get started.” She sat, smoothing her skirts and putting his bag on her lap.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He searched through the small box and rejected every button after comparing it to the others. One at the bottom seemed closest despite being a different color. He supposed the mismatch wouldn’t matter to someone desperate for a shirt.

  “Hm,” she hummed before picking up scissors. “I don’t like cutting a hole in such fine leather, but you’ll need something more secure than a small loop.” She moved the button around on the flap a few times before marking with the tip of her scissors. “I don’t think you’d want to leave a trail of your belongings from here to Missouri.”

  “No, ma’am.” He watched, transfixed, as she pushed the sharp tip through the leather and cut. After every little fraction of an inch, she’d place the button next to the line cut as if to make sure of the length. Clay held his breath when the line was the same length as the diameter of the button. She turned to him and smiled. “Leather isn’t cloth, so I’ll make this a wee bit bigger.”

  “If you’re sure…” he started, and grinned when she glared up at him. “I mean, I’m sure you’re sure.”

  “You’ve heard of measure twice, cut once?” she asked. His nod earned a grin from her. “I measured three times just to be safe. Can’t let others think we don’t take care of our boys here.”

  She lay the bag flat and put the button on the cut. “Watch me.” Miss Jenny put the needle through a hole on the button. She pressed through the cut hole, too, and into the bag. “There.” She lifted the button and flap to show the needle pressing into the leather. “This is where I should sew the button. Now, you do the same.”

  He did as she instructed. “My needle isn’t going to stay put in the fabric like yours did.”

  “That’s all right. You just want a bit of a marker where the button needs to go.”

  Clay lifted his button as he’d watched her do. He glanced up at her. She nodded and he held on to the needle while pulling away the top fabric.

  “Good. This next part is a little tricky with leather. I don’t want to make holes all in your bag.” She pushed the needle through and grabbed it from within the bag. “You have a book in here.” Miss Jenny took out his novel, letters from Abigail included, and put it on the table. “There, now I can move around better. Watch me sew this. Simple as can be.”

  As she worked, she chatted about how she liked sewing an X-pattern versus two straight lines on a button, but Clay didn’t care. His heart had stopped when she plopped his book onto the table and a letter nudged out a bit. He had to get her finished and his book with its incriminating evidence put away fast.

  “All right, son. Now you show me what you’ve learned. Remember, either way is fine. Just pick one and stick with it.”

  He looked at the other buttons on the shirt. “These all have crisscrosses. I’ll sew mine that way, too.”

  She nodded. “Good.” Leaning closer, she said, “Go on.”

  Worried now that he had to show his ignorance, Clay began sewing. He made a couple Xs of his own. There was only so much thread on his needle. “How many do I need to do?”

  “Several. Close to ten since we’re using doubled thread.”

  He looked at the needle again, a bit chagrined since he hadn’t noticed the strands. Clay resumed sewing. He took an opportunity to look at the paper peeking out from his book. Resuming the stitch, he would bet it was the second letter. He’d fallen asleep soon after reading and hadn’t tucked the envelope into the crease as snugly as he had the others.

  “Looks like you’re about to lose a bookmark.” Miss Jenny picked up his book. “Can’t have that happen. Oh. It’s a letter.” She grinned and put the novel spine down on the table. “I didn’t mean to snoop.” She tapped the spine on the surface. “You need something to keep your personal papers in place and I have an idea.”

  Clay swallowed the lump of fear in his throat as she stood and went back to the trunk. Watching her dig through various sundries instead of paying attention to his sewing, he poked his finger with the needle. A drop of blood soon formed. He put the fingertip in his mouth in reflex. Repulsed by the tangy iron taste, he vowed to never read another letter from Abigail again.

  She closed the trunk and returned with a ribbon. “This will keep everything together.” Before Miss Jenny could add anything else, a horn blared in the distance. She glanced at him. “Are you going?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Very well, let’s make this quick.” She tied up his book like a Christmas gift. “Pay attention when you untie it next time so you’ll learn.” She took the shirt and secured the needle while he put the book in his bag. “Take this and practice if you like. A young man headed east needs a nice shirt.” As she talked, she folded the garment so the needle wouldn’t poke him.

  “I appreciate the lesson.” He shoved the shirt in on top of the book, fastened his new button, and put the bag over his head. “Thank you for the help, too.”

  “You did a fine job. Take care, now.”

  “I will, ma’am.” The hoof beats grew louder, so he ran outside in time to see the rider and horse arrive.

  Clem stood there with the fresh horse. “You ready to ride?”

  “Yes.”

  “You got fresh water? Better make sure that canteen is full.”

  Clay nodded. “It is.”

  “Good.” The rider skidded to a stop and hopped off as Clem said, “Mind him taking the next leg or two?”

  “Naw, not as long as I get paid for the day.”

  As soon as the mochila hit the fresh horse’s saddle, Clay had his foot in the stirrup. “Haw,” he said to the animal, and gave the flanks a nudge. A few miles along, the road led into a river crossing
. He’d heard far too many stories of riders being thrown when their horse’s hooves sank into a muddy riverbed.

  He gritted his teeth and hoped for the best as water splashed around them. Only after they reached dry ground could he take a deep breath. Clay reached forward and patted the horse’s neck. “Good boy,” he said as they galloped across the wide valley flanked by mountains.

  The road was one further east than he’d ever ridden before now. As he rode on, he realized a spur of the moment trip might be more involved than he’d expected. He could ride his usual run in the middle of the night. From here on to St. Joe, Clay figured he was a day-only pony rider. He’d need to take a minute at the stations to check road conditions, too.

  The lack of large buildings meant he was up on Cold Springs station before he’d had a chance to holler or whistle. He managed to give a yelp but a man stood there with another horse ready to go. Clay slid off to let him do his job. He took a deep drink of warm water from his canteen. Being still for a minute gave him the chance to really see the charred ruins of what looked like a formerly-large building. “Attacks still bad out here?”

  The mochila slapped onto the new saddle with a smack. “Yeah. Sand Springs is gone, too. Paiutes won’t leave us alone. Keep your eyes open for them.”

  “Thanks.” He hopped on and the horse sprang into a gallop. Clay gripped the brim of his hat to remove it and wipe the sweat from his forehead. Midday grew into midafternoon and both were blistering hot.

  The new wood framework for the Sand Springs station gleamed in the overhead sun. Clay could make out a few men working on the structure in the distance. He whistled his approach. One of the men broke away toward a corral. The closer he got, the more he could tell the place had two horses and a wagon.

  “You ain’t the usual boy we see,” the station manager said.

  “Nope. Headed east.” He took the chance to drink a couple mouthfuls of water.

  “Safe travels. Watch for Paiutes.”

  He nodded and took off again. The mountains, always seemingly at a far distance, finally drew close. He had no choice but to follow the narrow road and travel up a canyon. A station ahead surprised him with its size, the largest since Buckland’s this morning.