Messenger by Moonlight by Stephanie Grace Whitson

chickens.”
    The boy sounded incredulous. “You might want to wait a few days before you ask George about turning his blacksmith’s shop into a chicken coop.”
    After what she’d just seen of the man, Annie doubted she’d be asking George Morgan for anything. In fact, she’d be doing her best to avoid him. “Frank and Emmet could build one.” They’d never worked with sod, but surely they could figure something out—with Luther’s help. Something small. “If I’m going to raise them, I won’t want them freezing to death.”
    Billy put the chick down and began to untie the rope holding the basket in place. “You’re staying the winter?”
    “Of course. Why would you ask?”
    “George’s crew always goes east for the winter.”
    “We’re not really part of George’s crew. We work for the Pony Express, and in spite of your employer’s antics, I don’t plan on leaving until my brothers do.”
    Billy coiled the rope that had attached the basket to Luther’s wagon and draped it over one of the wheel spokes. He picked up the basket. “
Antics.
I don’t know that word.”
    “Fighting. Swearing. Shooting. Causing trouble.” She followed Billy into the barn, where he set the basket down in astall and opened the lid, laughing as the chicks tumbled into the clean straw.
    “George didn’t start the fight. And he doesn’t swear.”
    Annie interrupted him. “I heard him with my own ears. It was… vile.”
    “
Vile.
Another word I don’t know. But it sounds bad.” He looked over at her. “That wasn’t George.”
    If Billy didn’t know words like
vile
and
antics
, he probably didn’t know what
swearing
was, either. It was pointless to argue. She knew what she’d heard. And seen.
    Billy returned to the topic of the chicks. “I’ll scatter some grain for them and find something to hold water.” He flashed a smile. “I hope you do stay. George is a terrible cook. Even Whiskey John’s been complaining.”
    “Whiskey John?”
    “One of the stage drivers.
Big
appetite. You’ll meet him tomorrow when the stage rolls in.”
    Annie stood at the stall door watching the chicks. At the sound of horses approaching from the south, she hurried to the barn door.
Thank heaven.
Frank and Emmet with the runaways in tow. Billy hurried to open the corral gate for them. Moments later, Frank and Emmet led Outlaw and Emmet’s bay into the barn.
    Outlaw snorted and backed away when Billy approached. “Better give him a few days to get to know you first,” Frank said.
    “Or weeks,” Emmet quipped.
    “Instead of insulting Outlaw,” Frank said, “how about you let me see to the horses and you check in with Luther and Morgan. See if Morgan’s sobered up. I imagine Annie would appreciate it if she didn’t have to spend another night in a barn loft.”
    Billy interrupted before Emmet could reply. “George doesn’t drink. The fight was
about
drinking. Just not George’s.”
    “Really?”
    Billy nodded. “Two friends from George’s trading days rode in earlier today. One white. One Cheyenne. George explained his ‘no liquor to Indians’ rule and offered to make coffee. They didn’t like the rule and tried to make him change it. You saw how it ended.” Billy backed away as Frank led Outlaw past him and into a stall. “That’s a beautiful horse. Does sugar do anything to improve his opinion of strangers?”
    Frank smiled. “It might.”
    Emmet left for the station. As he trotted up the dusty path leading past the half dozen pens and corrals, something wound tight inside Annie relaxed a little. The men she’d thought to be drunken soldiers racing back to Fort Kearny weren’t soldiers, after all. And Emmet and Frank were obviously feeling protective of her.
    After Emmet disappeared inside the station, and Frank had seen to the horses, Billy suggested they unhitch Luther’s team. Darkness had fallen by the time Big Boy, Andy, and the four mules were contentedly munching hay alongside the Pony Express