Messenger by Moonlight by Stephanie Grace Whitson Page B

on a washstand across from the dresser. Above the washstand, a towel embroidered with a bouquet of flowers hung on a brass bar. Both the dresser and the washstand boasted pale gray marble tops. Frank gave a low whistle of appreciation. Annie crossed the bare wood floor and plopped down on the edge of the bed. “I don’t know what to say.”
    Emmet smiled. “Told you you’d like it.”
    “But how—I mean—why wouldn’t Mr. Morgan keep this for himself?”
    “He stays in the soddy at the opposite end of the main room. That’s the original Clearwater Road Ranch. Said it suits him just fine.”
    “Then—what’s this all for?”
    “The cook.”
    Annie just shook her head. It still didn’t make sense. Why such a fancy room? That dresser was almost as nice as the one in the room at the Patee House. And she’d been right about the curtains. The edges dripped with lace.
    Emmet gestured about them. “Maybe this will make the next couple of years a little easier to bear.” He pointed toward the heavy plank door. “Frank and I bunk just through there. You turn left out of the kitchen, we go right. Need anything before we turn in?” Annie shook her head. “Sleep as late as you want tomorrow,” he said. “Morgan’s managed without a cook for this long, he can go another day.”
    “And I’ll see to your chicks,” Frank said. He draped her saddlebags across the foot of the bed and left.
    Before Emmet left, he kissed her cheek. His mustache tickled. Annie put her hand to the spot, surprised by the unexpected show of affection from her quiet older brother.
    “I told you we’d be all right, didn’t I?”
    Annie nodded. As soon as he’d closed the door behind him, she rose and doused the lamp, undressing in the dark and leaving everything where it fell. When she pulled back the bedcovering and lay down, the mattress crinkled. The aroma that wafted into the air wasn’t the scent of lemons, but it told her the straw bedding was fresh.

Chapter 9

    Cold. When had it gotten so cold?
Content to remain suspended between sleep and wakefulness, Annie burrowed into her pillow and dozed for a few more minutes. Finally, she opened her eyes.
Light… sunlight pouring through shutters
. What time was it?
    Slipping out of bed, she tiptoed to the south-facing window and unlatched the shutters.
Snow
… collecting on the ground, piling up against fence posts and the walls of buildings, frosting the backs of the animals in the corrals. And it was cold.
So cold.
On April 3. What had happened to spring? The Pony Express mail was supposed to leave St. Joseph at five o’clock this evening. They would probably hear Jake Finney’s approach here at Clearwater at midday tomorrow. A couple of days after that, it would be Emmet’s turn to carry the California mail eastward.
And it was snowing.
    Annie shivered. She hadn’t given much thought to Frank and Emmet’s riding the trail in the dead of winter. She’d comforted herself with the idea that by the time snow covered all but the most prominent landmarks, riders and horses alike would have memorized the trail. All her brothers would have to do by then was to hang on.
And hope not to freeze to death.
    She would need to get busy knitting socks for them all. Maybe she’d knit some for Jake Finney, too. She wondered about the other riders she’d meet in the coming days. As ahome station, Clearwater would be at the center of a long relay race, with riders shuttling mail in both directions in all kinds of weather.
A hundred miles in a snowstorm.
She would need a lot of yarn. She’d ask Luther to bring some with him on his next supply run. How long would it take to get it? There was so much she didn’t know about living in this place.
    After shaking out the clothing she’d dropped on the floor the previous night and smoothing it as best she could, Annie dressed. There was water in the pitcher on the washstand. Who’d brought it in? She poured some into the bowl, rinsed her hands,