Messenger by Moonlight by Stephanie Grace Whitson Page B

time on a street lined with shops selling everything from imported porcelain to top hats, finally locating what he wanted in a corner shop not far from Ira’s livery.
    Finally, Frank walked to the barn and put a halter on Outlaw. He led him out to the smaller corral in Ira’s back lot, talking in low tones while he slid his hands down the horse’s muscled neck, across his back, and down his haunches, and so on.
    Sunlight had just begun to spill into the town when Emmet arrived—alone.
    “No Annie?”
    “I knocked on her door, but she didn’t want to get up yet. Said she’d meet us in the lobby in a little while. We can have breakfast together.”
    “Good,” Frank said, “because I haven’t talked to Ira yet.” He patted Outlaw’s neck. “I wanted to see how things would go first.”
    Emmet nodded at the horse. “That hardly looks like the same animal. What happened to the hellfire and brimstone?”
    Frank tugged on the horse’s long black mane. “I reckon it’ll show up the minute I try to ride him.”
    “You haven’t tried yet?”
    Frank shook his head. “Thought I’d try to convince him to trust me first. If I can do that, riding him will be easy.”
    “Easy.”
Emmet shook his head. “You and your ideas.”
    “Speaking of ideas, I’ve got one that involves Annie.” Frank grinned. “You’ll like it.”

    Annie and her brothers lived in unimaginable luxury at the Patee House for nearly two weeks. They attended half a dozen balls, where Frank reveled in the attention afforded the Pony Express riders and Annie. Although she never quite felt like she fit in, she enjoyed being squired about the dance floor by a succession of gentlemen, both young and old.
    Jake Finney—who claimed to be eighteen but who Annie suspected was probably three years younger—seemed to enjoy spending time with her, and together they often walked the city.
    As the western terminus for many railroads, St. Jo. was a stopping place for thousands of immigrants headed west. The streets nearest the river were especially crowded, the levee lined with covered wagons and freighting outfits waiting to take steam-powered ferries across the river. Annie loved staring into shop windows, and she loved watching people. It seemed to her that half the world must be going west. As she and Jake talked, she learned that he’d walked to St. Jo. from somewhere in Kansas, spending his last few coins on the ferry across the Missouri. His willingness to speak of his past ended there.
    Finally, one morning, the word that they would be departing came just as they were finishing breakfast. A courier came to the table with a message for “Mr. Emmet or Mr. Frank Paxton.” Emmet read it quickly and summarized the contents. “The last of the freight’s here. Luther wants us to take our trunks down to the livery this morning. We leave tomorrow.”
    “Yee-hah,” Jake said quietly, his face beaming with joy.
    Feeling like a stone had plummeted to the pit of her stomach, Annie folded her napkin and laid it beside her plate ofhalf-eaten flapjacks. She wouldn’t be able to swallow another bite. Excusing herself to pack, she left the men at the table and went up to her room. For a moment she stood by the window looking down on the street, trying to pray.
I don’t want to go. I have to go. Help.
Taking a deep breath, she pressed against her midsection, willing the horrible tightness away.
Don’t think. Just do the next thing. Make your bedroll.
    Opening her trunk, she took a last look at the treasures within: Ma’s looking glass. The fragile silk gown. The remnants of the dancing slippers she’d worn out in the Patee House ballroom. The summer-weight unmentionables. The next time she’d open the trunk, she would be at Clearwater.
In the wilderness.
The knot in her stomach worsened.
    She pulled the thin quilt she would use for a bedroll out of the trunk. Holding it against herself for a moment, she swept her palm over the surface, smiling at the