Rider's Desire

Rider's Desire Sneak Peek

Chapter One

Clay Winslow nodded at the stack of dusty letters in their postal box. "He never picked them up? Looks like a man lucky enough to have family might be a little more interested in what they write to him."

Daggart Bartlett shrugged. "It's not his family so much as a woman. I don't understand it, either, but maybe he's been married before and is a smarter man now."

"I heard that," said a woman from the back and behind the wall of post office boxes. "You'll be talking out of the other side of your mouth when you're hungry tonight."

He winked at Clay and said, "She loves me."

Mrs. Bartlett walked up to the cash register with one of her hands resting on a very pregnant belly. Clay figured she'd be a lot prettier if she were a lot less stern faced. "Ma'am," he said with a nod.

"Hello. Is he taking care of you or just jawing around as usual?" She didn't give him a chance to respond. "That man loves to talk a stone post to death."

"He's fine, Mary. No need to fuss."

"He's also a pony boy and is most likely needing you to hurry up so he can leave."

Clay couldn't hide his smile. "I'm good, ma'am. The next bundle goes out first thing tomorrow morning."

"Hmph. Well, don't complain if you're still here by then."

The shopkeeper leaned in to Clay and said, "It's her condition making her extra crab—, uh, conscientious. That's all."

She shook her head and wandered out of the room. "Don't mind me. What do I know?"

Daggart pursed his lips and stared down at the counter until her footsteps faded. Giving Clay a grin, he said, "I tried my best to not love the woman. Have to admit, she smiles and I'm lying in the mud, waiting for her to find me again."

He figured there had to be a story behind Mr. Bartlett's mud comment but the letters bothered him. Clay had been a Pony Express rider for too long and their neglect wouldn't leave him alone. "Who's supposed to be picking up the mail no one wants?"

"These?" He reached back and grabbed the stack. "Richard Crandall had been pretty regular about reading and sending replies to this little ole gal from back east. I don't know what happened."

Clay frowned. He'd heard that name before now and tried to remember where. Daggart pulled the first and last letter. He pushed them both where Clay could read.

"They're arranged like they arrived. Rich told me a little bit about the lady he'd been writing. He seemed to like her enough to write once a month." Daggart looked behind him for a second before tapping the last letter sent. "Don't know if I like anyone that much."

He chuckled and tried to keep quiet so Daggart didn't get grief from Mary again. "I'd have to be in a lot of love, too."

"Yeah, well." He stacked the letters, tapping them on the counter. "Avoid that mess as long as you can, Winslow. Else you'll end up in a general store and henpecked by a good woman."

"I'll keep that in mind." He nodded at the stack of goods. "How much do I owe you?"

"A dollar fifty."

Clay paid him, putting what he could in his pockets. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Don't be a stranger, now."

He nodded and stepped aside as a couple walked into the store. Clay went outside, the sun bright in the late afternoon. Various buggies and wagons rolled up and down the street. The wheels kicked up dust and people hollered above the noise to be heard. He pushed his hat down, ready to be out in the wide open territories.

Tomorrow was his turn to ride from here to at least Yank's station. A little over a hundred miles, give or take a few. He'd need some rest before his turn tomorrow morning at four. Not everyone went for the daybreak run like him. They didn't know the beauty they missed like Clay did.

He walked down the boards. Creaks and footsteps of others moving around him created a music of sorts. The noise drowned out most of the other sounds until he stood in front of the saloon. A familiar tune bled through the closed doors and he grinned. A drink or two couldn't hurt. Hungover on a pony for most of tomorrow didn't appeal to him, no, but a nice warming sip sounded good right now.

Clay went in. The bar was empty with a couple of die-hard regulars sitting on the end. One grinned and raised his glass in greeting. He nodded and settled for the middle of the bar. Later on, he would come in for a game or two of cards, serious drinking, and conversation. Right now, he wanted no demands or plans on his time.

The barkeep stepped up to him while wiping the counter with a rag. "What's the good word today, son?"

He grinned at the man old enough to be his grandfather. "Scotch. A finger or two of your best, Grady."

"That's all, or should I leave out the bottle for ya?"

"That's all." Clay put his elbows on the bar as Grady placed a mostly clean glass in front of him and poured. He slid a quarter to him and asked, "Have you seen Rich Crandall around here lately?"

"No, and none of us will." Grady scooped up the money. "Crandall was killed in that mine collapse last week. You might have been out of town then."

He nodded. Clay had been on the way back from the station at Cold Springs. "He's got a pile of letters at Bartlett's waiting for him."

"I'm not surprised. He had a little ole gal from back east sweet on him."

"Did he like her, too?"

"Suppose so. He'd come in, read to himself, scribble something down, and go back to the post office." Grady did something here. "I never minded. He'd always have a glass or two. Sometimes three while writing her."

"I wonder if she knows what happened to him."

"Good question, son. Wish I had a good answer."