Expressly Yours Samantha

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Family Tree

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Author’s Note

  More from This Author

  Also Available

  Expressly Yours, Samantha

  Becky Lower

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Copyright © 2015 by Becky Louise Lower.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  57 Littlefield Street

  Avon, MA 02322

  www.crimsonromance.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-7897-4

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8197-7

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-7896-6

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7896-0

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © iStockphoto.com/egorr

  This book is dedicated to the real heroes of the American Pony Express—the horses themselves. These horses had to gallop at top speed for between ten and twenty miles each time they were used. Many collapsed and died at the end of their routes, or were so broken they could no longer work. While some of the Pony Express riders went on to fame and fortune, the horses that were left faded into oblivion.

  Acknowledgments

  It takes a village to bring a book from idea to reality, and I have many people to thank for their help.

  First, a huge thank you to Crimson Romance. When no traditional publisher wanted to take a chance on a historical romance set in America that was not a Western, they did. All they cared about was if it was a good story.

  Next, my chapter mates at NEORWA. They’re my cheerleaders, my go-to people with questions, my rock. Can’t thank you enough.

  Third, to my critique partner, AE Jones. Your questions and comments are spot on. Thank you for making me restructure my beginnings.

  Fourth, to my best friend, Linda Smith. Without you, there would have been no Valerian, since you were the one who spied the name on the apothecary chest in the antique store that day in North Carolina.

  And finally, to my sister, Pat, who was with me on our mad dash across the country last spring. She made no objection to pulling off the interstate every time I saw a sign about the Pony Express, the Platte River, or the wagon train route. The trip was a day longer than anticipated due to all of our impulsive stops, but I think the book is better because of it. Your patience was, and is, most appreciated.

  Chapter 1

  Missouri, March 1860

  If Samantha spent one more night in the tiny cabin belonging to her uncle, she would not be a virgin by morning. Even while she sat beside her aunt the previous evening, leaning over to hear her aunt’s halted words as she dictated a final letter to her mother, Samantha’s panic rose. Her hands shook as she wrote the words her aunt spoke, putting them down on paper to send to Hilda’s mother and Samantha’s own grandmother, who was close to death herself back in Massachusetts. Aunt Hilda had shielded her from Uncle Jack the best she could for the past two years, but her aunt would be of no help now. Before she’d exhaled her last breath, she had reached for Samantha.

  “Where is Jack?”

  “He’s in the barn, Aunt Hilda. Do you want me to get him?” Samantha sensed her aunt’s death was near. She dipped a cloth in cool water and swabbed Hilda’s brow in a futile attempt to give her peace.

  “No, child. Don’t bring him in here. I have nothing to say to him. But reach under the mattress, and be quick about it.”

  Samantha did as she was bid and pulled out a small bag of coins. Hilda placed it in Samantha’s hands.

  “Take this, my child, and leave here as soon as you can. I’m sorry I ever brought you into this house, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “It’s not your fault, Aunt Hilda, and I appreciate all you’ve done for me. If not for you, I would have died along with my folks.”

  “Put a bit of that money out where Jack can find it. He’ll spend it on drink or a whore after I’m laid to rest. That should give you time.”

  “Please rest, now, Aunt Hilda. I’ll be all right.”

  Samantha stayed with Hilda until she died, and then prepared the body for burial. She informed her uncle of Hilda’s passing, thinking he might want some time alone with his deceased wife. Instead, he left the house briefly, to inform the cemetery workers that a new body would be coming, and then returned to the barn to complete the casket. The long night faded into dawn, and Samantha still had no idea what to do.

  The hasty funeral would take place this morning in the town cemetery.

  Samantha needed a plan, but her thoughts were jumping all over the place. As she prepared herself for the ride to the cemetery, she tried to calm herself and think of the most immediate things to do.

  She had to get away, and get away fast. And for that to happen, Jack needed to be kept occupied. Although he hadn’t said a word to her as she got his breakfast ready before they loaded her aunt’s body into the wagon his sidelong glances at her made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. The first part of her plan came together as she cleared the table, leaving the pouch of coins for him to find. She had kept out enough to pay her way as she ran, and left the rest to keep Jack entertained this afternoon.

  The ceremony at the cemetery was hardly long enough to be called a service. The minister quoted a bible passage and said some nice things about her aunt, but her casket was lowered into the ground within a matter of minutes. Samantha hesitated at the gravesite, tossing a handful of earth on the crude casket as the graveyard worker pierced the mound of dirt beside the site with his shovel, and began filling the hole he had created the previous evening. The scraping of a shovel in the dirt and the scent of freshly turned earth would forever remind her of Aunt Hilda.

  Jack wasted no time at the gravesite and hurried to the tavern with his pouch of coins. Samantha took the letter containing Aunt Hilda’s dying words to the post office. She would accomplish this final act for her aunt, however
futile it may be, since she fully expected her aunt and her grandmother to meet at heaven’s door at the same time. And then she’d be off, leaving this small town, and Uncle Jack, behind. But she still didn’t have a clue where she might head, with little money and no means of transportation.

  A sign at the post office caught Samantha’s eye. She feigned disinterest as she snuck sidelong glances at the poster about the new Pony Express, reading one line at a time.

  Wanted: Young, skinny, wiry fellows.

  She tore her glance from the sign and studied the customers queued up in front of her. Another quick look.

  Not over eighteen.

  She posted her letter and turned away from the window, catching the last of the poster’s message.

  Must be expert riders.

  Willing to face death daily.

  Orphans preferred.

  She was all of what they wanted, except for one basic and glaring fact. She might be young, skinny, and wiry, but she was no fellow. Samantha calmed her breathing as she walked away from the post office, but her mind was buzzing with possibilities. Her ticket out of the nightmare her life had become had just presented itself. She loved horses and had a good hand with them. All she needed to do was to hide her true identity—pretend to be a boy—and she was certain she could pull it off. Uncle Jack had enough money to keep him busy until after midnight. Samantha figured she had at least twelve hours to transform herself and get on the road.

  She stopped by Aunt Hilda’s grave once more. Her tears mingled with the fresh dirt. She picked up a handful of the loose earth from the gentle mound, kneading it in her hands.

  “There’s been so much heartache in my life, Aunt Hilda. First, Momma and Daddy died of the smallpox, I barely survived it, and now you’re gone. You protected me as best you could, but you can’t anymore. It’s up to me now.”

  She hopped up into the wagon and headed for the small cabin she had called home for only a few years. She’d take only one change of clothes—no dresses—since women traveling alone, even this far west, caused people to raise eyebrows. She’d bind her small breasts, wear men’s clothing, and cut off her hair. Her excitement mounted as the horse and wagon trudged along, and the plan she’d been formulating in her head began to take shape. She’d become the fellow the Pony Express wanted. Her idea might work.

  Back at the cabin, she picked up her scissors and grabbed a hank of hair. Tears came to her eyes again as the scissors hovered. Her hair had never been cut, not from the day she was born. Her mother had loved her hair, even though it meant extra work trying to keep it neat when Samantha was a child. She glanced at herself in the mirror, running her hand over her dark brown locks. If she cut her hair here, her uncle would piece it all together before she got to St. Joseph, where men were signing on to the Express. If she left no traces of her departure and her clothing still hung in the crude closet, it might take Uncle Jack a while to figure out she was even gone. At least one day. That was all she needed. But she had no doubt the minute he missed a meal or an evening without the funds to pay for a doxy at the local tavern, he’d come after her, mad as hell.

  No, she’d pack her scissors and cut her hair as she walked. Scissors would make a good weapon, anyway, should she need one. She found a length of muslin to bind her breasts and wrapped it around her. Then she dressed in the boy’s clothing she used when she had to clean out the barn, put on her heavy boots, packed an extra shirt, a change of underwear, and the only picture she had of her mother and father. St. Joseph was about twenty miles from the cabin. If she walked fast, she could be there in a day’s time and get hired on by the Pony Express. It might take a bit longer, since she’d stay off the main roads, but she’d get herself to St. Joe before her disappearance was discovered. Then Uncle Jack would never find her.

  • • •

  Ever since defying his parents by refusing to return to New York last spring after his vacation was over, Valerian Fitzpatrick had been planning. He just didn’t know for what. Now his course was clear. He was on his way from St. Louis to St. Joseph, Missouri with a railcar full of horses his brother-in-law was selling to the new Pony Express line. St. Joe was where the signing up was being held, and Val had no plans to return to St. Louis. He was going to become a Pony Express rider. He just hadn’t told anyone yet.

  He breathed in the scent of hay and horse—his two favorite smells. His brother-in-law, Joseph, softly crooned an Indian chant as he curried one horse. Val picked up a comb and moved to the mustang’s other side, running a hand over the horse’s neck. Joseph nodded at him and continued his chant. Valerian returned the gesture and remained quiet. He had learned in the months he’d been with Joseph not to interrupt the sacred Indian traditions. He waited for Joseph’s crooning to end.

  Joseph ran his hand over the horse’s flank as he finished with the grooming. “These mustangs are as tough as the country they will be racing through, so they’ll be good for the Express riders. And we have broken them pretty good.”

  “How many horses do you think they’ll need?”

  “William Russell told us they will need five hundred altogether, but spaced out from here to Sacramento and San Francisco. We might be able to send them another full railcar or two to get them started. But racing at a full gallop for ten or twelve miles will break a horse down if he is not in top shape. I expect the Pony Express operation will burn through a lot of horses. Good for us, but not good for the horses.”

  “Supposedly there are relay stations all along the route, every ten or fifteen miles. That’s where the riders will change horses. Are we going to be responsible for delivering the horses to the relay stations?”

  Joseph’s gaze lifted from the horse to Valerian. “I will talk to Mr. Russell when we get to St. Joe, but I will offer to let you stay in town and deliver the horses to the relay stations while my brothers and I head back to St. Louis and gather up another train car full.”

  Valerian’s hopes rose along with his heartbeat. Things could not be working out better. The last nine months would serve him in good stead, since he’d been rounding up mustangs on the Kansas and Missouri plains along with Joseph and his brothers. He now was familiar with both the landscape and the route the stagecoaches and wagon trains followed through Kansas. He’d even navigated it at night more times than he cared to remember. He had a talk with Mr. Russell in his future as well.

  “Yep, I’d be happy to deliver these horses out to the relay posts. How many stations do you think we can supply?”

  “According to Mr. Russell, the first big home station is in Seneca at the Smith Hotel, and there are eight relay posts between St. Joseph and there. With one more railcar, we can supply four horses at each station. Five would be better, but I will have to talk to Russell about any more after these first two railcars.”

  “Can’t wait to meet the man. He’s organized the entire route, nearly 2,000 miles, in a matter of months. The amount of money he’s shelling out for horses means he’s got serious backing for his project.”

  “Not only for the horses. The Pony Express riders are being paid a hundred dollars a month.”

  Valerian’s mind quickly went to work. If he could ride for the Express, even for a year, he’d have a substantial sum of money to stake his claim in the West. Surely his family would have to applaud his ambition, wouldn’t they?

  But first he needed to get to St. Joe, impress Mr. Russell, and secure himself a job with the Express. And not only to deliver horses. He’d become a rider. He’d been grooming himself for the job since he first got up on a pony, years ago. He began composing his letter home in his mind. Maybe he’d even sign it Expressly Yours.

  Chapter 2

  Samantha walked fast and hard for a day and a half, hiding in the brush each time a rider, wagon, or buggy came by. Her heart raced as she pondered what she was about to do. By now, her hair had been cut off, and bits and pieces of it were left under the bushes and let go into the wind. At least Uncle Jack would not be able to trace her by f
inding her hair. She kept her breasts bound. Even though over the years she’d come across some muscled men whose breasts were larger than hers, she thought it prudent not to allow anyone to witness what little she had. She had to develop a swagger to her steps and force herself to think and talk as a man would. Her voice needed to be lowered by an octave. She’d also have to figure out how to take care of her personal hygiene in a room full of men, since she assumed the Pony Express riders would all room together as they waited for their assignments.

  As a boy, sixteen was the age when she would no longer be a minor, but girls had to wait until their eighteenth birthday to be considered a legal adult. So, she was done with being a girl. At least for the next year. After she turned eighteen, if she survived, she might again become Samantha.

  For now, though, she was a sixteen-year-old boy named Sam. Sam Hughes. A good, solid, masculine name. She worked on her swagger and ran her hands through her short, chopped hair. Samantha didn’t allow herself to think what might happen to her if the Pony Express people figured out she was trying to con them. If her duplicity were discovered before she even took one ride with them, she’d have to come up with another plan, and fast. She couldn’t give them anything to question. She talked to herself as she walked, trying out her new male voice.

  She placed one foot in front of the other. Even though she was dog-tired, her fear of being spotted by Uncle Jack propelled her forward. Tears smarted in her eyes again at the injustice of it all. Her parents and Aunt Hilda had died while trying to settle the wild, untamed west. Life was harsh, and if the Indians didn’t get to you, sickness or accidents would. Even though Samantha was barely five feet tall, she was stronger than her parents and her aunt put together. She would not allow the West, the unknown, or her uncle to drag her down. Her steps became stronger as the miles melted away. Soon, she’d be free of Uncle Jack.