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Amish Journeys • Book 2
Old Amarillo, Texas
PULLING HER GAUZY WHITE covering down as far as it would go, Annie carefully looked both ways before venturing across Amarillo’s dusty Polk Street. Balancing the armload of mended dresses on her shoulder, she picked her way across the deep ruts and clods, listening for rushing wagons. “To say this town is growing day by day doesn’t do Amarillo justice,” she muttered.
A train whistle shrieked, demanding her attention. Beneath the baking Texas sun, Annie watched as the richly dressed cattle barons poured out of the train depot and into the plot of land where the rails that led to Santa Fe crossed those that led to Topeka. En masse, they made their way to the towering Amarillo Hotel, smiling and chattering amongst themselves and seemingly oblivious to the stares of the passersby.
Coming to claim their share of the cattle trade, Annie thought as she stepped out of the rutty road and onto the safety of the wooden boardwalk.
Bound for Wolfin’s Mercantile with the armload of dresses they hired her to mend, Annie nonchalantly glanced at Philip Seewald’s storefront. The beginnings of a jewelry store, so I heard rumor.
Three men in inky black dusters with their hats pulled low stood outside and appeared to be remarkably out of place. They seemed to cast an awful lot of glances toward the whitewashed bank, too. Annie said a quick mental prayer. And some come to take from those who profit from the cattle business. Please, Father, protect those who come in contact with those men. Annie studied the ground and tried to ignore the icy chills that chased each other down her spine as she passed in front of the black-clad trio. Just a few more steps and I’ll be safely to Wolfin’s.
Holding her breath until she was clear of the men, Annie exhaled and glanced at the newest business that had sprung up almost overnight. A post office for true postal mail. Her mood brightened. To receive letters handwritten by those you love. A smile found its way onto her lips. Maybe I’ll pen a letter to Crackerjack after I return these dresses and post it to Santa Fe. Surely there’s a post office in Santa Fe...
Popping shots echoed from behind her, shocking Annie from her daydream of handsome George “Crackerjack” Guthrie, the Texas cowman who’d stolen her heart only months before. Ducking into Wolfin’s, she dared a peek out from the glass window into the freshly deserted Polk Street. The bank president stood in front of the fancy First National sign, the giant clock behind him ticking down the minutes until ten a.m. and both barrels of his shotgun still smoking. Two of the outlaws writhed in the dusty street, moaning. The third was nowhere that Annie could see.
“You and those dresses made it just in time, judging by the commotion out in the street,” Mr. Wolfin said from behind her. “Here, let me help you pick these up so I can pay you, and you can be on your way.”
Annie’s heart thundered in her chest as she turned to face the mercantile owner. “Yes, just in time,” she agreed. A chill coursed through her body when she thought of stepping back out into the street when her business at the mercantile was complete.
***
CASH MONEY FROM HER mending job jingled in her dress pocket as Annie dashed across the eerily quiet and strangely empty street.
Perhaps I could make it to the post office to send that letter, so I don’t have to come back into town later. As she drew nearer to the new post office building, an arm reached out and grabbed her from the shadowed alleyway.
Thoughts of the thwarted third bank bandit burst into her mind. “Help!” Annie chirped.
“Sorry to startle you, Miss Annie,” William rasped, his twangy voice hushed. “But a telegram just come in.”
Eyes wide, Annie nodded at the short, round telegraph operator. “Thank you,” she managed. Her voice audibly shook, so she forced a swallow.
“Like I said, I’m mighty sorry to startle you Miss Annie, but figured you’d want it right off.” William hung his balding head. “When I saw you pass by—”
Annie shook her head, shushing him. “It’s no bother, William. I’ll take the telegram out to Mr. Goetz.” She fell in behind William on the short walk back to the tiny telegraph office.
“So is your sister ready to have that baby soon?”
Annie nodded, relishing the small talk about Katie. She couldn’t wait to be an aunt, really and truly an aunt, to Katie and Peter’s baby. “Fact is,” Annie said, “the little one is due any day now.”
“Have they chosen any names?” William held open the door to the telegraph station.
Shaking her head, Annie stepped in, suddenly anxious to post that letter to Crackerjack. “Not yet,” she replied politely. “If I can take Mr. Goetz’s telegram, I’ll be on my way.”
“Oh no Miss Annie,” William explained. He pulled the door shut behind her and stepped around behind his tall wooden desk. “This telegram is for you.”
William’s voice dropped, as though he could only continue if they were shrouded in absolute secrecy. Who could this be from, Annie wondered as she accepted the thin piece of yellow paper from William’s beefy hand.
Dear Annie stop Forgive me for not sending better news stop Hired hand Black Jack Ketchum tried to rob Broken O Ranch North here in Santa Fe stop Threw down on Crackerjack stop Crackerjack wounded but ranch safe stop Crackerjack asking for you stop Please send word if I should expect you stop
Jim Guthrie
p.s. Crackerjack asked me to tell you that he loves you stop
The small piece of life-altering yellow paper fluttered from her hand, coming to rest on the dusty wooden planks of the telegraph office floor. “Oh. Oh no,” Annie breathed. The world spun around her, slow at first and then faster, as the news brought to her by way of telegram sunk in. “Crackerjack,” she rasped, clinging onto the desk for support. Suddenly all the air was sucked from the room. I can’t breathe! Someone, help. Please.
Grasping at her throat, Annie clawed at her constricting high-necked dress. A bout of nausea washed over her in a swirling, crashing wave until she listed, her knees threatening to give way. Crackerjack, no.
“Miss Annie? Miss Annie!” William’s short and squat outline furred as he rushed toward her, giving him an almost dreamlike appearance. His words sounded so far away, Annie wasn’t positive if she was inside her own nightmare or if she was truly awake.
“Crackerjack,” she tried to whisper again, but her muddled words were unrecognizable even to her own ears.
Before William could make it around the desk, before the obligatory prayer could find its way to the forefront of her reeling mind, before she felt her body slam against the dusty floor as the blackness came creeping, blotting and masking everything in her vision. First, the sunlight streaming through the front window of the telegraph office, then William’s surprised face as he rushed to catch her.
The last thing in Annie’s mind was the memory of Crackerjack’s handsome face, smiling and dimpled, before it, along with everything else, simply winked out.
