Where the Heart Is Romance Collection

by Andrea Boeshaar

  Chapter 2

  For the fifth day in a row, Bernie watched Megan take the jar and dump the contents. He almost looked forward to these early morning wanderings. She might very well be the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Megan Crawford rubbed sleep from a face that would look at home on an angel. In many ways, her pretense of innocence made him all the more suspicious.

  He waited for her to busy herself so he could find the spot and do a thorough search. She was good at pretending she was just an ordinary traveler on the Oregon Trail. No matter how long the day, how bad the water, how tough the travel, he’d never heard her utter a word of complaint. Often her behavior made him curious. She’d ignored the view from the Devil’s Gate gorge. When they’d come across a group of Mormons pushing handcarts, she had kept to herself instead of using the opportunity to engage in conversation.

  Women were supposed to lean toward social gatherings.

  Why did she avoid them?

  He found the spot she’d just left and got down on his hands and knees. Searching was a bit easier here at the pass. She’d not chosen a grassy area but had instead found a crevice where a tiny cedar grew. He scoured the area. There had to be something, some hint as to what the woman was doing. But, no, only a garter snake witnessed the search for nothing.

  What was the woman getting rid of? Why did she choose to empty the jar a little at a time instead of all at once? Why couldn’t he find any evidence of what she was hiding?

  Bernie had always been an early riser, but if there were awards to be given for greeting the morning, Megan had him beat. He’d given up sleep for naught. The jar remained a mystery. Megan’s secret still needed to be unearthed, and this morning the only new information he gleaned about the members of the wagon train had to do with Homer Green and Anna Schmitt. Homer was a master pack rat, Bernie discovered. The Green family had stumbled across a deserted wagon, just a few feet off the trail. Essentials like wheels, yoke, and the like were already picked clean. Homer made sure nothing was left. Rusty hooks and drawstrings were pulled from the torn canvas.

  While Homer’s particular gift hadn’t been a surprise, Anna Schmitt was. Who’d have guessed such a sour-faced, brick wall of a woman could create such incredible drawings. He’d watched her yesterday, as a hesitant sun cast yellow and orange hues onto the trail. She’d climbed from the wagon, her large hands clutching a tattered, brown leather satchel. Probably didn’t want to disturb her deadbeat husband. Larson Schmitt managed to avoid any of Rawhide’s assigned duties. Larson made Orson look like a hard worker.

  What was it Granny Willodene had said about Larson? Handsome is as handsome does. The womenfolk agreed Larson Schmitt was a fine-looking man. Most of them also recognized him as a lazy good-for-nothing. Granny’s words, not Bernie’s. Bernie didn’t care what Larson did.

  Anna made her way into the prairie, wearing boots two sizes too big, and trampled a path in a sea of chamiso flowers Bernie had just scoured for clues. He almost hadn’t followed, figuring the woman needed privacy. But the way she gingerly held the satchel grabbed his interest.

  She found a secluded spot. If Bernie hadn’t been following her, she’d not have been seen. She was a natural at picking out a private area. After finding a bit of shade and laying down a blanket, she took out charcoal and a drawing pad. Years of experience let him sneak up, undetected. He’d almost been discovered, though, when, after drawing a realistic likeness of an early morning wagon train amidst the craggy cliffs, she’d plucked yellow and orange chalk from her satchel and added a sunrise so realistic that Bernie could feel the distant, golden rays. Male instinct was to let out a whistle of appreciation. Bernie was a master at suppressing his instinct and instead just nodded.

  He’d watched her far too long, mesmerized by the likeness of Rawhide appearing next to the wagon. By the time she’d signed her initials at the bottom of the paper and he’d rejoined the wagon train, Rawhide had spit a plug of chew and yelled, “Let’s move out.” The company was lumbering to a fresh beginning. All were in jovial moods. From the front of the train to the end, the immigrants were sucking on ice. A boggy marsh, known as the Ice Slough, provided an oasis where ice dwelt in muck. Never before had Bernie seen anything like it.

  Granny Willodene had reached one hand in and pulled out a piece. “Well, I’ll be!” Those three words brought the hordes running. Even the cows were given chunks to lick on.

  From the corner of his eye, Bernie watched Anna return to her wagon. He located the Crawfords. They were near the end of the line, which made Bernie’s job easier. Megan often traveled alone and, as last wagon, a parade of travelers would not hinder his view.

  His grand plan for surveillance wasn’t to be. Not today. Come to think of it, not this week and not since they’d entered the Sweetwater. He really wanted to get near enough to listen in on the conversation Megan was having with Bethany Rogers. Something had transpired in the last week, and suddenly most of the young women near Megan’s age wanted to walk with her, even if their wagon was a good distance from hers.

  Megan looked none too happy about the attention.

  Watching as the oxen in the lead wagon shuffled into movement, Bernie started toward Megan only to be hailed by Rawhide to come talk to a man leading a wagon train back East. These were not the first returning immigrants they’d encountered. Bernie hurried to his bedroll, still under the wagon Dillon Trier drove. He quickly composed a letter to the Chicago office, and ten minutes later, he and most of the others sent messages homeward.

  And right when Bernie least wanted it, Pastor Brewster stood in the way. He put one foot on the wheel of the wagon Bernie intended to drive for the next four hours. When the wagon stopped for nooning, Bernie would turn the reins back to Dillon Trier.

  For the most part, Bernie didn’t trust pastors. Jesse Brewster was trying his hardest to become the exception. “You got a minute?” Brewster wanted to know.

  To Bernie’s mind, a pastor who cared so little if his clothes matched maybe wanted the masses to think he spent his time caring for his flock.

  Bernie couldn’t figure that out, and he’d seen the like before.

  Then, there was the dog. Sitting at his master’s feet, Barnabas’s tongue lolled as he looked at his owner with adoring eyes. Pastor Brewster had the love of a good woman and the loyalty of a good dog.

  Bernie couldn’t figure that out, either. But Brewster, and a long-ago Sunday school teacher, would claim it had something to do with faith.

  “I notice you’ve been attending the Sunday service, yet you never speak up.” Jesse absently scratched behind Barney’s ear.

  Bernie knew the ploy. Pretend indifference, then the quarry will feel free to offer information. He’d often played the game. He knew the rules. Why, he’d even contributed some of them. “Nothing better to do.”

  Brewster looked up. “Name one thing more important than your soul.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Then you believe in God.”

  A grave, no wooden marker, just piles of rocks to keep the occupant safe from animals, was just left of Pastor Brewster’s foot. Had that person believed in God, Bernie wondered? Had his family? Bernie blamed the Oregon Trail for not only the death of so many irresponsible travelers but for putting him in position for so many too-personal questions.

  “I do,” Bernie allowed. “I also believe it’s time to head out, then I need to go fishing. I’m sure there’s a nearby stream full of trout just waiting for a visit from the likes of me.”

  Brewster nodded and headed back toward his wagon, the dog loping beside.

  As Bernie urged an oversized ox into action, he convinced himself that there really would be a later need for trout. No, Bernie Williams wasn’t just going fishing to keep himself from having told a lie to a pastor.

  She tried not to watch him. He finished speaking with Pastor Brewster, turned his team over to Dillon Trier, and then jumped on his horse heading north. Mr. Williams wore freedom like a badge, and lately she�
�d been thinking about him way too often.

  It was wrong to have feelings for him. And, for the life of her, she couldn’t quite put a finger on what her feelings were. On one hand, he scared her. Just watching the broad expanse of his back, the strength in those hands as they took off the wheels of a wagon, one at a time, and dipped his fingers into a bucket of grease to rub the axles. The cords of his forearms bulged, and Megan almost understood Bethany’s fascination with watching her husband.

  On the other hand, he puzzled her. No one had ever watched her the way he did. Not even Jasper during the early courting days, when she didn’t know the vulnerability between men and women.

  “He is a good-looking man.” Bethany Rogers changed the subject, but Megan had the feeling she’d just left the frying pan for the fire. Maybe the topic of why Megan traveled the Oregon Trail was safer than speculation about Mr. Williams.

  “Who?”

  “Who?” Bethany chuckled. “Why our wild Mr. Williams. I’d like to know his past same as I like to hear about yours.”

  “I’ve told you my past. Cedar County, Illinois, was not exciting. I have parents, seven brothers, and now I’m heading to Oregon to help Louis and his wife. I’m not interested in marriage. I have my family, and I have God. That’s all I want or need.”

  Bethany nodded, her lips pursed in an “I’m not finished with my inquiries, but I’ll let it go for now” sort of look. Guilelessly, she suggested, “Tell me more stories about the trouble you and your brothers got into.”

  Megan searched her memory. She needed to think of something good to keep Bethany from returning to the admiration of Mr. Williams.

  Megan liked Bethany. The doctor’s wife had a gentle manner, which made it easy to confide. Many of the women, too bashful to share a personal malady with a male physician, used Bethany as an intermediary. Since leaving Missouri, Bethany had bloomed. She greeted each day with a prayer and a word of thanks for her blessings. It made Megan intensely aware of how she’d lately laid only her burdens at God’s feet, forgetting to acknowledge His blessings.

  The greatest blessing of all, Bethany claimed, was her husband, Joshua, and the prospect of her own little family.

  Megan could almost believe in happily-ever-afters, if Joshua and Bethany were an example. But Megan had also seen the flip side, the not-so-happily-ever-afters. She’d seen the “till death do us part.” Shuddering, Megan tried to focus on Bethany’s words. Megan traveled the Oregon Trail to start anew, but she finally understood the meaning of Matthew 9:17.

  She felt like an old wineskin and mistakenly she’d thought that the fresh change of the Oregon Trail would free her of past mistakes. Unfortunately, even though she’d put herself in a new surrounding, she was still the same inside.

  Bethany Rogers was a good example of a new wineskin. She’d taken to marriage and every day found something good to be thankful for. Now the doctor’s wife was intent on getting Megan married.

  “Did I tell you about Gramma and the rabid dog?” It had been years since Megan had thought about Gramma Milly and the rabid dog. That day all the brothers had been out helping Pa, even Louis, who announced daily he had no intention of becoming a farmer. Mama had been over at a sick neighbor’s.

  Bethany’s eyes widened. Her thirst for books kept the young women on the Oregon Trail entertained. She loved a good story.

  A few sentences into the telling of the event, Megan realized the true story would be over far too quickly to keep Bethany from returning to the subject of Mr. Williams. Years of entertaining Jeremiah and Rebekkah brought fruition. Megan took a breath and wove a tale that would have made Gramma Milly proud.

  A half hour later, Bethany raised an eyebrow. “You made that up. There’s no such thing as a rabid cow.”

  Megan laughed, surprised at how good it felt. “You’re right. What gave me away?”

  “The part about your riding through the forest yelling ‘Giddy-up’ while aiming the gun with one hand and picking mulberries for your supper with the other.”

  “I do get carried away, don’t I?” Megan’s heart felt lighter. She’d been trying to think of a way to push aside a conscience that whispered Liar. Almost as an answer to a silent prayer, the story turned into a tall tale that not even her niece would believe. And little Rebekkah had once believed that Flossie, her doll with the milky white china head, could fly, thanks to a series of good-night tales Megan had made up right before they’d left for Oregon.

  “Maybe you ought to write a dime novel,” Bethany suggested, her expression half serious.

  Before Megan could answer, Jeremiah, Megan’s ten-year-old nephew, skidded to a stop, barely missing the two girls. “Papa wants to know why you haven’t gathered any firewood.”

  Standing next to him, Henry Green kicked at a good-sized rock and kept his head bowed while he offered, “I’ll gather wood fer ya, Miss Megan.”

  “I’d appreciate that, Henry. Only, I don’t see any wood. Why don’t you gather up some sagebrush for me? And you can help him, Jeremiah.”

  Jeremiah’s teasing face turned to a scowl. Henry turned bright red and scampered ahead, picking up pieces of sage not even a robin would, or could, line her nest with. Jeremiah gave Megan a dirty look, marched toward Henry, took the tiny shards from his hand, and led the way to a better cache. A few minutes later, he dashed back to the wagon for his jar. Jeremiah had little patience with his best friend’s crush on Megan, but he did love to explore the underbrush.

  “It don’t make no sense,” Jeremiah declared at least fifteen times a day. He was probably telling Henry that right now. Megan couldn’t hear her nephew’s mutterings, but she could guess at their content. Megan might feel sorrier for Henry if she hadn’t known that Henry was already asking Jeremiah to name Megan’s favorite type of sage. He’d also want to know what type burned the best and how high smoke rose.

  “You’ve certainly got an admirer there.” Bethany stooped to pick up a bunch of sage. Although their noon meal was still a tangible memory, gathering fodder for the evening chores never ended. Jeremiah’s reminder actually was a blessing.

  “There are benefits,” Megan admitted. “Louis says he hasn’t shot a single game hen since we left Nebraska. It’s a mystery how one somehow finds its way, dead, to our campfire each night.”

  “Have you actually witnessed Henry leaving you the hen?”

  “No,” Megan said. “The kid’s actually pretty sneaky. Sometimes we find the hen tied to the side of the wagon. A couple of times, Henry has thrown it in the back.” She made a face. “It always lands on my side, but luckily, no one’s been hurt by a flying fowl. Our pallet has been full of feathers, or even worse, a bit more often than we like, but it’s a small price to pay for free food.” She chuckled. “Once, the kid even managed to sit it on the buckboard. It looked ever so much like a small passenger enjoying the view. It gave Granny Willodene quite a scare. Of course, the real giveaway was when Henry asked if I thought there might be baby game hens missing their mama.”

  The girls giggled, and then Bethany headed back to take over the driving of her wagon so Joshua could stretch.

  “You’ve not gathered enough sage to cook a gnat.” Mr. Williams fell into step beside her, carrying an armful of firewood.

  Megan sniffed.

  The bachelor had yet to cook for himself, always being welcome at the Millberg campfire. Megan wondered if Mr. Williams noticed the way Mr. Millberg bossed his wife, but Megan doubted another man would care. Mr. Williams looked suspiciously just like Louis did when he wanted something.

  “You need something, Mr. Williams?”

  “I need an invitation for dinner tonight.”

  “I’ve heard my brother invite you more than once.”

  “Yes, but I’d like an invitation from you.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Could be I’m interested in your company?” His green eyes could only be called imploring. One hank of brown hair fell down in such a way that Megan considered brushing th
e offending strands away from his eyes.

  No, this man had an easy way with the women. All of them cooed when he stopped to chat. Penny Rogers glowed. Lavinia Millberg giggled. Even Emma Brewster simpered, and her so newly married that the ink hadn’t dried on the record page of the family Bible.

  Megan didn’t trust Mr. Williams. Really, outside of family, she didn’t trust any of the men, save Pastor Brewster. Oh, and Henry, who now watched Mr. Williams with all the symptoms of a little boy about to throw a rock.

  “Mr. Williams—”

  “Call me Bernie.”

  “Mr. Williams, if you need a meal, my family is always willing to share.”

  He thrust the firewood at her. “And what about you, my lovely Megan, why won’t you share a little time, as well as nourishment, with me?”

  She took the firewood, mostly because she knew he expected her to refuse it. “Some people,” she said slowly, “just aren’t hungry.”

  “And some people,” Bernie said easily, “can’t tell the difference between the taste of the finest seafood from the toughness of one of Frank Barnes’s oxen.” He touched his hat. “I’ll be along about seven.” He backed up, a wicked grin on his face. “Oh, and I don’t need a meal.” He took his hand from behind his back. “I have a meal.” Four trout, hooked to a line, proved his words. “I just need someone to share it with, and I want that someone to be you.”

  He was a year too late. Megan Crawford didn’t want a beau, no matter that the memory of Bernie’s eyes kept her awake at night and he looked like he could protect her from the world.

  Looks were deceiving. No one could protect Megan Crawford from the world, especially not a good-looking man.

  Chapter 3

  Oomph.” Henry Green groaned as he rolled an oversized rock so that it stood three feet from his earlier oversized rock endeavor. He’d questioned Megan often about her mealtime habits, and he finally figured out Megan’s favorite dinner table configuration. Now, and for every meal, he strove to recreate what she wanted.