Where the Heart Is Romance Collection

by Andrea Boeshaar

  He stopped. Did he have an answer as to why such a talented woman hid her gift? What kind of woman would kidnap a little girl’s doll just to keep the child from talking?

  Anna could shoot a gun.

  She could shoot laying hens, water barrels, and even a husband.

  He’d never liked initials.

  Bernie started running. Not only had Anna hired the Pinkertons to find Megan, she’d drawn the Wanted poster herself.

  It wasn’t every day that water boiled right in a river. Megan figured she’d have really done the laundry justice if she’d really been looking for a watering spot. Instead, Megan came looking for Mr. Williams and stumbled across somebody else.

  “I didn’t know you could draw.” Megan stepped closer.

  Anna Schmitt’s pencil stilled. “You’ve been a pest since the beginning.”

  “What?” Megan held the Wanted poster behind her, wishing she’d ignored the sight of Anna drawing. There were better things to do, like find Mr. Williams and demand an explanation. The back of Megan’s neck prickled.

  “What Anna is saying—” Mr. Williams appeared, without making a sound. He stood by a tree, his eyes never leaving Anna. “—is that I should have arrested you and headed back East more than a month ago. Isn’t that right, A.S.?”

  “Yes.” Anna’s initials were already on her current drawing. The likeness of Bethany Rogers leaned against her husband, book in hand, smile on face. Anna snarled, “But you pussyfooted around. A pretty face always does it.” Anna dropped her charcoal into her pocket and took out a gun.

  Megan stood too close. The gun stopped not even an inch from her forehead.

  “Get rid of your weapons, Mr. Williams.” Anna moved the gun closer, closer. It touched the skin above Megan’s right eye.

  “Now. All of them. And I’ve been drawing Wanted posters for years. I know exactly how many guns a Pinkerton agent carries.”

  Megan watched as Mr. Williams emptied his pocket, and both holsters, and a knife from under his pant leg.

  “What’s going on?” Megan was surprised that she could even manage the words. A gun was being held against her head. A gun!

  “Who did you kill in Chicago, Anna?” Mr. Williams took a tiny step but backed up when he heard the click.

  “Whoa,” Megan said. Maybe she was the type of woman who fainted, but if she fainted now, would it all the more inspire Anna Schmitt to shoot her?

  “I didn’t kill anyone in Chicago.” Anna’s tone didn’t change and the gun didn’t wobble.

  “Then why are you holding a gun on Megan?”

  Anna snatched the Wanted poster out of Megan’s hand. “This. I’ll get the reward. Her parents will be more than grateful that I found their daughter’s killer.”

  “There’s still no proof,” Mr. Williams said. “You were hoping I’d find something. Weren’t you?”

  Anna laughed softly. “Some Pinkerton agent you are. I’d hate to be the one to send you to an early grave not knowing that a woman outsmarted you. There is proof. The wedding ring. It’s still in the Crawford wagon. In the same pocket as those stupid flowers you gave her. I can’t believe you didn’t find it. Too busy thinking about a pretty face, no doubt.”

  “But—” Mr. Williams began.

  “I’ll shoot you,” Anna said, nodding, “and say it was Megan. I’ve got the Wanted poster right here. You were threatening to arrest her, and here all along she thought you loved her.”

  “I do love her,” Mr. Williams said quickly. “And she doesn’t have a gun.”

  “How sweet.” Anna snarled again. “I have a gun. She took it.”

  He loves me.

  Megan no longer felt like fainting. She had questions, though, and anger started to bubble. “Why am I on that Wanted poster?” Funny how she could move her lips without moving her face. Megan felt frozen. Time stopped, and she couldn’t even hear the noises from the train. Surely people were waking up. Surely her brother would miss her.

  “After I killed Larson’s wife, I needed to blame somebody.” Anna spoke quickly, as if getting a burden off her chest. “And there you were, right in the same broken-down hotel. It was perfect.”

  “But you’re Larson’s wife,” Megan said.

  “No, I was his mistress, but I wanted to be his wife. Trudy wouldn’t give him a divorce. He didn’t love her.”

  “So you killed her.” Mr. Williams tried a tiny step. Anna frowned, so he stayed put. “And what about the witness?”

  Anna laughed, a bitter sound. It scared Megan almost as much as the gun.

  “I was the witness. I’d done enough posters for that sheriff so when I showed up with the one I did of Megan, he believed that somewhere there was a witness. I made up a phony description and he started looking. He was a bit puzzled as to why a witness had been sent to me without him knowing it, but he had no reason to doubt me. After I get rid of both of you, no one will have reason to suspect me.”

  “Why are you heading west?” Mr. Williams asked.

  “To make sure you arrest her.”

  “If you loved Larson enough to kill his wife,” Mr. Williams said, “why did you kill him?”

  “He didn’t love me,” Anna whispered. “He never loved me.”

  And then, a gun sounded.

  Megan hit the ground. Her knees hurt from the force. Sand, damp from the nearby river, went into her mouth. Her eyes closed tightly, and she tried to figure why she still breathed.

  “Nice shot, Dillon. I’d help you up, Megan, but if you open your eyes, you’ll see we have Miss Schmitt, and she no longer has a gun. Dillon shot it right out of her hand.”

  Only Megan heard his next words, so softly were they spoken.

  “God answered this prayer.”

  Chapter 9

  I don’t want you to go back East, Aunt Megan.” Rebekkah carried two dolls now. Flossie didn’t seem to mind her new blue sister.

  “I’ll miss you, too, but I have some things to take care of.” Megan figured Rebekkah didn’t need to know about escorting Anna Schmitt to the nearest fort to turn her over to the authorities. That could be explained when Rebekkah got older and the tales of this journey were bantered again and again by the adults.

  Megan looked back at Bernie. He was busy assuring the Cole brothers that he did, indeed, know the proper belongings a future rancher should carry across the Oregon Trail. Bernie intended to resign from his Pinkerton position. But first he wanted to find the family of the late Trudy Alexander. Finding relatives shouldn’t be difficult now that they had a name. Larson’s last name had not been Schmitt. It had been Alexander.

  The crying woman on the train. Megan wished now that she’d said something to Mrs. Alexander, comforted her, anything. Mrs. Alexander had lodged on Lower Gallagher Street in order to meet with her wayward husband. Megan had been there because of a mistaken address for an aunt.

  Megan shuddered. Since the time of Cain, man had raised weapons against brother when consumed by greed. Women could raise weapons, too. Megan didn’t understand how, but watching Bernie guard Anna Schmitt taught her that trust was a glorious thing and possible.

  “Bernie and I will come to Oregon next summer. He’ll be a rancher.” Megan grinned. This was Bernie’s way of compromising. He’d not been happy at all when Megan suggested the idea of a husband and wife Pinkerton team.

  So I’ll be a writer, Megan said to herself while opening her new journal. Louis sold more than Bibles. He’d parted with this book and not even charged her.

  Megan didn’t put in a date. She started by writing the dedication:

  To Caroline.

  It would be a grand gesture to dedicate a dime novel to Caroline.

  Well, maybe Megan would dedicate the second dime novel to Caroline.

  Megan carefully scratched out the only two words she’d written in three days.

  She tried again.

  To my beloved husband.

  PAMELA KAYE TRACY

  Pamela is a USA Today award-winning author
of almost 30 books, contemporary, suspense, historical, and devotional. First published in 1999 by Barbour Publishing, their Heartsong Presents line, Pamela continues to write for Barbour as well as Love Inspired and Guideposts. Her 2007 suspense Pursuit of Justice was a Rita finalist. Her 2009 suspense Broken Lullaby won the American Christian Fiction Writers’ Book of the year award. You can find out more about her at www.pamelatracy.com

  Bride in the Valley

  by Andrea Boeshaar

  Dedication

  In memory of my father, Roy L. Kuhn, February 1932 – September 2002,

  known as “Papa” to his nine grandchildren… you will be missed.

  Chapter 1

  Early morning colors of pink and gray were painted across the horizon. To Penny Rogers, they looked like strokes from the Master’s brush. On the other hand, if she tilted her head and squinted her eyes just right, the sky became flowing yards of dusky silk with a rosy sash to match. Perhaps it was an evening gown that she would wear to the reception after a lovely symphony. In Penny’s mind’s eye, her handsome escort’s face appeared; and he just happened to resemble Mr. Dillon Trier, the Millbergs’ driver.

  Penny sighed dreamily. Wouldn’t he look dashing in a dark jacket, crisp white shirt, and black necktie?

  “Miss Penny, are you all right?”

  Inhaling sharply, she whirled around at the sound of the familiar voice. She heard that voice everyday—mostly in her daydreams.

  “Mr. Trier… yes, I’m quite all right.” She felt herself blush.

  “You had your face all scrunched up. I thought maybe you’d taken ill.”

  “Um…” Penny sucked in her lower lip, not wanting to divulge her fanciful behavior just now, especially since Dillon Trier was a part of it.

  Suddenly, and without warning, he took hold of Penny’s upper arms and pulled her against him. With her hands splayed across his broad chest, she gazed up into his face, thinking her most wonderful imaginings had just come to pass. However, Dillon’s next words brought her back to reality in a flash.

  “Miss Penny, you almost started your skirts on fire.” Releasing her, he removed his worn leather gloves, leaned over, and began to swat at her hems. “Campfire is still smoldering as far as I can see.”

  “I’m so clumsy….”

  Straightening to his full height of over six feet, Dillon gazed down at her, wearing a warm smile. “Well, now, I wouldn’t say that. Clumsy isn’t a word I’d use to describe you.”

  “Really? And what word would you use, Mr. Trier?” Penny could hardly wait to hear it.

  “Ah, well…” Dillon appeared suddenly uncomfortable. Lowering his strong chin that held the most delightful little cleft, he studied his boots for a long moment. “I’m not too good with words,” he admitted at last.

  “That’s quite all right,” Penny replied, deciding she shouldn’t have put the poor man on the spot. It’s just that she’d been wishing for so long… hoping and praying…

  Glancing over her shoulder, she frowned at the smoking pile of charred buffalo chips. “You’re not too good with words, and I’m not too good with campfires.” She looked back at Dillon. “Guess we’re even. One would presume that after all these months on the trail, I would have learned to cook over an open flame, but—”

  “Miss Penny,” he said with an earnest expression, “I reckon you’re too hard on yourself. You’re doin’ fine, and I never did eat a more tasty breakfast than the one you served up this morning.”

  “But I burned the biscuits… again. And the coffee was much too strong.”

  “Can’t ever make coffee too strong,” Dillon said in his Missouri twang that never ceased to fascinate Penny. This somewhat introverted man, who kept to himself much of the time, seemed to always be around whenever disaster struck. True, he wasn’t a learned man, not a scholar like Papa; but he was intelligent, hardworking, strong, and brave. Best of all, he knew the Lord Jesus Christ.

  However, that’s about all she really knew of him—even after all these months.

  “Miss Penny? Your breakfast was good. Real good.”

  She smiled up into Dillon’s deep brown eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Trier. You’re awfully kind to say so.”

  He shrugged, lowering his gaze and suddenly examining the hard-packed dirt under his feet.

  With a little smile, Penny hunkered down and gathered her cooking utensils. Dillon’s occasional bashfulness stirred her heart all the more. “I’m ever so thankful that it was Beau Cole who married the Millbergs’ maid and not you.”

  A pause.

  “‘Scuse me?”

  Penny swallowed hard, realizing her folly. She’d spoken out of turn again! Would she ever learn?

  Embarrassed, she peeked up at Dillon, only to find him wearing a confounded expression.

  “The Millbergs’ maid… Katie and me?” His gaze darkened. “Now, why would you think something like that?”

  “I’ve offended you, haven’t I?” Penny stood. “I certainly didn’t mean to. Please forgive me. I have this terrible habit of saying what’s on my mind before thinking it through first. My former headmistress at school, Mrs. Throckmorton, was forever reprimanding me for my outspokenness.”

  Dillon lifted his gaze and looked past her. “That’s all right. Easy mistake to make, given the fact that Katie and I are of a like social standing. We’re both Millberg hirelings and nothing more.”

  “On the contrary, Mr. Trier. Social class had nothing to do with it. Besides, Katie is a Cole now and not in the Millbergs’ employment. And she’s… well, she’s quite lovely.”

  “I didn’t rightly notice.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “Well, now, don’t act so surprised. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

  “How very true.” Penny smiled. “And you said you weren’t good with words….”

  “I’m not.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  Dillon exhaled a long breath. “Differ all you like, but I’m still curious how you came to the conclusion about Katie and me.”

  “Oh. That.” Penny frowned. “Well… it was a misunderstanding, really. You see, my sister-in-law and best friend, Bethany… well, we noticed you and Katie eating together at mealtime. We just figured the two of you were romantically involved. So when Lavinia Millberg told us that their maid was getting married—”

  “You assumed it was to me.”

  Penny swallowed hard, praying he’d understand. “Beth and I were obviously mistaken.”

  “Seems so.”

  “Yes, and I apologize for the wrongful assumptions on my part.”

  Dillon nodded. “Apology accepted. But lemme get this straight. All these long months on the trail, you thought I’d set my cap on Katie O’Neil?”

  Penny managed a weak nod.

  “Hmm…” He furrowed his brows. “Reckon that explains a lot.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Nothing.” He shook his sandy brown head, and the muscles in his jaw seemed to relax. “Nothin’ at all… just that I’m not now, never have been, nor ever will be sweet on Katie.”

  Penny tried to stifle her smile. “I’m glad to hear it.” Realizing how forward she must sound, she quickly changed her tone. “Ah… I mean… I’m glad to hear it for Beau Cole’s sake. After all, we can’t have two grown men fistfighting over a woman.”

  Dillon chuckled softly and donned his wide-brimmed leather hat. “No, ma’am. We sure can’t have that.” He seemed thoroughly amused, much to Penny’s chagrin. “I’ll see you at noontime, if it’s still all right that I partake of the midday meal with you and your family.”

  “Of course it’s still all right.” Penny looked around him to where the two Millberg women were floundering in Katie’s absence. “We can’t have you starving to death, now that Lavinia and her mother are doing their own cooking.”

  Still smiling broadly, Dillon gave her a parting nod. Then, as if in afterthought, he leaned toward her and whispered, “Their cookin’ is
why you didn’t hear one complaint out of me about burned biscuits.”

  With that, he chucked her under the chin and strode away, heading for the overcrowded wagon he’d been hired to drive.

  Penny whirled around and sighed. “Be still my foolish heart….”

  Women. Dillon sure couldn’t figure them out. Especially that little blond with eyes so blue they rivaled the sky on a perfect summer day.

  Penelope Rogers. Her name was branded on his heart for good, it seemed. But that she thought he was interested in the Millbergs’ maid all this time proved he hadn’t done a good job in letting his intentions be known. And just what were his intentions anyway?

  Marriage.

  A home.

  A family of his own.

  He envisioned Miss Penny helping to make his dreams come true. But would someone like her, someone so beautiful, educated, and refined, ever seriously consider a man like him? It appeared she liked him… did he dare to hope?

  Seeing as he was the fourth son in a family of six boys and three girls, Dillon didn’t stand to inherit his father’s farm in Missouri. Worse, since he hadn’t established himself in Oregon yet, as he planned to once he arrived, he was as poor as Job’s turkey! He had nothing to offer a woman like Penelope Rogers. In truth, he had no business even thinking along the lines of courtship.

  Except he couldn’t seem to keep his distance.

  Dillon heaved an exasperated sigh as he readied the Millbergs’ second wagon. Fool thing. He should have never agreed to drive this overstuffed rattletrap all the way to Oregon. However, he needed the money and a way to get out West. This job seemed to supply both needs. But if this monstrosity, known as the Millbergs’ piano, didn’t make it to Willamette Valley in one piece, Dillon was out of both a job and his pay. That was the deal.

  “Good morning, Mr. Trier.”

  He cringed, hearing the simpering voice of the Millbergs’ daughter. Then, after a quick glance in her direction, he nodded politely. “Miss Lavinia.”

  “We missed you at breakfast this morning.”