by Indiana Wake
“Father?” Marshall looked surprised to see him there; the two had not spoken since the very day that Kirby had cast his son out of his house.
Trinity’s stomach was tight, but not with fear or trepidation. She had a sense that something good was going to come, that Kirby hadn’t come to the celebration to cause trouble.
“I knew you’d be here today and I thought I would come along for a while and find out how things were,” he said gruffly and it was clear to Trinity that this was the most immense struggle for Kirby Thornhill.
“Things are going well, Father,” Marshall said, faltering equally.
“They sure are, Mr. Thornhill. The ranch is small, sir, but it’s up and running now. Why don’t you come on over one of these afternoons and you can see it for yourself?” Honey, tiny and full of spirit, smiled up brightly at the man who had never been anything but mean to her.
Trinity’s heart could have burst with pride; if she never did another thing in this world, she certainly got one thing right and that was Honey.
“I sure would like that, Honey,” he said and both father and son seemed to relax; that was Honey’s doing.
“Then it’s settled. You come on over, and I’ll make you a good dinner.” Honey beamed. “And bring Mrs. Thornhill too, if she has the time, we sure would love to see her.”
“Thank you,” he said and nodded, holding Honey’s gaze for a moment.
“Well, you enjoy your day, all of you.” Kirby nodded, getting ready to turn and go.
“Why don’t you stay for a while, Kirby?” Trinity said, stepping into the group and smiling at him. “We’ve got enough food here to choke a herd of buffalo and I reckon we’ll need all the help we can get to see that there is no waste.”
“That sure is kind of you, Mrs. Goodman,” he said respectfully.
Marshall looked overjoyed and so grateful to Trinity and his wife that she could have cried for him. But this would be worth it, to stitch a family back together would be a most fitting thing to happen on the day of their annual celebration. Apologies could wait, explanations could wait, plans for future reconciliation could wait; for now, they were together. A door had been opened and she knew it had taken every bit of courage Kirby Thornhill had to be the first to reach for the handle. It was up to both of them now to choose to walk through it and Trinity had high hopes that it would be a success.
“Come on over with me and have a look at the tables, Kirby. I reckon I’m ready to eat something myself and I sure would be pleased if you would accompany me.”
Without a word, Kirby Thornhill held out his arm and Trinity took it. The two of them walked away from the little group, garnering a look or two of surprise from people all over the field. But her husband, her wonderful Dillon, made nothing of it at all. He smiled and waved over at Kirby before continuing about the business of helping Carrie Macey pin down the rest of the blustering tablecloths.
It might have been a long time coming, but it was here. This was the power of community; drawing and holding people together with its warmth. And they were a community, growing bigger and bigger by the day.
And, just a week or two from now, that community would be added to again. But this time, the travelers would not be quite so weary. Many of them would be using the transcontinental railway for some of their journey. Nonetheless, they would be new, they would be unsettled, and they would be fearful for their futures. But the Pioneers of days gone by would be there waiting for them, ready to help them settle into their new lives, and Trinity Goodman was determined to be at the front of the line.
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Grace Preview
This is a preview of a full-length novel about loss, love, and finding your true self on The Oregon Trail – this book will make you laugh, cry, and realize that love can conquer all…
1845
Grace looked around the cramped, smoky offices of the New York Guardian. It was a busy little newspaper at the very heart of things and a place she had longed to work at since she was a child. But now, she wondered if she would really miss it when the time came to finally leave.
All she’d ever wanted to do was follow in her daddy’s footsteps and it had been such a source of pride to know she had done just that. Even if her long-dead daddy’s name had been the only thing to secure her a seat at the table.
Still, Grace was a good reporter and she’d more than earned the place her father’s memory had made for her, even if her articles were more or less limited to food and fashion.
“Finally.” Maurice Mason, the editor, came lumbering into the smoky office. “Come on in here, Gracie.” He beckoned her to follow him into his own small office. “Close the door behind you, I can’t hear myself think over that rabble.”
Grace smiled to herself; Maurice did a very good impression of being curmudgeonly. So good that most of his young reporters quaked a little in his presence. But Grace knew differently. Beneath the immense eyebrows and portly, scowling countenance was a man of kindness and caring. Not that she would ever tell him so, for Maurice would not like that one little bit.
Grace closed the door and politely waited for Maurice to wave her down into the chair in front of his desk. When he did so right on cue, Grace stifled a laugh. She was going to miss the old boy.
“Well, I guess the time is coming for me to say goodbye to you, Gracie,” he began gruffly, his mighty eyebrows dipping in some consternation.
“I guess it is, Mr. Mason.” Grace sighed and gave him a sad smile. “I sure will miss this place, Sir.”
“And this place will sure miss you too, honey. Our loss is going to be Oregon’s gain, I reckon.”
“Perhaps. But only if I can find myself a good job like I have here. They might not be so easy to convince that a woman can manage the job of reporter. Still, my brother writes that they have many little newspapers out there and what with him being an attorney and all, maybe I wouldn’t be dismissed without a hearing, so to speak.”
“Any paper worth its name would be a fool not to take you on,” he mumbled, and Grace felt a little emotional. As gruff as he was, she could tell that Maurice Mason meant what he said. “I just wish I’d had the guts to put you out front every so now and then. I should have given you something to get your teeth into; I know you would have done us proud.” There was a catch in the rough old voice that forced Grace to swallow down her own emotions. If only.
Grace smiled. Maurice was the only person she knew who said every so now and then. She really would miss him and his curious little ways. She would even miss his unpredictable moods which often resulted in the loudest bellowing coming when it was least expected.
“Well, I guess it would have spoiled me, Mr. Mason. I’d have gone to Oregon thinking I could go writing whatever I liked and leave the recipes and society events behind me. Not that there are too many society events out west, I suppose.” She laughed and shrugged, biding her time, knowing she couldn’t come out with it all too early.
“So, what’s the plan when you get there, Gracie? Keeping house for that brother of yours?”
“I’m hoping not too much. He’s been there for almost two years now and he’s had a housekeeper all that time. I don’t reckon I’d want to see the poor woman out of a job.”
“And I don’t reckon you’d want to take her place either. It’s not for you, Gracie, now is it?” He chuckled.
Once more she felt that emotion rear its ugly head.
“You’ll be out there looking for adventure of some kind. Wouldn’t surprise me to hear one day that you’ve gotten yourself a job as a cowboy or something. No, no ordinary life for our girl.” Now it was Maurice’s turn to look a little emotional.
“I sure wouldn’t want an ordinary life.” Grace laughed to lighten the moment. “But I’m not sure about being a cowboy. I reckon my heart’s in words. Always has been, always will be.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” he agreed and leaned back in
his seat just enough to open the drawer of his desk.
He retrieved a bottle of his favorite brand of fire-water brandy and two little glasses; well, this must be a special occasion indeed.
Without a word, he pulled the stopper from the bottle and sloshed two generous servings. Grace knew her own serving was far too generous, but maybe it would give her a little courage to ask Maurice, Mr. Mason, the very thing she had been wanting to ask him for weeks.
“Thank you kindly,” Grace murmured when he roughly pushed her glass across the desk.
“Good luck to you, Gracie.” He raised his glass in toast.
Grace did likewise and, when Maurice took a mighty gulp of the eye-widening brandy, Grace did the same. She swallowed down the fit of coughing that the burning in her throat was about to set off and chose instead to let her eyes water quietly as she kept her lips firmly pressed against one another until the urge to cough had passed.
“Thank you,” she said, cautiously testing her vocal cords. “Thank you, Mr. Mason.”
“I’m going to write you something of a letter of recommendation for them newspapers out west. I’ll have it ready before you set sail.”
“That sure is kind of you, Mr. Mason.” Grace knew the moment was coming. “But I’m not going to be sailing.”
“Well, how on earth are you going to get there?” Maurice asked before taking another deep gulp of brandy.
“I’m going on the trail.”
“The trail?” he said and peered through his heavy brows. “The Oregon Trail?” His voice rose as he leaned across the desk as if to get a better look at her.
“I sure am, Sir.” Grace took another sip of brandy herself; it certainly was bringing a little courage her way.
“You mean to cross with the farmers and the like? The folks traveling in wagon trains? That’s what you’re doing?” Maurice’s voice grew louder in tempo with his confusion.
“I am.” Grace gave him something of an uncustomary broad smile.
“What in tarnation are you thinking of, child? Your aunts and your brother have money enough between them that you could take the easier route, don’t they?”
“They do, Mr. Mason. And believe me, none of them are happy about my decision to ride along with the wagon train.” Grace could feel her excitement building at the very thought of it.
“Honey, I’ve heard there’s folks who don’t even make it that far. It’s a dangerous business.”
“Sailing is a dangerous business too,” Grace said but saw his eyebrows dip dangerously low. So low they almost met the mighty moustache. “But yes, the Oregon Trail is a bigger risk, I’ll admit.”
“Then why on earth would you do it? It’s not like you have farm machinery to haul across with you. You’ll just be taking your clothes and a few bits and pieces, surely. Why would you need to go that way?”
“I am going that way, Sir, because I intend to write a piece about it.”
“A piece?” He leaned back in his seat and drained the last of his brandy before topping up his glass again. “An article?”
“Yes, Sir. I want to write a journal of the whole thing. I want to put in every single bit of life and death on that trail. Every hardship, every friendship, every laugh, every tear. I want to write it on my way across and then sell it to a newspaper as a serial that they can run for a few weeks. Folks like that kind of thing, Mr. Mason.”
“But the folks in Oregon will already know all about the trail, won’t they? Since most of them will have got over there that way.” He looked perplexed.
It was now or never. Grace had this one opportunity to make a name for herself with something other than the best peach pie recipe this side of the equator. This was real reporting, something meaningful. Something to get her teeth into, as Maurice had already put it.
“But the folks back east don’t know much about it, do they?” Grace began a little tentatively. “The readers of the New York Guardian, for instance.” She raised her eyebrows hopefully. “What do you say, Mr. Mason? One last story?”
“Ah, now I see.” He chuckled. “You never give in, do you?”
“Well, you said yourself that you’d wished you’d given me something I could get my teeth into. Now’s your chance.” She smiled again, doing her best to hold the gaze of the old newspaper man.
“How are you going to get the story to me every week? You’ll be in the middle of nowhere,” he said, and Grace felt her spirits rise. If he was already talking practicalities, he was certainly thinking about it.
“And don’t look like that, Gracie, I haven’t said yes to anything yet.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be able to send it to you until I got to Oregon. It would be a complete story but broken into parts so that the paper could serialize it and get the readers hooked.”
“With tales of dysentery and wide-open spaces?”
“It’s more than that, Mr. Mason. It’s a tale of lives, and so many of them. The things which motivate people to go and the roles people take on throughout the journey. Right from the camp at Independence, Missouri to the Willamette River in Oregon.” Grace knew he was already getting a good feeling about it. “And just think, your very own Grace Miller will be reporting. I could even throw in a couple of recipes. You know, camp fire stews and that kind of thing.”
“You’re trying to win me over.”
“Yes, I am. Is it working?”
“I reckon so.” Maurice let out a great sigh as if he’d just lost his last hand in a big poker game. “I’ll tell you what, Gracie.” He paused for a deep breath. “You write me a warts-and-all account of the Oregon Trail. Leave nothing out. And if it’s good, which I am sure it will be, I’ll edit it myself. After all, I don’t want to lose any readers to dysentery if I can help it.” He chuckled. “But you know I’m making no promises here. It has to be good, Gracie. It has to be real good.”
“It will be good, Mr. Mason, I swear it!” Grace said and felt her heart pounding with excitement. “I won’t let you down, Sir. I will make my last piece for the New York Guardian the best piece I’ve ever written.”
“There’s just one stipulation, young lady,” Maurice said and peered at her closely again.
“Yes, Sir?” Grace hoped it wasn’t going to be something entirely unmanageable.
“You just see to it that you get there in one piece, do you hear me? Be careful what water you drink. Never take anything from a dirty looking pond. Just fast flowing water, that’s all. And no acts of daring either. You just travel sedately and keep to the wagon train. No wandering off for a better story. You never know who’s out there. You keep yourself good and safe.”
Grace swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. “I will, Mr. Mason, I promise. I just want the opportunity to do this one big thing. And who knows? If it takes off in the New York Guardian, maybe the editors of the newspapers in Oregon will be ready to give me a chance.” Grace, not given to smiling all the time, wondered if she would ever be able to stop the grin that had spread over her face.
“I reckon they’ll have trouble ignoring you either way, honey. I don’t think I’ve ever known a woman like you in my life. Maybe your daddy’s name is what got you here, but it sure was that brain of yours that kept you here,” Maurice said and tugged at his moustache.
Finally, Grace felt the beginnings of tears; tears which she blinked away easily, but which had surprised her nonetheless.
“Thank you, Mr. Mason. Thank you for everything you have done for me, Sir. I shall never forget it for as long as I live.”
“And as I mentioned before, you make sure that’s a good long time.” He swung back the last of his brandy.
“I sure will,” Grace said and manfully did the same.
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About the Author
Indiana Wake was born in Denver Colorado where she learned to love the outdoors and horses. At the age of eleven, her parents moved to the United Kingdom to follow her father’s career.
It was a strange and foreign new world and it took a while for her to settle down. Her mom raised horses and Indiana soon learned to ride. She would often escape on horseback imagining she was back in the Wild West. As well as horses, Indiana escaped into fiction and dreamed of all the friends she had left behind.
From an early age, she loved stories. They were always sweet and clean and more often than not, included horses, cowboys and most importantly of all a happy ever after. As she got older, she would often be found making up her own stories and would tell them to anyone who would listen.