Trail to Clear Creek (Thanksgiving Books & Blessings Collection One Book 3)

by Kit Morgan

  “You did?”

  “Uh-huh. Wrote in it every night.” His brow furrowed. “Don’t know what ever happened to it – lost it a long time ago. Mary probably threw it out when we moved to St. Louis.”

  “Did you like writing in it?”

  “Yes, now that I think back, but it took time. Once I married, I found I didn’t have as much of that.”

  She loosened her hold on the satchel and stared at his chest. “Yes, I understand.”

  “If you like writing, you should make time every day to do it.”

  Her head came up. “Really?”

  He leaned toward her. “Really.” He kissed her then, gently, slowly.

  When he broke the kiss, her belly warmed for a moment, but just as quickly grew cold again. Dash it all, what was wrong with her?

  “I’ll go fetch Harrison,” he whispered. “I’ll call you when we’re ready to head out.”

  She nodded, her eyes on his.

  He smiled, kissed her on the cheek and left.

  Honoria sat, her mind racing. She enjoyed his kisses, even as she wanted to run from them. Maybe she was the reason he hadn’t moved toward more intimacy until now. Was she unapproachable? Was she not attracted to him? No, it definitely wasn’t that. And this wasn’t Sussex, where even a husband and wife followed the rules of propriety to the letter – including few if any displays of affection in public.

  She was just … scared. That was all there was to it. Scared beyond reason.

  She slid off the rock, returned to the wagon and put away her satchel. Now that Jefferson knew about it, could she trust him not to crack it open and read a few pages? “Oh for Heaven’s sake, Honoria, get a hold of yourself,” she muttered. What if he did read it? There was nothing in it she had to hide from her husband, after all …

  Honoria peeked around the side of the wagon, and saw Harrison leading two of their oxen toward it. They’d leave soon and she’d have all day to figure things out. Thus the sooner they left, the better. She came out and went to help her son and Jefferson hitch up the team.

  Several weeks later …

  My dearest Benedict,

  I’m sorry it’s been so long, but we’ve crossed four large rivers so far - the Blue, Wakarusa, Kansas and Vermilion – and though it is nearing the end of May they are all still quite high. I feared I’d lost you. Again.

  Thankfully, we were able to get everyone across. Mr. Kinzey said that on previous trips they would lash two canoes together, place a wagon on them crosswise, then use poles to get it to the other side. There are over twenty wagons in our party. The job would have taken several days, I’m sure, even if we had canoes. We don’t. So luck has been with us so far.

  Mr. Kinzey says we have more rivers to ford. These tend to mark where we are in our journey. I still cannot believe we left almost two months ago. By now we are in a routine, each day much like the last. But something special is taking place today. Grandma Waller is going to show me how she makes her special stew. This will be my first cooking lesson with Grandma (she insists everyone call her that instead of Sarah) and I am looking forward to it.

  Until the next entry, my love. I’m glad I did not lose you to one of the rivers.

  Honoria

  Honoria put her pen, ink and diary into her satchel, then sat and listened to the morning’s birdsong. The sounds calmed her, made her forget the hardships of the journey and that it was only going to get harder, more treacherous. Her heart was growing more treacherous as well. She’d been thinking about Benedict of late, wondering how he’d react to what she’d seen so far – the wildlife, the rivers, grasslands and hills, the craggy mountains growing ever closer.

  And through it all, her relationship with her new husband, which wasn’t growing like it should. “Oh, Benedict,” she whispered. “What have I done? Why can I not let myself feel anything for this man?”

  Jefferson seemed to have no problems with his feelings. He was becoming more attentive, was tender and kind, and even growing fond of her sons. Especially Harrison. He’d taken him fishing when the wagon train camped by one of the rivers they’d crossed. The crossing itself took an entire afternoon, and by the time all the wagons had reached the other side the party was too exhausted to go on. But Jefferson had insisted on the outing, and Harrison had a grand time, to the point of daily asking Mr. Kinzey how far it was to the next river.

  She rose from the log she was sitting on, dusted off her skirt and headed back to camp. Jefferson would be hitching up the oxen by now, but true to his word, he’d allowed her a few moments to herself each morning, for which she was grateful. She was sure he would be grateful for her cooking lesson with Grandma, as would the boys. Over the course of the journey she’d exhausted the few recipes she had mastered, and her attempts at other dishes ranged from passable to disastrous.

  “Good morning, Mother,” Duncan said as she entered the camp. “I’ve got guard duty again tonight, so I’ll eat later.”

  “But darling, Grandma is showing me how to make her famous stew. Surely you’ll want to try some.”

  Duncan smiled ruefully. “No, that’s all right, I’ll keep a few biscuits in my pocket.”

  Her heart sank a little – he was trying to be polite. She’d lost weight during the trek so far, but Duncan looked as though he hadn’t dropped an ounce, despite the meals he’d missed because of guard duty. “Are you sure that will be enough? Perhaps I can make you some bacon.”

  “No, save it for other meals. We’re running a little low, I noticed.”

  “We are? By my calculations the supply looked fine when I checked last.” She’d made biscuits and eggs that morning – the latter courtesy of the Turners’ chickens – and nothing seemed to be running low.

  “It doesn’t now.”

  “Really?” She went to the back of the wagon, climbed inside and inspected her store of bacon. Sure enough, there was less than she remembered. “How odd. What could have happened to it? I’m sure there was more.”

  Duncan frowned. “That’s what I thought. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” He mounted Juliet, tipped his hat and was off.

  “Mrs. Cooke?”

  Honoria turned to find little Tommy Turner, a basket of eggs in his hands. “Ma says you can have these too.”

  “Tommy, how lovely.” She climbed out of the wagon and bent down to inspect the basket. “How nice they look? Are you sure your mother can spare them?”

  “Yes’m. Our chickens just keep layin’ and layin’. Ma says there’s plenty more where these came from.”

  Honoria laughed and took the basket. “Well, you be sure to tell her how grateful we are. In fact, perhaps you should all join us for breakfast tomorrow – I can whip these up into …”

  “Oh no, ma’am. Ma says these are for yer family, not ours. Ya cook these for them.”

  One eyebrow slowly rose. She had yet to burn an egg – other items were another matter – but her reputation as the worst cook in the company had clearly spread. She stood and did her best not to feel too put out. With Grandma’s help, she hoped to have more company for dinner over the next few months. Besides, Grandma said families would start eating together more once everyone’s stores ran low and the women were forced to pool their resources. They weren’t there yet, but by the time they were she hoped to be able not to poison anyone.

  “I see. Well, tell your mother thank you.” She took the basket into the wagon, put the eggs away and went in search of Jefferson. She found him watching Harrison hitch up the oxen by himself. “Is he doing it right?”

  “In fact, he does it better than Jack or Sam. He takes his time, see?”

  Honoria’s heart swelled with pride. “You’re so good with him. I dare say, you’re good for him.”

  He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you. He’s a good boy – eager to learn, curious, thoughtful. You raised them well, Honoria.” He sighed and looked away. “I wish I could say the same. It’s been rough on mine since their ma died.”

 
; “I understand. I only wish there was something I could do. Neither of them speak to me other than when they have to.”

  “I know. That’s got to stop.”

  “Jefferson, let them come around on their own. They just need time. We’ve only been married two months.”

  “They spend all day and night within fifty yards of us. They can manage a few civil words.”

  She sighed. “All right. Shall I speak with them?”

  “Nah, it’s my job.”

  “I didn’t mean to reprimand them. I mean to initiate a conversation.”

  “Hmmm.” He was silent for several seconds. “You could try, but I’m not sure what good it will do. They’re stubborn, my boys. And more than a little mean.”

  She put her hand on his arm. “Don’t be too harsh on them. They …” She shrugged. “… they don’t want another mother. I understand that.”

  “That may be, but it don’t mean they get to ignore you and your boys. I taught them better than that.”

  She ran her hand over his bare forearm. It was nearly seven and already growing warm – he usually didn’t roll up his sleeves until around noon. “Duncan has guard duty tonight.”

  “Again?”

  “Sometimes I think he takes it to avoid eating my cooking.”

  Jefferson snorted.

  “There, you see? My cooking is a joke to most of the company.”

  He took her in his arms. “Nonsense. You haven’t burnt nothing in days.”

  “I haven’t, come to that. I’m feeling rather proud.”

  Jefferson kissed Honoria’s hair, and she stilled, hoping to capture how she felt in that moment. Why her heart welcomed him one minute and pushed him away the next was still a mystery to her. Maybe she only needed time, like Jack and Sam. The question in both cases was, how long would it take?

  Chapter Ten

  “Lucy, a pinch of salt,” Grandma instructed.

  Lucy Holman, a few years younger than Duncan, reached into a stone jar and tossed some salt into the pot. “What next, Grandma?”

  “Honoria, now you add the herbs.”

  Honoria picked up a small jar, took out a pinch and put it in as well.

  “Don’t be stingy with them,” Grandma said.

  Honoria dropped in another handful, and the three stared into the cast-iron pot. Grandma gave the contents a stir, took out a spoonful and tasted it. “Hmm, still needs something.”

  “Probably more salt,” someone barked. Honoria turned to find Irene Dunnigan standing between two wagons, a load of wood in her arms.

  “Nonsense,” Grandma said. “If we add more salt, it will ruin the flavor.”

  Irene narrowed her eyes, dropped her wood and marched straight over. “I said, more salt.” She crossed her arms.

  “Oh dear,” Honoria muttered. Lucy squeaked in alarm. Grandma just put her hands on her hips and rolled her eyes. “And I said it will ruin it!”

  Irene scrunched up her face, stuck her hand in the salt jar Lucy was holding and went to throw some in the pot.

  But Grandma moved in to block her. “How dare you!”

  Irene … smiled? It was the first smile Honoria had ever seen on the woman’s perpetually sour face. “Could use more herbs too.”

  Grandma’s jaw dropped. She grabbed the herb jar out of Honoria’s hands before Irene could. “Listen, Irene, I have great respect for your cooking. But I am teaching them my recipe, not yours. You want to teach them yours, do it at your own campfire, not mine, or so help me I will …” She growled in lieu of the remainder of the sentence.

  Irene almost snarled back. “You’ll what?”

  Now Grandma smiled, and it was a frightening thing to see. “I’ll tell Wilfred what you did.”

  Honoria and Lucy watched in fascination as Irene’s eyes widened. Clearly that was the one thing she didn’t want. “Then may I suggest something?”

  Grandma didn’t blink. “You may suggest.”

  “Bay leaves.”

  “Bay leaves?” Grandma repeated incredulously.

  “Yes, they’ll temper the flavor.” Irene turned, gathered her abandoned wood and stalked off.

  Grandma watched her go, her jaw tight. “Who does she think she is? Messing with my cooking, indeed!” She gave the pot a vigorous stir, took another taste and thought a moment. “Lucy, bring me that small jar, the one next to the sugar.”

  Lucy found it and brought it to her. “What’s in this one, Grandma?”

  Grandma glanced between them and shrugged. “Bay leaves.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Dunnigan,” Duncan said. “Your cooking is unsurpassed.”

  Mrs. Dunnigan smiled. He’d only seen her do it twice before, and both times when she was angry with someone. So this was new. “Thank you, but don’t think to keep coming around here and eating up all our food, Duncan Cooke!”

  Duncan sighed. He wanted to tell her his last name was Sayer, but every time he opened his mouth, her husband Wilfred cut him off. Didn’t he want him to tell her who he was? Or did he want Mrs. Dunnigan to think he was a Cooke?

  “Irene’s always had a way around a kitchen,” Wilfred added. “Even an outdoor one. There ain’t nothing she can’t cook and have it turn out wonderful. I’m one lucky fella.”

  “Indeed you are,” Duncan agreed. “My mother could … well, I’m sure she’d appreciate a lesson.”

  “I tried to give her one today,” Irene quipped. “More biscuits?”

  “No, thank you, we must return to our post,” Duncan said. “I do appreciate the meal, Mrs. Dunnigan, Wilfred.”

  “Well, a man can’t do his job properly unless properly fed. Besides, you’re fun to talk to, Duncan. I’d do guard duty with you anytime, anywhere.”

  Duncan smiled. Irene Dunnigan’s cooking had him feeling the same way about Wilfred.

  “Gingerbread?” Mrs. Dunnigan barked.

  “You have gingerbread?” Duncan said in surprise.

  “Irene always has something.” Wilfred lit his pipe, patted his belly and took a few puffs. “Let’s have some, then start our rounds.”

  Who was he to argue? Duncan smiled. “Yes, please.” Mrs. Dunnigan might be a crotchety, sour battle-axe, but she sure could cook. She pulled a Dutch oven off the cooking fire, took off the lid, and the sweet smell of fresh gingerbread started Duncan’s mouth watering.

  “I don’t see you, Jack and Sam together much,” Wilfred commented.

  Duncan frowned. “No. And you likely won’t.”

  “You boys have a disagreement?”

  “You could say that.” He took the small bowl of gingerbread Mrs. Dunnigan offered.

  Wilfred took a few more puffs of his pipe then put it out as his wife handed him a bowl. “Thanks, Irene. Mm, one of my favorites.”

  “If you ask me,” his wife snapped, “those two are up to no good.” She eyed Duncan. “What do you know about it?”

  “I don’t know anything, though I have some suspicions.”

  “Aha! See, I knew it – they’re up to no good.”

  “Now, Irene, don’t get yourself upset over nothing,” Wilfred cautioned. “Besides, you can’t prove it.”

  “Can’t I?” She narrowed her eyes. “Watch me.”

  Duncan stood. If Mrs. Dunnigan had been on the English side during the war with Napoleon, the little emperor would have fled to Elba willingly. “I think I’d rather enjoy that.”

  “Now, son, don’t get her all riled up,” Wilfred begged. “Settle yourself, woman.”

  “I’ll settle something, all right. I’m sick of my supplies going missing!” She spun on Duncan. “Didn’t you say you had things go missing?”

  “Er … just some bacon.”

  “No buts! Someone’s stealing food and I aim to find out who it is!”

  Duncan didn’t try to hide a smile. The woman was like a dog with a bone – a good trait to have, so long as he wasn’t the one she was chewing on. But perhaps he should try to calm the waters, for Wilfred’s sake. “I understand it’s hard t
o keep track of things on a journey like this.”

  “Journey! What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I meant that things are bound to go missing,” Duncan said. “They get jostled around, fall into the nooks and crannies of the wagon …”

  “He’s right, Irene,” Wilfred said. “Just the other day I found a tin cup, two spoons and my handkerchief behind the flour barrels.”

  “There you have it,” Duncan concluded. “I dare say it happens in ours.”

  Mrs. Dunnigan scrunched up her face into her signature glare. “That’s your wagon. I’m talking about my wagons, and I keep track of things. Mark my words, Duncan Cooke, I’ll find the culprit and see they’re brought to justice!”

  Duncan looked to Wilfred for help, but he just shrugged and reached for his hat. “We’d best go man our post, Duncan. Mr. Mulligan and Mr. White must be hungry and ready for their own supper.”

  Duncan stood, brushed crumbs from his shirtfront and handed his bowl to Mrs. Dunnigan. “I’m ever grateful for your hospitality,” he said. “And for what it’s worth, I hope you find the thief.”

  She eyed him confidently. “You can count on it.”

  Duncan put on his hat, shrugged into his jacket and the two men left for their post in the dwindling light. Once they were out of earshot, Duncan asked, “Wilfred, have you noticed supplies missing?”

  “To tell you the truth, Duncan, I have. But as you say, things get lost in odd places on a journey like this.”

  “Yes, but is food missing?”

  “My wife’s very thorough when it comes to food. I keep an eye on everything else we have, but if she says food’s gone, food’s gone.”

  “Perhaps we’d best keep a closer watch, then.”

  “Will do,” Wilfred replied. “Now let’s get a move on. We’re late.”

  Jack poked at the frying pan over the fire he and Sam built. They were on guard duty, in charge of watching not only their family’s oxen, but several others as well. “That’s a mighty fine mare those idjits own,” Jack said.