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

by Kit Morgan

  Sam looked at Juliet hobbled nearby, munching grass. “Yeah, I’d sure like to have her. At least those boys have good taste in horses.”

  “What? No, they don’t – that there horse belongs to their ma, remember. She was a gift from their dead pa.”

  Sam watched Juliet clip grass for a moment, then turned to his brother. “One day she’ll belong to one of us.”

  “Don’t count on it, Samuel. Pa’s mighty taken with their ma.”

  “So? That don’t mean nothin’.”

  “Are ya blind?” Jack replied. “Anyone can see he’s sweet on her, and it’s gettin’ worse every day.”

  “Ya worry too much,” Sam said. “Way I see it, we play our cards right, we’ll be rid of those three whelps in no time.”

  “Whaddaya mean?” Jack asked, his face screwed up in confusion.

  Sam’s smile was positively wicked. “Think about it. What if they was to meet with some accident?”

  “Accident?!” Jack quickly glanced around to make sure they were still alone. Satisfied, he continued, but lowered his voice. “Are you plumb loco? Talkin’ about doing away with them?”

  Sam got up and paced. “Yeah, yer right. That’s goin’ too far.”

  “Ya bet it is!” Jack said. “If somethin’ happened to them and it’s our fault, Pa’d kill us!”

  “No, he wouldn’t. But he’d be mad, that’s for sure. ‘Sides, none of them is worth a bullet. It’ll be more fun to make ‘em miserable.”

  Jack’s eyes lit up. “So long’s we don’t get caught, count me in. Those three are a thorn in my side.”

  “Mine too.”

  “You ain’t planning on doing anything to Honoria, are you?” Jack asked. “’Cause I sort of like her. She’s kind to me.”

  “Nah – Pa likes her too. But those boys of hers gotta go. Maybe if we bother ‘em enough, they’ll leave, strike out on their own.”

  “I dunno – might just get them mad. Then they’ll tell Pa and ya know how he’ll get.”

  “Pa ain’t gonna find out,” Sam assured him. “And I ain’t talking ‘bout puttin’ rocks in their boots or burrs in their bedrolls. That’s for amateurs. For somethin’ like this ya need to know how to talk to ‘em.”

  “Talk? Whaddaya mean?”

  Sam pointed to his head as he joined Jack by the fire again. “I’m talkin’ ‘bout putting the idea to leave into their heads. That way, by the time we get to Oregon City, none of ‘em will wanna stay with us. It’d just be us, Pa and that woman.”

  “She’s got a name, Sam.”

  “Yeah, and I ain’t ready to use it.”

  “I ain’t used it much either, but Pa said we gotta start.”

  “I don’t care what he says. He’s lucky we’re lettin’ him keep her.”

  Jack stared at his brother. “Sometimes I think you’ve plumb gone round the bend.”

  Sam smiled and slapped his brother on the back. “That’s all right. Sometimes gettin’ crazy is the only way to get things done.”

  “What are ya two flappin’ yer gums ‘bout?”

  Jack and Sam jumped to their feet, realized neither was armed and launched themselves at the newcomer. Sam got in one punch, Jack two, before realizing who it was.

  “Dagnabit,” Pete cried, “what the Sam Hill are ya doin’?!”

  Jack and Sam exchanged a quick look. “We’re sorry, Mr. Smithers,” Sam said. “Dunno what came over us.”

  “Yeah,” Jack added. “Maybe it’s ‘cause we was just talkin’ ‘bout …” He glanced at Sam and back. “… outlaws.”

  That sounded good to Sam, and he ran with it. “Yeah, outlaws. Ya know the trail’s gotta be crawlin’ with ‘em.”

  Pete brushed off his clothes and gave them a healthy glare. “Ya two idjits don’t know what yer talkin’ ‘bout. For one, why do ya think we post guards everywhere?”

  Sam grinned sheepishly. “Well, can ya blame us? Ain’t ya heard stuff is goin’ missin’?”

  “Yeah, I hear there’s a thief in camp,” Jack added.

  Pete’s hands went to his hips. He cocked his head and scratched his whiskered chin. “And how’d ya know that?” He looked at the pan of bacon on the fire. “Ya cain’t even keep track of when yer supper’s burnin’.”

  Jack gasped and reached for the pan. “Ouch!” He blew and spit on his fingers.

  “Pan’s hot, dummy,” Pete stated. He looked at Sam. “So what do ya know ‘bout this thievin’? I ain’t heard nothin’.”

  Sam glanced between Jack and Pete. Jack had gone silent, leaving it to him to think of something quick. Traitor. “Well, our pa’s new wife thought someone took …” He glanced at the bacon. “… some of our flour.”

  Jack straightened, the pan now held in a gloved hand. He held it out to Pete. “Uh, want some?”

  Pete grabbed a hot slice and tossed it from hand to hand in an attempt to cool it. “Keep talkin’.”

  Sam glared at his brother and went on “I think a few other folks mentioned missin’ stuff over the last few days. That grouchy Dunnigan woman was one of ‘em.”

  “She’ll complain ‘bout anythin’,” Pete said. “I don’t like her.”

  “She scares me,” Jack said with a shudder.

  “I don’t care if she scares ya or not,” Pete said. “If anyone knows ‘bout a thief in camp, it’d be her. One more thing for her to gripe ‘bout.”

  Jack and Sam exchanged a quick look “What’ll ya do if there is a thief?” Sam asked.

  “You boys better hope and pray there ain’t,” Pete said. He looked ready to hit someone.

  Jack and Sam stepped back for safety’s sake – after all, they had just attacked the man. If he told their pa, they’d be in big trouble. “How ‘bout we help ya look?” Sam suggested.

  Jack’s eyes grew wide as Pete grabbed another slice of bacon, waving it around as he talked. “Now that’s a good idea. The three of us will look for the thief. That way I don’t have to tell Mr. Kinzey.” He took a big bite, chewed, then sneered at the brothers. “’Cause if I have to tell the trail boss there’s a thief, I might also have to tell yer pa how ya jumped me.”

  The brothers exchanged another look. Sam took a piece of bacon and shoved it into his mouth. Jack rolled his eyes. Now he’d have to say something to keep them out of trouble. “Aw shucks, Mr. Smithers, we’re sorry we attacked ya like that. We didn’t hurt ya none, did we?”

  “You, hurt me? Ha!”

  “Ya ain’t going to tell Pa, are ya?” Jack asked as Sam swallowed and nabbed another piece.

  “Not if ya help me find the rat who’s stealin’ stuff. If Kinzey finds out, we’ll all be in a heap of trouble.”

  “All?” Jack grabbed a piece of bacon for himself while there was still some left.

  “Not ya two appleheads – me and the rest of the men workin’ for him!”

  Jack nodded and continued to chew. Sam looked Pete up and down as if deciding whether he could beat him in a fight. “What’s in it for us?”

  “What?” he asked in surprise. “Why, ya ungrateful little prairie dog, I already done told ya – I won’t tell yer pa ya jumped me.”

  “Did no such thing,” Jack said. “We didn’t know who ya were.”

  “I don’t need proof, ya thickhead,” he said. “My word is gold to Mr. Kinzey.”

  “Fine,” Sam snapped. “We’ll help ya so long as ya don’t tell Pa we acted like a couple of thickheads.”

  Pete laughed. “Well, that’s more like it. Ya boys need to calm down.”

  Sam made a face and grabbed another piece of bacon.

  “Hey, that’s the last piece,” Jack protested.

  Sam stuffed it into his mouth and started chewing. Pete just laughed again. “I had me a brother like that once.”

  “What’d ya do about him?” Jack asked.

  “Knifed him,” Pete said casually.

  Sam and Jack’s eyes widened. “Y-ya murdered yer brother?” Sam said quietly.

  “Nah, just gave him a few nicks,
” Pete said with a smile. “But he never took nothin’ of mine again.” He turned to leave. “Ya boys keep an eye out and tell me if you see anythin’ looks suspicious.”

  “Yessir,” Jack said.

  As soon as Pete was out of sight, Sam smacked his brother upside the head. “Ouch! What was that for?”

  “Ya don’t need to be polite to the likes of him.”

  “But Sam, he asked for our help.”

  This time Sam smacked his hand against his forehead and rubbed his face with it a few times. “Could ya be any dumber?”

  Jack tossed the pan to the ground in frustration. “What’d I do?”

  Sam glanced around, then got in his brother’s face. “Ya told him someone’s takin’ the food,” he hissed. “Ya said we’d help find whoever’s takin’ the food. We’re the ones takin’ the food, ya dunce!”

  Jack shoved him away. “All we did was take bacon that belonged to us anyway.”

  Sam thought about that. “Hey, yer right. I guess if we told Pa, he wouldn’t be too mad.”

  “That’s what we should do, ‘fore this grows into somethin’ that gets us in bigger trouble.”

  “Even if we did, Pete Smithers’ll still expect us to help him. We may be stealin’, but only from our own wagons. If someone else’s stealin’, maybe there’ll be a reward for findin’ the varmint.”

  Jack stared at him, once again confused. “Ya ain’t makin’ no sense.”

  “That’s ‘cause ya didn’t have any sense to begin with,” Sam snapped.

  Jack growled, grabbed the pan off the ground and started to walk away.

  “Where ya goin’?” Sam demanded.

  “To the creek to wash this out. Not only did we steal our own bacon, we took our own pan.”

  Sam stared after his brother, laughed, then suddenly sobered. “Hey, that’s an idea. Jack!”

  Jack turned and swung the pan in a wide arc. “What now?”

  Sam trotted to catch up to his brother. “I know what to do ‘bout them three whelps.”

  Jack straightened. “Really? What?”

  “We’re gonna help find that thief, all right. In fact, how about we find three?”

  Jack smiled. “Now yer makin’ sense.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Honoria watched Jefferson devour the last few bites of stew. She felt like a heroine in one of her penny dreadfuls, trapped in a helpless moment, the suspense mounting. Would the hero save her? She swallowed hard and asked the inevitable: “Do you like it?”

  Jefferson glanced up from his bowl. “Land sakes, woman, I just finished my second helping.”

  “Second?” she said in surprise. “I thought you were still on your first.”

  “No. While you spoke with Cyrus when he brought over that salt pork, I helped myself to some more.”

  She looked at her own bowl, finished the last few bites and set it on the grass at her feet. They were sitting on a fallen log, which was nice. Sometimes when they camped, there was nothing to perch on, and they had to make do with camp stools or the hard ground. She shifted next to him and asked her second question. “Did you like it enough to want it again?”

  Jefferson laughed. “Silly woman, I think two bowls of stew says yes.”

  She smiled in relief. This was her first batch of stew using Grandma Waller’s recipe and miracle of miracles, she didn’t ruin it. Without thinking, she kissed him on the cheek.

  Jefferson reached up and touched the spot. “Well, that was an added surprise.”

  She blushed anew. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

  He scooted closer, a gesture that made her feel giddy. “Little things like that make life special. Don’t apologize.”

  She smiled shyly, her cheeks growing hotter by the minute. She folded her hands in her lap and prayed the usual tug of war with her heart didn’t follow. “It’s just that it’s been so long for me.”

  “I know. Me too.”

  She nodded. He’d been very patient with her, giving her the gift of time. Then again, it wasn’t exactly easy to consummate a marriage surrounded by nearly a hundred people – maybe he was just waiting for privacy.

  Jefferson took her face in his hands. “Honoria Cooke, you’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen in a long time. I’m glad you decided to take this journey with me. I don’t know what I’d have done if you said no.”

  She looked into his brown eyes in shock. Part of her wanted him to kiss her, part of her wanted to run. What would have happened if she’d said no? She’d have been stuck in Independence for at least another year. Maybe she would have had to move to St. Louis or elsewhere, and given up on going to Oregon Territory. But here she was, sitting on a log in what the government in Washington City so quaintly called “unorganized territory” with this man. All because she said yes.

  She didn’t plan on love being in the equation, and had convinced herself she could make the sacrifice and live without it. People in America married for other reasons all the time, just as they did in England. This might be no different. His recent remark that she was pretty was a nice compliment, but it only meant he was admiring her looks, nothing more. And perhaps his kisses were just to keep up appearances, or because he felt obligated, or …

  Oh bother! Had she guarded her heart so fanatically that she couldn’t tell the difference between growing affection and simple admiration? That thought gave her an odd, cold feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  “Honoria,” he whispered, “is everything okay?”

  She took his hands from her face and lowered them to her knees. “Yes, I’m fine. It’s just that being married again … it’s so overwhelming. And we’re still getting to know each other.”

  “Don’t worry – people marry folks they don’t know all the time. You probably had arranged marriages back in England. And when it comes time for the boys to marry, there may not be a lot of women around. We might have to get them mail-order brides.”

  “Mail-order brides?” she mused. “What would possess a woman to do such a desperate thing?”

  Jefferson laughed and kissed her on the nose. “Honoria Cooke, you amaze me.”

  Honoria’s face flushed again – a good thing it was getting dark. She lowered her head and smiled at the silly remark. “All right, I’ll give you that one. I’m in no position to judge.”

  He put his arm around her. “That’s okay. Though I’m going to enjoy reminding you over the next few days.”

  “I dare say you will, Mr. Cooke,” she said with a laugh. It felt good to laugh – she hadn’t in a long time. At least not like this, carefree and joyful. They continued to talk and share the warm fire for several more minutes when she noticed her sons were gone. “By Heaven, where are Colin and Harrison?”

  “I’d say gathering wood, but they already did. Maybe visiting the Van Cleets?”

  “Or Duncan and Wilfred,” she suggested.

  “I don’t know. But don’t worry, they’ll turn up – they always do. I’m more concerned about Jack and Sam.”

  Honoria gasped. “Oh, do forgive me, Jefferson. I didn’t notice they were gone also.”

  “I did. Too bad for them – they missed your delicious stew.”

  She put her hand on his arm. “Don’t make light of it – I really am sorry. I was so worried about what you would say about my cooking, that I was blind to everything else –”

  He put a finger to her lips. “It’s all right. They can make do with cold stew. Though if they don’t get here soon, they’ll get nothing.”

  Honoria gripped his arm a little tighter. “Jefferson …”

  “No, don’t feel sorry for them. My boys have to learn. I …” He shook his head and sighed, long and sharp. “I coddled them after my wife died. Before she died, too, when she was sick. I thought it’d make things easier on them. But I think I made things worse.”

  She raised her face to his. “Oh, I see.”

  “Yeah, I guess you do. I was a fool to do it, but Mary’s illness lasted so long and took so
much out of me … and not to speak ill of the dead, but she did have a mean streak. I didn’t mind it when she was well – you might say it kept things lively. But it got worse when she did, and Jack and Sam picked it up. I should’ve come down harder on them, set them straight …” He shook his head.

  She moved her hand to his chest. “It’s all right, I understand. Benedict’s passing was hard on all of us, and his was sudden. For your boys to watch their mother slowly die …”

  He nodded and said nothing. The look of regret on his face, though, spoke volumes.

  Honoria stood, took their bowls to the washing bucket and set them down. She already had water heating over the fire, and wondered how long she’d have the luxury of washing. Would they cross stretches of land with no rivers or streams? She knew there were deserts in the American West, but was hazy on their location.

  She watched Jefferson stir the fire’s embers with a stick. There was sadness in his eyes when he spoke of his first wife. How would she have handled things if Benedict died of a drawn-out illness that made him meaner and meaner? How would her sons have handled it?

  She turned back to the chore at hand, already resolved to save the rest of the stew for Jack and Sam. Did she think Jefferson was being harsh? A little, but she also knew how Jack and Sam could be. They’d been cold toward her since the wedding, and hardly said two words to her sons.

  “Ready for this?” Jefferson asked.

  She turned. He’d brought her the hot water. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  Jefferson poured some into the bucket, set the teakettle down and reached for another bucket, this one full of cold water. He added some, set it down, then turned to Honoria and offered her the dishrag he’d used to pick up the kettle.

  She gazed into his eyes, oblivious to the rag. And something in her shifted. Before she knew it she was in his arms, her lips on his, her arms around his neck. The warning in her mind tried to pull her back, but her heart was having none of it. Her unexpected peck on his cheek earlier paled in comparison. She felt light-headed, warm and … what? She couldn’t describe it. She’d never felt it before, not even with Benedict.

  By the time Jefferson broke the kiss, she could barely stand. “Goodness,” she whispered.