Where the Heart Is Romance Collection

by Andrea Boeshaar

  The Greens had reached the milestone first, hooting and hollering as if it were Christmas. What a family! Megan had never seen such an unorganized, noisy bunch. Now they were, thankfully, asleep, and the circle of the wagon train sheltered an almost tangible silence impossible to imagine during the hectic daytime hours. The sun peeked over the mountain, barely showing. Would it make an appearance? Hide behind a cloud? Later, would it bear down so unrelentlessly that the back of Megan’s dress would stick to her skin with an uncomfortable, damp heat?

  She took one last look around. It was too early to get dressed. Even the Greens, who were early risers, still slumbered. Just thinking about the Greens inspired Megan to scoot backward toward the trunk she shared with her brother’s family. The Greens had foiled her predawn plans before. She needed solitude. Today a promising prairie wind blew from the south. If not for the new blister on the bottom of Megan’s left foot, maybe later she’d skip or do a little dance of happiness. She shook that thought off. She didn’t deserve the joy that a random romp in the dew-kissed grass brought. Frolicking, without a care, was something the old Megan would do, the Megan who’d been the belle of Cedar County, Illinois. Why, Megan would never forget the time Caroline and…

  Caroline.

  Megan’s hand clenched tightly. The simple cotton nightgown she clutched didn’t protect her palm from feeling the half-moon impression of nails that needed filing. She closed her eyes, dizzy, for a moment. Opening them again, white dots danced across her vision. She crawled back to the wagon’s opening and took a deep breath. Think about something else.

  She’d even awakened before the wagon captain. Usually she caught a glimpse of Rawhide or that vagabond Mr. Williams as they rode their horses to scout the area. No matter the time, Mr. Williams always seemed to prowl somewhere nearby, usually close enough to bump into the one woman in camp who wanted nothing to do with him— namely herself. The man just didn’t take a hint.

  Maybe this morning she would manage to elude him. Well, that would be one good thing about her ridiculous early morning rising. The only good thing.

  Glad for the privacy of a still-sleeping family, she crawled past the bag of cornmeal and opened the trunk she shared with her brother’s family. Quickly, she changed into her none-too-clean brown wool frock. Allie and Rebekkah nestled close to each other. They had no idea just how early Megan left their company. Flossie, Rebekkah’s doll, did. Megan regularly managed to smush the doll’s moss-filled body as she tried to maneuver past the tightly packed sleeping figures.

  She climbed from the back and snuck under the wagon. Without a sound, she relieved Jeremiah of yesterday’s treasure. She had to pry a few fingers away. He held on to the jar as if sheer willpower would hinder any mishap. He murmured unintelligible words. Still, he’d had a restful night. His arm healed and the memories of the accident faded. Until last night, he’d regularly climbed into the wagon to sleep with the women. Now that made a tight fit. Why he thought they provided more safety than under the wagon with his pa, Megan didn’t understand. Louis shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment, too. Still, Jeremiah was a brave soul, Megan thought, as she brushed a lock of hair from his eyes. Her foot slipped on the dry, brittle ground as she left the underbelly of the wagon. Wiping the dirt from her fingers, she clutched the jar to her chest and headed away from camp.

  A wooden cross, simply engraved with the words “Baby Girl” blocked her path. A broken-down wagon came next. Megan would forage it for firewood later. A guard, Beau Cole, leaned against a tree in the distance. She had to admit, the guards weren’t easy to spot unless you knew where to look. His twin brother, a distance away, imitated a turkey call. Megan could only wish there were turkeys in this area. They’d seen her. Both were well aware of the habits of the Crawford Kid. That’s what they called her, after she rebuffed their advances. They figured she must be a kid if she didn’t recognize their many valuable qualities, their manly gifts. She ignored them and stepped near a particularly heavy patch of prickly pear, opened the lid of the jar, and bent down.

  A twig snapped. Megan hit the dirt and lay flat, hoping she couldn’t be seen. The Indians they met up with since Fort Laramie had been friendly, but fear remained at Megan’s side, an unrelenting companion for well over a year now.

  “Looking for toads?”

  It was that insufferable Mr. Williams, appearing from nowhere—or so it seemed. Since he’d joined the camp back at Fort Laramie, he’d somehow always managed to be around when Megan did something she’d rather keep private.

  “If I were looking for toads, then I’d be real disappointed since the only thing I’ve managed to find is a snake.” She glared at him as she scrambled to her feet. Brushing grass, dirt, and bits of twig from her dress, she gave him a look that anyone else would have read as dismissal. Not Bernie. Taller than most of the other men, he was what her mother would call a tall drink of water.

  He made her uncomfortable and never called her the Crawford Kid.

  Megan Crawford’s cheeks were turning a healthy shade of pink. She clutched an empty jar in her hand. Bernie figured she wouldn’t mind knocking him atop the head with it. Well, he’d been hit in the head before and by a pretty lady. He’d almost welcome some show of physical spunk from this girl. She had gumption, of that he had no doubt. He’d seen her deal with the Cole brothers, always in a nonconfrontational way, but he didn’t buy the quiet, unassuming act. Almost daily he noted her clenched fists. Anger, or something else, boiled just below the surface. He wanted to know what motivated her. Even more, he wanted to know the truth behind the haunted look in her eyes.

  “You need some assistance?” Bernie had spotted Megan well before she reached the tall grass more than a few yards away from her family’s wagon. Thanks to Buck’s turkey call. Truthfully, he’d been too busy admiring Megan to span the distance between the Greens’ wagon and her in a reasonable time.

  “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” Her chin went in the air.

  She had the bluest eyes he’d ever seen.

  “Mr. Williams, are you all right?”

  He’d been staring. This woman put him on edge, and he didn’t like it. “I told you to call me Bernie. On the trail, there’s no need for formalities.”

  She shook her head, reminding him ever so much of the Sunday school teacher, more than fifteen years ago, who’d expected more of him, too. He’d exasperated Megan, and he wondered why. Maybe that was his problem. He spent so much time annoying her, she didn’t trust him.

  Now that was another problem. Usually by the time he annoyed a woman, she knew she was quarry. Megan hadn’t a clue. She was annoyed by his very existence, and it puzzled him. He’d done nothing to raise her hackles. Why was she so wary of him… of men in general? What did she suspect?

  He removed his hat and bowed to her retreating form. She’d turned tail and walked away with a dignity that let him know, although he’d not witnessed the gesture, that he’d been thoroughly dismissed.

  The top of her head just might brush against his shoulder, if he ever got close enough. Even after weeks on the trail, her hair—at least what peeked out from under her bonnet—attracted the glare of the sun and shone in a way that made a man’s fingers itch to explore.

  “Williams!” Orson Millberg looked as though he smelled something sour. The large man sat both awkward and haughty in the saddle. Orson’s expression reminded Bernie of Ronald Benchly, a sometimes-partner who had a constant stomach ailment.

  Ronald had no patience for men such as Orson. Selfimportant snobs who tossed blame on others rather than dealing with a problem. Orson’s horse even managed to look pained as he paused next to Bernie. The Tennessee walker, ribs showing, blew out a gust of air and pawed restlessly, sending a billow of dust to settle on Bernie’s boots.

  “Williams, you bothering Miss Crawford?”

  Bernie wanted to laugh, not that humor was an option in his line of work. “Not as much as you’re bothering me.”

  Orson’s e
yebrows inched toward each other. His lips compressed. Bernie figured that only the fact that Orson considered him as possible son-in-law material kept the man from continuing his harangue. With her conniving, simpering ways, Lavinia Millberg had managed to alienate all of the single men on the wagon train. Having only recently joined the train, Bernie rated as the new man in town. He’d not been off his horse but ten minutes before recognizing Lavinia Millberg as trouble. Too bad she wasn’t who he was looking for.

  The Cole brothers made disappearing an art when Lavinia came nigh. Bernie needed to learn their technique. For three burly men to evaporate into thin air was no small feat. They gleefully informed Bernie that he would be perfect for Lavinia. After all, she came with a dowry a poor man could surely use. It bothered the Cole brothers to listen to Bernie’s pretend dreams about becoming an Oregon rancher. They wanted him to wear a felt hat, and have a supply wagon, and lead a good strain of horses. They didn’t understand the concept of heading west with only a horse and two saddlebags

  The women were much easier. After reading the little novels they had passed about, they all imagined him building an empire out of nothing and sweeping one of them off her feet.

  It wouldn’t be Lavinia.

  Bernie Williams wasn’t looking for a wife. He was looking for something else. It wasn’t in Oregon, either. He despised the Oregon Trail and all it stood for. Just his bad luck to pull this particular duty.

  Orson carefully took off his hat, slapped it against his leg to free it of dust, and then cleared his throat. “Rawhide says there’s some elk to the west. Thinks it’d be a good idea to bag a few.”

  Years had taught Bernie to guard his tongue. Today’s adversary might be tomorrow’s witness. “How many?”

  The way Orson’s lips curled, Bernie knew he’d figured right. Rawhide had suggested Orson go hunting, not that Orson could. The man couldn’t shoot a tree. Well, the man could shoot a tree, but he’d be aiming at something else.

  “Two should do it.” Orson Millberg huffed, then pursed his lips before offering. “You want some help?”

  Men who’d taken him up on the offer seldom made the mistake twice. Not even getting pleasure from watching the pompous man fumble was worth the danger of accidentally getting shot when Orson closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. Why Beau Cole swore he once saw a buffalo snicker at Orson’s antics with a gun.

  Claiming to be an entrepreneur looking for opportunities, Orson’s talk around the campfire mimicked a jack-of-all-trades but a master of none.

  Bernie shook his head and turned his back on the man. It wasn’t until he was halfway back to his own horse that he realized his retreat parroted Megan’s.

  Did she feel about him the way he felt about Orson?

  Megan. He had to keep his mind on Megan and quit letting the daily needs of the wagon train divert him. Bernie went back to where they’d been standing. Why had she walked out this far? What was in that jar? It was too small to be a slop bucket. He bent down and carefully pushed aside a clump of prickly pear, then another. Nothing. With a backward glance at the immobile wagons, he went to his knees and patted the ground. He spent a few more minutes picking through the foliage. Bugs crawled up his wrists and burrs dug into his palms until he finally gave up. One thing for sure, he didn’t want anyone on the train—especially Megan—to look over and see him rearranging prairie grass and think he’d gone loco.

  Or maybe he should let her know he was watching her. He needed to somehow get past her wall of mistrust; and to do that, he didn’t need to feel concern about emotions, neither his nor hers.

  It was the day-in and day-out repetition of the trail that put the burr under Bernie’s saddle. He worked alone. He’d always worked alone. Even when he dealt with a partner, like Ronald, they’d had their own assignments. The partners were never together for more than clandestine meetings to exchange information. On the trail, he was forced to see the intricate working of family life. On the trail, not only did he have to fill a role, but people were depending on him because they thought he was a vital link in the quest for survival. That put him smack dab in the middle of family life.

  Family life. Bernie felt his mouth dry. The trail robbed families; it didn’t build them. Against his will, Bernie wondered if his father had traveled this very road.

  “Whither thou goest, I will go.” Idabelle Barnes plucked a thread from her feed-sack dress and stared off at the distant Rocky Mountains. They’d been walking uphill for hours.

  “What?” Megan felt guilty, as if she’d invaded the privacy of the other woman’s thoughts. Idabelle probably didn’t even realize she’d spoken aloud. The farmer’s wife often fell in step beside Megan. They enjoyed a comfortable relationship either sharing small talk, usually about novels, or just walking in the silence of each other’s company.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to say that. I was just thinking about something Pastor Brewster said during meeting yesterday.”

  Megan nodded, unsure as to what her friend needed to hear. Clearly Idabelle had some doubts as to what Oregon might offer. Brewster’s sermon had been about God’s promises. The men had nodded, save Bernie Williams, who smirked—no doubt thinking about their glorious futures. Most of the women had offered weak smiles. The female exceptions were, of course, Geneva Green—nothing bothered her—and Pastor Brewster’s new wife, who looked like she could blaze a new trail to Oregon at the side of her husband. Emma took to being a wife like a cat took to cow’s milk. Megan thought Emma radiated satisfaction.

  A small bead of jealousy flared. Megan suppressed it.

  Oh, and Bethany Rogers smiled eagerly, looking at each day as adventure. Bethany, though, even smiled when the wheel on their emerald green wagon cracked thanks to a hidden stump that had no business in the middle of a much-traveled trail. Megan could almost read Bethany’s thoughts that day a fortnight ago. The young bride had admired her husband’s ability to repair wood. Repair wood!

  Megan longed to be that naive again.

  “Why are you heading for Oregon?” Idabelle put a hand on Megan’s shoulder, hopped up and down twice, and successfully slipped off her much-too-big, simple leather shoe to empty it of yet another pebble.

  No one had asked that question, not in all the weeks they’d put between five and thirty miles a day on the soles of their shoes. Megan’s shoes were heavy soled, with copper toes. Her papa had purchased them before packing his only daughter off for the brutal West. He wanted only the best for the belle of Cedar County, even when she was no longer the belle.

  “I’m helping Louis and Allie.” Megan wasn’t lying, she was only saying the words everyone else on the trail took for granted.

  “Not good enough, although your sister-in-law surely needs your help. How is she?”

  “Better.” Megan didn’t know what else to say. The once vivacious Alison Crawford was using sleep to escape reality and even after a month hadn’t ceased from her sorrow.

  “Hmm,” Idabelle said and tactfully went back to her previous topic. “That sermon last night set me to thinking. I mean, I know why I’m leaving behind my friends and family in Iowa. Mr. Barnes thinks that we’ll be walking into 160 acres, free from the government, in the Willamette Valley. Me, I have my doubts, but I’d follow that man clear to the edge of the world if he crooked his finger. You’re not following anybody, are you?”

  Megan forced a chuckle. “I’m following the Greens, that’s what I’m doing.”

  “Mother!”

  In a division containing more occupants than the Cedar County Spelling Bee, the word Mother turned quite a few heads; but Idabelle was already heading toward her own wagon, where Frank Barnes waited with a newly awakened daughter in his arms.

  Megan watched Idabelle’s retreating figure. Frank called; Idabelle responded. Men led; women followed. Jasper lied; people believed. And a few wagons ahead, Megan could hear Orson Millberg berating his wife. Megan closed her eyes. The Millberg women were the best-dressed women on their train, but Megan wou
ldn’t change places with them for all the money in the world. No wonder Lavinia considered every single man a temptation. The other girl wasn’t looking for love; she was looking for escape.

  “Why don’t you ride a spell?” Mr. Williams’s lips were so close to her ear that she could feel a faint trace of the heat of his breath.

  The hair at the back of her neck prickled. She shook away the memory of her last year in Cedar County. It annoyed her that she hadn’t heard the man. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

  “I didn’t sneak. I walked up just like I walk up to everybody.”

  “Why don’t you go walk up on Lavinia?” Megan wanted to accent the suggestion by adding a wave in Lavinia’s direction, but the other girl was in her wagon. Lavinia was dressed in a pink serge skirt and a beige cloth shirt. Her feet didn’t boast copper-toed shoes, nor did her hands prove by their calluses the work she did on the trail. Megan figured she could count, using the fingers on one hand, the miles Lavinia had walked. And at least half of those miles had been while she tried to lure Pastor Brewster away from Emma.

  Megan felt sorry for the girl, but she still didn’t like her.

  “Because I’d rather talk to you.” The slow grin didn’t quite reach Bernie’s eyes.

  He was playing with her, and she didn’t quite know why.

  “What are you thinking?” He spoke the words softly, his green eyes promising an interested audience.

  Why all the questions today? Was it just a year ago that Megan would have welcomed attention from such a handsome stranger? Was it just a year ago when she’d had nothing to hide from an acquaintance like Idabelle?

  The problem with questions, Megan decided, was that the ones she least wanted to answer were the ones so often asked.

  Why are you heading to Oregon? To escape Caroline’s memory.

  What are you thinking? That there is no escape.