“Thank you, Henry. I love setting a good table.” Megan lay a plank across the rocks and spread the red-and-white-checked tablecloth. Back in Illinois, Megan’s father claimed that Megan set such a great table to compensate for not being able to cook.
Henry turned a bright red and disappeared just long enough to fetch the wild berries he’d gathered earlier. It looked like Henry, as well as Mr. Williams, would be joining them for dinner. Geneva Green never noticed when one of her brood failed to show for a meal. Truthfully, Henry had provided so many game hens for the Crawford family, that whenever she baked something special, like service berry pie, Megan always made sure Henry was nearby.
Megan took a towel and lifted the coffeepot from the fire. Coffee she could do. The trout crackled in the frying pan not quite ready to serve. Her favorite meal was trout, but back in Cedar County, Megan would have seasoned it or at least tried. Truthfully, her mother always seasoned the trout while Megan watched. Louis hadn’t stocked enough herbs and spices. They’d run out months ago, and Louis hadn’t been willing to barter with any of the white traders they encountered on the journey.
Taking a deep breath, Megan thought about feigning a loss of appetite. Anything to not feel beholden to Mr. Williams. Three days straight of jackrabbit had her mouth watering for a change. That Mr. Williams had provided trout, of all things, only made her more nervous. It was as if the man knew her. Knew her better than her own family.
“I hear you make the best coffee in camp.” Mr. Williams held out his cup.
She filled the cup and set the coffeepot on the table. “That’s a rumor I started myself. It’s not true.”
“I doubt that.” Mr. Williams followed her as she fetched some pickles.
He really didn’t follow all that close, but Megan felt a tangible presence. He took her breath away and not because the July sun beat down so relentlessly. Never had her body been so aware of the opposite sex. She tried to ignore him. Maybe if she went about her business and didn’t fawn over him, he’d think she wasn’t interested and go off and visit with Louis. That was the best thing to do, the safe thing to do.
Taking a sharpened willow stick, she spread slices of bacon over the trout, then she rescued the overdone bread from the coals. Mr. Williams had distracted her. It had been days since she’d last burned bread.
“I like it well done.” Mr. Williams shooed away a fly and grinned as he took the plate from her and set it on the table.
“A gentlemen would refrain from remarking about the cook’s flawed efforts.” There’d been a time when Megan’s tongue was sweet. Years of instruction by a proper mother created a proper lady. It had taken Jasper Mapes only seven months to destroy a lifetime of example. Megan looked Mr. Williams straight in the eye. “Especially a gentlemen who invited himself to dinner.”
“I’ve never claimed to be a gentleman. But if you like, I can easily take my trout and go elsewhere.”
Allie chose that moment to climb from the back of the wagon. “Do I smell fish?” Raising a delicate nose, Allie sniffed. A bright smile spread across her face. The first smile evident in weeks—could it really be months? Megan was trapped by both her sister-in-law’s first display of interest and her own love of fish.
“Dinner ready?” Louis finished caring for the horses and now took his place sitting cross-legged on the ground. Allie and the children took one side. Mr. Williams sat across from Louis, leaving Megan and Henry the remaining space.
Louis said the prayer.
Henry sat strangely quiet, not asking questions.
The only reason Megan didn’t scold Mr. Williams for leaving his eyes open during the thanks was because he would, in turn, accuse her of having open eyes as well, since she caught him.
Mealtime around the Crawford fire seldom meant conversation anymore. Louis was too tired from a hard day’s driving. Allie stared off into space, trapped in her own little world, not even acknowledging Jeremiah’s chatter about the day’s adventures. Rebekkah usually huddled close to Megan, but not this meal. Megan’s niece didn’t even touch the trout, although it was her favorite meal, too. Instead, Rebekkah stared at her hands.
Mr. Williams changed the Crawford’s dinner routine, at least where Louis was concerned. Taking a bite of bread, Mr. Williams shot Megan an appreciative look and then asked her brother, “Whereabouts are you settling in Oregon?”
“Wife and I are going to look for the most likely town to set up shop in. I’ve been a traveling salesman.” Louis beamed. “Bibles. I’ve got more than fifty in the false bottom. I sell a few other books besides. Wanted to be a preacher but didn’t have the patience. Allie’s been hoping for more children, and she’d like to lay down roots so the children can have friends.”
“So you’ve traveled quite a bit?” Mr. Williams took a bite of pickle. His eyes closed, and he gave a sigh of contentment.
Allie stopped eating. Megan knew why her sister-in-law had stopped. She wondered if Louis realized what he’d unwittingly said.
Reaching for a second pickle, Mr. Williams paid no attention to the tension surrounding the Crawfords’ table. Megan wondered if the man even knew why pickles were so important. Allie packed quite a few items to help prevent scurvy. The pickles were for special occasions. Megan tried not to analyze why she’d served the delicacy the first time Mr. Williams joined them. His presence wasn’t a special occasion and never would—never could—be.
Louis grabbed a pickle, too. “For the last six years, Allie and I’ve seen all the East Coast. She loves the ocean. Maybe when I get her there, she’ll feel some better. She hankers for a home facing the waves. I’ll get it for her, too. Just see if I don’t.”
Mr. Williams looked disappointed, Megan noticed. Was it her food? Maybe he didn’t like pickles. Surely, he wasn’t envious of the vagabond life her brother lived.
“Megan travel with you often?” He obviously expected Louis to answer, but he looked at Megan, his green eyes accusing instead of curious.
“No, Megan’s the only girl in our brood and the baby. She’s Pa’s favorite. I’m amazed he let her come with us.” Louis smiled. “Truthfully, I’ve no idea why she wanted to join us. She’s been a great help.” Louis reached over and patted Megan’s hand. “She’s gone from pampered daughter to a working woman without much preparation.”
Megan curled her fingers, ashamed of the broken, dirty nails.
“I don’t know what we’d have done without her,” Louis finished.
“So,” this time Mr. Williams expected Megan to answer—she could tell by the way he leaned toward her, “you really wanted to leave Cedar County and fast.”
It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. Mr. Williams made her so nervous that she stopped eating.
He knew it, too.
For four days straight, Bernie managed to find time for a little fishing. He and his trout sat at the Crawfords’ table. Just when he thought he’d sprout fins and breathe underwater, Rawhide led them to the area that had once been Fort Bridger and, since it was Sunday, he declared a day of rest. It took awhile to find a campsite that hadn’t been picked clean of grass and firewood; but as Rawhide said, it didn’t do the cows any good to travel without a break. Most times they just took a half day. Bernie figured the wagon master was getting closer to religion than ever before. Why, if Emma Brewster had her say, soon Rawhide would be giving up tobacco. That’s what women did, if you gave them a chance: They started looking for ways to change you.
Bernie climbed out from under Dillon’s wagon and glanced over at the Crawfords. Miss Megan was gathering up the laundry, looking ever so ordinary, like all of the other women her age on the trail. No, not looking like all the others. She looked like an angel. An angel with brown hair and golden streaks. She had a stubborn tilt to her chin that made him want to antagonize her.
Calling Jeremiah over, he gave the boy his laundry. Time to get closer to Miss Megan. He wanted her to be thinking about him.
Frank Barnes saddled up, ready to hunt fresh
meat. Bernie’s mouth watered. “Okay, we’ll go, Samson.” As if sensing an easy day, Bernie’s horse pranced eagerly.
“I’d join you,” Orson said as he rode up, “but as you can see, my horse is doing poorly.” The man seemed to get bigger as his horse decreased in size. Horses were fine on the trail. Often they saved the pioneers time and money, but a Tennessee walker didn’t belong here. Orson Millberg didn’t belong here. Bernie Williams didn’t belong, either. Too much time was passing. He needed to take care of business and head back to Chicago.
“Maybe you should turn him loose and let him graze,” Bernie suggested.
“Can’t. I’ve got important things to do.” Orson wheeled the horse around and took off the way they’d come.
Bernie watched for a few moments. He’d lay odds that Orson would avoid contact with his fellow travelers. He’d want the womenfolk to think he was hunting, and he’d want the men to imagine him gainfully preoccupied elsewhere. He fooled no one.
Bernie watched the activities of the Crawford family until he located Megan. Her skirt swayed in the wind as she sashayed toward the water hole with the other women.
He’d just nudged Samson into a trot when Jeremiah ran up beside him. “Can I go with you? I know Pa would let me. I can ride our horse.”
Bernie had made a huge effort to win over the boy. Children were honest in a way adults couldn’t be. Bernie could learn more about Megan from listening to Jeremiah talk than he could from the lady herself. Truthfully, children made Bernie uncomfortable. They had runny noses. They made strange sounds, especially boys.
“Sure, Kid. I’ll wait a minute.”
Jeremiah returned faster than Bernie thought possible. Brown hair stood straight up and freckles dotted a white face. The kid bounced in his saddle, excitement evident in his every movement. “Pa said no gun, but I can watch if I stay out of the way.”
“Stay behind me.”
Jeremiah immediately prodded his horse to follow. “Pa says you’re the best shot on the train. Is that true?”
It was, but Bernie hadn’t realized anyone else recognized the fact. “No, I’d say Rawhide can outshoot me. Frank’s pretty good with a gun and so is Dillon Trier. I’ve just been lucky lately.”
“I’d like to learn to shoot, but Pa says I have to be thirteen.”
“Thirteen is a good age.”
“Yup, Pa wants Grandpa to teach me. He says Grandpa handles a gun a lot like you. Grandpa taught all his children how to shoot when they turned thirteen.”
Bernie nudged his horse away from Frank. He scanned the distance for a sign of moose or any other worthy target. Seldom did information just fall in his lap like this. “Does your aunt Megan know how to shoot?”
“She can shoot better than Pa, but Mama says I’m not supposed to mention that.”
“I won’t tell.”
Instead of smiling, Jeremiah clutched his horse’s mane. “Can you solve secret problems?”
Looking at the trust in the boy’s eyes, Bernie felt the first stirring of conscience. Here he was, using Jeremiah to glean information about Megan, and instead the boy looked at him as some type of hero.
“Sometimes. What’s wrong?”
Tears shimmered in the boy’s eyes, but they didn’t brim over. The Crawfords were a tough bunch, thought Bernie, even the children.
“Maybe I can help,” Bernie offered. Just because Megan Crawford deserved his scrutiny didn’t mean little Jeremiah shouldn’t deserve a little bit of guidance. Might be good for the boy.
“It’s about snakes.”
Forget the honesty of children, Bernie thought. Kids are just plain unpredictable.
“Are you afraid of snakes?” Bernie had a feeling he wouldn’t be pleased with the outcome of this conversation.
“Oh, no. I like um.”
Bernie nodded, waiting while Jeremiah looked from side to side, making sure no one could overhear. “It’s my ma who’s afraid of them.”
No surprise there, Bernie thought. Allie Crawford looked to be afraid of her own shadow. She lived in the almost-barren wagon—her husband wanted to save the weight allowance for his Bibles—and slept most of the day away.
Unlike Megan, who seemed to only fear Indians.
“Why is your mother’s fear of snakes a problem? Lots of womenfolk are afraid of creepy, crawly things.”
“Yes,” Jeremiah agreed in a whisper, “but Ma doesn’t know about all the snakes.”
“All the snakes?”
Jeremiah nodded.
“Give me a little more information,” Bernie encouraged.
“I’ve been collecting snakes, or at least trying to,” Jeremiah admitted, “in my jar.”
Jar?
Now the tears shimmered closer to the surface. “And they’re getting loose. Why, I bet there are near about ten snakes loose in Mama’s wagon. She’s gonna see one or something! What if it makes her even more sick?”
Laughter, the deep-bellied kind, made its presence known. Bernie’s stomach hurt as he fought to keep it inside. Coughing, to mask an escaped chuckle, Bernie reined his horse and smiled reassuringly at Jeremiah. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll find time to search your wagon, and I’ll make sure those snakes find a new home.”
Jeremiah’s eyes grew big and his mouth opened in apparent awe. So this is what it feels like to bask in a child’s admiration, Bernie thought. Plus, if Bernie got caught in the Crawfords’ wagon, he’d have the perfect excuse. Then Bernie heard the rustle behind him and Frank’s light murmur. They’d spotted game. Just in time, Bernie stopped Jeremiah from charging forward.
Every bone in his body ached. After returning from the hunt, most of the men had pitched in to help Anna Schmitt fix the axle of her wagon. Larson stood behind them, hands in his pockets, offering no advice. Orson, too, stood behind them, giving ridiculous orders and getting in the way. The repair took at least an hour longer because of the man’s interference.
Bernie yawned. He couldn’t remember so black a night. The stars receded in the sky as if not wanting to assist Bernie Williams in his quest. He lit a well-used tallow candle, smoothed out the blanket, and after lying down, took a folded piece of paper from his back pocket.
Before opening it, he looked down the line of wagons. It appeared that the Crawfords were all in bed, including his new best buddy Jeremiah, who’d wanted to sleep under the Trier wagon with Bernie. Dillon had pulled guard duty for the next four hours; Bernie would spell him. Oh, but he wanted to search Megan’s wagon for “snakes.” He couldn’t believe it. He’d spent two weeks on his hands and knees looking for whatever Megan had been disposing of. Come to find out, he’d seen it—more than once. Noticing that this part of the trail seemed to have an overabundance of garter snakes hadn’t given him any clue as to Megan’s activities. All this time, she’d been setting free Jeremiah’s snakes. Probably so her sister-in-law wouldn’t come across one. Still, the comedy of errors had led to his getting permission to search the Crawfords’ wagon. If he could just arrange the time. Allie only left the privacy of the canvas walls for short periods.
The light of a small candle sent a wavering shadow on the piece of paper. The Wanted poster had changed from a crisp vellum likeness to a soft, wrinkled one. Across the top, in bold, black letters, were the words: WANTED FOR MURDER. Down below, it said: $1000 REWARD. In the middle, Megan Crawford’s face stared at him.
Chapter 4
Unknown Female, case number 41, drew her last breath on April 3, 1854. A ticket from the mighty Illinois Central Railway proved Megan Crawford had been a Chicago-bound passenger on April 2. A witness tied the two women together. A witness who disappeared after supplying a description.
Without the witness, they needed a bit more proof. Smoothing out the Wanted poster, Bernie studied the few words under the picture. He wondered who A.S. was. Someone had cared enough about Unknown Female, case number 41, to contact the Pinkerton agency at Washington and Dearborn Streets. Allan Pinkerton himself took the case. A.S. offered the re
ward, which explained the initials. Bernie hated initials. He’d rather have a full name or at least some type of identity. Sheriff of Dodge County was a good signature. Sons of John Smith was another good signature. A.S. was as big a mystery as the dead woman’s name!
When Bernie took on the case, two days after the murder, Ronald Benchly hadn’t come up with any connection between the two women; but since neither woman had a criminal past nor seemed to even have any criminal connections, very little was known about their histories. Ronald headed for Cedar County, Illinois, to dig into Megan’s old life. Bernie joined the westward movement to keep track of her new one.
Ronald had discovered that Megan’s brother, Louis, failed to meet his sister at the station. Caught in a massive spring storm, he and his family holed up in a small town outside Evanston until roads cleared. Megan had left a note with the stationmaster; and although the man suggested a nice hotel in the area, Megan had ignored his advice and rented a room on the wrong side of town.
Either she’d made a mistake, thinking she knew more than the stationmaster about the unfamiliar town, or she’d picked the shady part of town because she had shady business. No one admitted seeing her leave her room after check-in. As beautiful as she was, and on that side of town, somebody would have noticed her. In an area frequented by only down-and-outers and “women of the evening,” Megan Crawford would have been as obvious as a rose amidst a mile of skunk cabbage.
Unless she disguised herself.
Could she successfully dress as a male?
He couldn’t fathom such a possibility. Still, Bernie pulled his journal out of the saddlebag and wrote a note to himself: Check clothing stores; show Megan’s picture. Later, if he needed evidence, this might be proven an avenue.
So far, his scribblings over Megan Crawford amounted to about a hundred questions. Most of them, even after a month on the trail, remained unanswered.
By far, the most damaging evidence, besides the missing witness’s account, was her ability to shoot.
Where the Heart Is Romance Collection Page 16
