Where the Heart Is Romance Collection

by Andrea Boeshaar

  Unknown Female, case number 41, took one bullet to the heart. The shooter had been standing close and had used a pillow to muzzle the sound.

  Guns were not the weapons of choice for most women. Would Megan really be an exception? Could she cold-heartedly pull a trigger?

  Bernie kept going back to why—why had Megan been in the slum area of Chicago? A woman of her rearing should have followed the stationmaster’s advice. But then, a woman of her rearing should have fainted the minute the cab turned onto Lower Gallagher Street.

  Another unanswered question had to do with why Unknown Female, case 41, had been there. Neither female belonged. The fact that both had all their teeth, kept clean fingernails, and looked free of the pox declared their presence in the shantytown district as suspect. The victim’s clothes weren’t the quality of Megan’s, not quite as expensive or clean, but they were neither the fancy do-dads of a tart nor the ragged filth of a squatter.

  Bernie figured both Megan and Unknown Female, case 41, were out of their natural environment. Entirely out of character for Megan. He’d wait to form a hypothesis about Unknown until he had more information about her past. Someone had to be missing her. And why was she worth a reward to A.S.?

  A twig snapped in the distance. Either Dillon had made a poor choice of guard location or something was amiss. Bernie held his breath as he patiently listened to the night sounds. He heard no more and settled back with Megan’s picture.

  He preferred hunting male perpetrators. The female killers, and there’d only been two he’d come in contact with, were hard-as-nails women who likely had never owned a pair of white gloves or cared overly much for clean hair. Megan proved an interesting quarry. For the most part, Bernie believed there were only two motives for murder: money or love, not necessarily in that order.

  Megan didn’t need money.

  Love? Why would love bring Megan to Chicago?

  Unknown had been married. A pale mark circled her ring finger. Why would Megan remove the ring after shooting the woman? Or maybe the ring had been removed before Megan pulled the trigger.

  What kind of man could inspire Megan into such a lover’s triangle? Was she thwarted? Jilted?

  Could Megan Crawford be traveling the Oregon Trail to rendezvous with a man?

  Wait! Maybe the man was already a member of their party! Who were the single men? The Cole brothers? Beau had seemed interested. Megan’s rebuff could have been for show. Then, there was Dillon Trier, although Bernie hadn’t noticed the two exchange more than a stray sentence. But with Dillon, Bernie thought he detected—and he wasn’t a Pinkerton agent for naught—an attraction for Penny Rogers.

  Maybe the man traveled with a different section of the train? That had to be it! And it certainly explained the rebuff of the Cole brother. Bernie nodded, folding the likeness of Megan and putting it back in his pocket. It also explained the even more puzzling issue of why Megan seemed immune to the charms of Bernie Williams.

  Putting the notes on the Crawford case back in the saddlebag, Bernie glanced one more time over in Megan’s direction.

  Yeah, that explained it. To think Bernie wasted valuable time worrying about why the woman wasn’t taken with him.

  Vanity, vanity, saith the Lord. Bernie pushed that thought away. He’d been spending too much time listening in on Pastor Brewster’s sermons when he was supposed to be watching Megan.

  Watching Megan? Sometimes he thought he could watch her for eternity, then he reminded himself of why he was watching her. By far, she was the most interesting quarry he’d ever trailed. And as for leaving a trail of evidence, she hadn’t. She was the most innocent acting criminal he’d ever trailed. She never even looked longingly at any of the single men. He had no clue who the other man could be. Bernie almost wanted to rescue her, and he didn’t know from what.

  It must have something to do with a challenge, Bernie thought, as he lay his head on the saddle and drew a blanket over his shoulders. Because no way was he allowing himself to become smitten with one of his cases.

  Why, that would be downright unethical. And Bernie Williams learned ethics at an early age. Of all the lessons his Sunday school–teaching mother and strict father had taught, the sense of right and wrong had taken seed in young Bernie’s heart and rooted deep.

  Bernie stretched and turned over. Time to start thinking about Megan as more than just a simple criminal. She was a murderer.

  Yet, Bernie Williams couldn’t stop thinking about Megan Crawford as a woman.

  Megan couldn’t believe they were taking an extra day of rest just because Mr. Millberg lost his hat.

  Back home Megan owned over ten hats; she didn’t miss them.

  It seemed the hat that blew off Mr. Millberg’s head had been hand-tooled, especially for him, by a master craftsman in Europe.

  “Why didn’t Orson pick it up when it blew off?” Louis asked over a breakfast of bacon and bread.

  “Claimed he saw Indians.” Mr. Williams had appeared, with his laundry in tow, in time to eat. Megan wondered how many meals it would take before their trout debt was paid.

  Louis shook his head, picked up a plate, and loaded it with more food than Allie could possibly eat, even on a good day. He’d stoically ignored his wife’s state of mind until Rebekkah started acting the same way. Now he walked slowly toward the wagon and carefully climbed in. Megan gave up on propriety and strained to listen. She couldn’t hear the words, exactly, but she knew Louis wanted his wife to eat. For Louis, he was acting firm. As the gentle Crawford brother, he’d taken lots of ribbing for not having a temper. Funny thing was, he always got what he wanted.

  Jeremiah’s shout told Megan that he was still chasing butterflies with Henry. Rebekkah sat on a stump and watched them. Why isn’t she playing? Megan wondered.

  By rights, her breakfast table should be ready for clearing. Instead Mr. Williams sat there, legs outstretched, and such a look in his eyes that Megan shivered. He wanted something. What was it? He never asked her to go for an evening walk, like Jesse had Emma. He didn’t woo her with words like Joshua had Bethany. No, instead the man invaded her space without permission and didn’t have the good manners to say why.

  “Your brother says you spent some time in Chicago. I’ve been there myself. What did you think of the town?” He had the longest legs Megan had ever seen. They went on forever. Now he crossed them at the ankles, and they became even more of a blockade she’d have to cross if she wanted to avoid his questions.

  Chicago?

  She’d thought the nightmares would end in Chicago.

  The man wanted to know about Chicago.

  Harumph. Chicago had only proved how inept she was at taking care of herself. “I liked Chicago just fine. I even purchased a new hat.”

  “Louis said you arrived there by train.”

  It was idle conversation, yet stilted. Did Mr. Williams really want to know about the stifling trip from one end of Illinois to the other? Miles when Megan longed to stretch but couldn’t. Soot would have ruined her shoes and hems. The aisles were narrow and the mostly male passengers looked too appreciative of the young female’s traipsing. Just before Megan boarded the train, her mother had advised, “Find an older woman, a grandmother type, sit by her.”

  Good advice, had there been someone fitting that description on the train. Instead there’d been a sour-faced mother with two screaming children. The open seat available in their section remained empty. The only other woman on the train must have worn all the clothes, unwashed, she owned. Megan might have been able to overcome that and the smell of onions, but the tears flowing down the woman’s face increased even as Megan watched.

  Megan took a seat across from her. She’d been a silent crier. Megan wasn’t. Had she taken the adjoining seat, she’d have joined in the woman’s sorrow. Homesickness and guilt were powerful foes tugging at the heart of a girl leaving home for the first time. Mr. Williams didn’t need to know all that, so Megan said, “I liked the train, except it ruined my gloves.
”

  Bernie raised an eyebrow. “And how did you manage that?”

  “All the soot. My gloves turned black within hours.”

  His gaze dropped to her hands. He had green eyes, like a cat. She wanted a dress of the same color. She felt a powerful attraction to this man. She didn’t know why. All she could figure was, every time she turned around, there he was. It took all her will to keep herself from hiding her hands behind her back. A year ago, had her hands and skin been in such pitiful shape, she’d have hidden inside and combined the soaking of lemon juice and wrapping of certain plant skin for a month.

  She wasn’t interested in him. Could not be interested in him.

  She had the feeling the conversation wasn’t what he wanted, but she didn’t care. “Mr. Williams, I need to clean up. Would you like some more coffee before you go?” Megan pointedly surveyed the area. Around their campground, women were doing the chores they’d put off for too long. Men were repairing harnesses and doing the things men do. Even Mr. Millberg was busy convincing a small group of men to help him backtrack his movements and locate the missing hat. Only Mr. Williams lounged, unoccupied.

  Bethany waved. Megan returned it. No doubt her friend figured the wild Mr. Williams was doing some courting.

  “No thanks.” Mr. Williams set his cup on the plank and stood. He looked like he wanted something more.

  Picking up Louis’s dirty plate, Megan said firmly, “Good-bye, Mr. Williams.”

  So seldom did the grown-ups have time to play, Rawhide indulged Penny Rogers’s request to have an early evening potluck. The women pulled together, each intent on providing a dish superior to the offerings of their nearest neighbor. Granny Willodene made her famous fritters. Megan’s mouth watered. Even Anna Schmitt joined the women, something she hadn’t done since the onset of the journey. She contributed coffee, a staple they all owned, but no one neglected to say a thank-you. Strong bonds were sometimes forged over the feeblest of overtures.

  Butterflies lost their attraction to Jeremiah. Now he and some other boys sat at Rawhide’s feet and learned the fine art of whittling. Rebekkah was a permanent shadow at Megan’s side. The little girl had donned her mother’s apron and pretended to be older. Megan might have been touched at Rebekkah’s aping had it not been for the forlorn expression on her niece’s face.

  They prepared beans with a dash of molasses, a dish cooked often by the Crawford women. Back in Illinois, Megan had failed at culinary attempts. When she’d first accepted Jasper’s proposal, most of the reason had to do with a certainty that they’d always employ a cook.

  Leaving Rebekkah to stir, Megan climbed in the wagon, careful not to disturb Allie. Penny wanted something tatted and lacy. It took Megan only minutes to unearth the tablecloth that had once belonged to her grandmother, also a Megan. She and her husband, Liam, crossed over from Ireland and settled in the beautiful rolling hills of Illinois. Megan’s memories of Granny Meg were few, but most had to do with food. Megan should have paid more attention to Granny Meg and her cooking advice. No matter how often Mr. Williams claimed to enjoy her meals, Megan refused to believe it. Besides, the man had a silver tongue and was more than willing to use it.

  As Megan rejoined the women, she wondered where he’d gone. He hadn’t followed Mr. Millberg’s brigade. She certainly hoped he wasn’t trout fishing. Why, the red-and-white tablecloth might never clear the smell of fish, thanks to Mr. Williams. Also, the pond where they’d done laundry this morning had more mud than the Mississippi. Any fish coming from such waters would taste of it. Of course, if any man could pull a sweet-tasting trout out of—

  Stop thinking about him.

  She handed the tablecloth to Penny. The doctor’s wife had big ideas about how to put on an Oregon Trail potluck, but her sister-in-law knew how to throw a party. In a matter of hours, she was putting together entertainment worthy of a Friday night social. Megan had no clue what role her tablecloth would play; she just hoped to get it back in one piece.

  Then, she heard the shout from the lead wagon. To the west, Indians, on small, painted ponies, rode toward them. One wore Orson’s hat.

  “Rebekkah, Jeremiah, over here. Now!” Megan forced herself to walk slowly toward their wagon so as to not scare the children. Her brother followed her gaze and took up his rifle.

  Her niece and nephew, plus Henry Green, gathered close. Allie poked her head from inside the wagon, where she’d been sleeping. Seeing the Indians, she immediately disappeared inside, leaving Megan to deal with the children, not that they were scared of the Indians, not a bit.

  “What kind of Indians do you think they are?” Henry whispered.

  “Nothing to worry about.” Rawhide rode up beside them. He spit and glanced at Megan, and she wondered if he recognized her unreasonable fear. “Them Indians and their pinto cayuses won’t hurt us.”

  “Miss Megan, there really ain’t nothing to worry about,” Henry said. “Papa says Indians is just people. Be nice to them, and they’ll be nice to us.”

  “It’s true, Megan.” Mr. Williams joined the crowd of people witnessing Megan’s fear. Someday, if she ever had a parlor, she’d reenact this scene, and it would be a comedy.

  “I’m not scared.” Megan forced her hands to still.

  Rawhide kicked his horse and rode ahead. Mr. Williams waited a moment, his eyes studying Megan, and then he followed the wagon master.

  Although she didn’t want to, Megan couldn’t stop watching Rawhide and Mr. Williams deal with the Indians.

  Rebekkah stayed nestled close. “Aunt Megan, what do you think they’re doing?”

  “Probably just bartering for food.” Megan touched Rebekkah’s shoulder, noticing her niece’s white face and fidgeting fingers. Funny, Rebekkah wasn’t a nervous child. Indians had been a blight to the wagon train since Illinois. Never had Rebekkah even blinked. The girl had always stared, fascinated, at the brightly colored clothes and often painted horses.

  It wasn’t the Indians. Maybe her mother’s strange behavior was having some effect. No, the hard routine of the trail kept the children from dwelling on their mother’s strange behavior. They accepted their father’s word and simply thought Allie was sick.

  There was something else. Something different about Rebekkah.

  “What’s bartering?”

  She needed to be there for Rebekkah until Allie got better. Taking a breath, Megan forced her voice not to waver. “Making some sort of trade. They leave us alone, and we give them a cow.”

  “Not our cow!” Rebekkah’s eyes widened, and she looked back at Moo. Named by two young children, Moo didn’t realize that her name caused more chuckles than admiration.

  “Moo’s safe. Don’t worry.” Easier said than done, Megan thought to herself even as she said the words.

  Rebekkah’s hand grasped Megan’s. Tiny fingers worked their way into a clutch. “I won’t worry if you won’t worry.”

  “Sounds like a deal to me,” Mr. Williams returned, silent as ever.

  “I like to worry,” Megan announced. “It gives me something to do.”

  “Then you need something more to do.” It looked like he intended to keep talking, but an already quiet wagon train came to a deeper hush as the Indians rode away.

  Megan watched as most of the women left the shelter of their wagons. Geneva Green marched straight. The sight of Indians hadn’t bothered her a bit.

  “God’s will,” she said about each and every struggle.

  Henry took off to follow his mother, Jeremiah at his side. Rebekkah stayed plastered against Megan, both arms wrapped around her aunt. Both arms.

  “Rebekkah, where’s your doll?”

  Rebekkah didn’t answer. Instead she bowed her head and in a whisper said, “She’s gone.”

  “When did you lose her?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Megan couldn’t believe it. Her niece’s prized possession. The doll had blinking eyes and was the size of a real baby. One arm hung limp, t
hanks to Megan’s early morning mushings, and there was a crack from the top of the doll’s forehead to an ear, thanks to Jeremiah and a short-lived slingshot. But Flossie remained a much-beloved doll, forever in Rebekkah’s arms.

  “Where did you lose her, Honey?” Mr. Williams’s tone was sincere. Megan’s stomach dipped as she looked up at the man. His smirk had disappeared, and instead of looking cocky, he looked concerned.

  Tears ran down Rebekkah’s cheeks. “She’s gone. That’s all. I need to go be with Mama.”

  Silently, Megan and Bernie watched the child climb into the wagon. Louis shrugged and tapped the whip on the back of the oxen. With a clumsy lurch, they continued.

  “When was the last time you saw her with the doll?” Mr. Williams said as Rebekkah disappeared inside the canvas.

  “I’m trying to remember, but that doll is such a part of her, I no longer even notice.”

  “Tell you what, I’ll backtrack some. I’ve got time before this shindig starts. If that doll’s on the path, I’ll find her.”

  Even the flies accommodated Penny Rogers’s gala and must have found someplace better to go. Megan’s molasses beans hadn’t even needed to be covered, thanks to the absence of the winged pests, or maybe the flies had heard about her cooking. The sun set early, and twinkling stars gave an ethereal light to the festivities.

  Megan found an unoccupied corner and leaned back against a wheel. She watched as her brother and his wife did a slow dance around the fire. He’d gotten Allie, wheedled her, actually, from her bed. The man fiddling stopped, and Louis and Allie sat on a log, scooting over to make room for Doc Rogers.

  Rebecca didn’t play with the other children. She moped, going from her mother’s side to Megan’s lap and, finally, to her own secluded corner.

  It was so nice to just sit. Megan’s eyes drooped. Had today really been that much busier than the preceding? Truly, she’d never felt this tired.

  Sleep. She needed sleep, and maybe as fatigued as she felt, there’d be no nightmares.

  “You okay?” Mr. Williams stood over her. His shadow loomed, huge. Was he really that big? Three slow, popping noises sounded in the background. She started to stand.