Where the Heart Is Romance Collection

by Andrea Boeshaar

  “Megan,” he said again. Why was he talking so slow? And he didn’t look like he was backing away, so why did he sound so distant?

  “I towld yooou. Call me Missss. Cawft.”

  The last thing Megan heard before the black velvet of unconsciousness completely enveloped her was Orson Millberg’s voice as he bellowed, “Who shot my horse?”

  Chapter 5

  Rawhide, the wagon master, galloped up to where Bernie rode point. The captain didn’t look harried, given the events of the last two days. This was his fifth trek—his second time with their trail guide—across the Oregon Trail and nothing seemed to surprise him, especially about people. Bernie figured that Rawhide had almost enjoyed listening to Orson Millberg demand justice. The ex-banker was now shy one hat and one horse. He, alone, had been victim to the Shoshone visitors. They were responsible for the loss of his hat. Bernie knew they’d been lucky not to lose more to the Indians. Wars had been started over less than the theft of good headgear.

  The Tennessee Walker had been a fine—no, a great horse until Orson subjected him to the trail. Walkers were known for their temperament. They were not meant for the Oregon Trail. Orson thought more of how a horse looked than how a horse worked.

  Bernie’s own horse was a five-year-old Appaloosa. He’d have gone after it himself had the Shoshones made off with it. Most of the men felt the same way about their horses, although the wisdom behind that way of thinking was debatable. After all, the Shoshones hadn’t made off with Orson’s horse. Anna Schmitt had shot it.

  Terrified by the shadows playing outside her wagon, victimized by a husband who did little or nothing to make her feel safe, Anna had heard strange noises. Bernie hadn’t realized that Anna apparently feared Indians as much as Megan. And since Anna didn’t have the type of husband who might investigate a curious noise, she took his gun and started shooting.

  Some in their company thought the loss of Orson’s horse far outweighed the loss of Larson Schmitt. No one even mentioned how Anna shot a hole in Granny Willodene’s water barrel. That Anna had shot her own husband was news enough.

  Bernie’d shot more than one man, but never anyone he loved. He figured Pastor Brewster had his work cut out for him, but Anna refused to talk to the man of God. Bernie, Dillon, and Pastor Brewster dug the grave late at night, hoping to spare Larson’s wife the sight of the freshly turned dirt. There were three neighboring graves: two children and one unidentified. Granny Willodene said it was a shame to get this close for nothing.

  The next morning, as Pastor Brewster gave the eulogy, Anna had stared straight ahead. Some of the women tried to comfort her, but Anna Schmitt would have none of it. After the final amen, she headed for her wagon, hitched it herself, and then stood, lips pressed together in irritation, and waited for Rawhide’s shout to begin.

  As for Anna, she trekked on. Larson’s death hadn’t changed her world one bit, outwardly. Bernie hadn’t noticed any tears, nor had she commented when Rawhide mentioned that more people had died on the trail from gunshot wounds than they had from sickness or Indians.

  Pastor Brewster had plenty of sheep to care for. He devoted plenty of time to both Anna and Megan. The dog must be getting downright dizzy what with his master’s goings back and forth. Neither woman acknowledged the man’s efforts. Anna muttered to herself, and Megan slept.

  With the curious events, the company felt vulnerable, and guards had been doubled. Bernie doubted he’d spend much time spelling weary drivers. Rawhide, without realizing it, had given Bernie duties reserved for second in command, mainly riding far front to see what might be coming their way. Just when he wanted to be near Megan the most, he’d be farthest away.

  Some Pinkerton agents felt free to divulge their identity to a limited number of bystanders. Bernie’d always played his cards close to the hip. There were plenty of personal questions he wanted to ask the captain about Megan. Instead, he simply said, “She still asleep?”

  Rawhide nodded. “Three days. Doc’s going wagon to wagon and trying to figure if it might have been something she ate.”

  “That’s a good thought, but if it had been food, there’d be more people complaining. And food sickness doesn’t make you sleep.”

  Rawhide made a face; clearly he’d eaten his share of spoiled vittles, too. “Doc says the same thing, but he’s wondering if she’s allergic to anything.”

  “Her sister-in-law slept quite a bit. Could there be a connection?”

  Rawhide shook his head. “Doc says no. Sounded pretty sure.”

  Bernie couldn’t remember being so scared in his life. Once, he’d taken a bullet to his leg, thought he’d lose it. Off hand he couldn’t name any one-legged Pinkerton agents. He’d once crossed a river, only to lose his horse, his possessions, and for a moment, he thought he’d be pulled under, too, in a current stronger than it looked. He’d met Indians who wouldn’t think twice about putting an arrow in his back. But he’d never been as scared as when he watched Megan Crawford slink to the ground in an unnatural sleep.

  It hadn’t been a faint. Bernie’s mother had fainted often, but then she wore a corset so tight that breathing was a luxury. Thank goodness the women on the trail, save Lavinia, traded their sense of style for common sense. No, when Megan Crawford fell at his feet, he’d thought for sure she’d died.

  It had only taken him a moment to react. He’d scooped her up and ran toward the doc’s wagon without even hearing the shouts of concerned neighbors.

  She’d weighed less than his saddle. And smelled much better.

  “Orson thinks it was the Indians.” Rawhide urged his horse up the steep hill they were climbing.

  “Orson thinks when he gets to Oregon, he’ll find pigs already cooked with forks and knives in them.”

  Rawhide nodded. “There was a full moon last night. Nothing good happens under a full moon.”

  Bernie doubted the full moon did anything but help the travelers see better. It had certainly aided him, when just minutes before finding Megan, he’d searched their wagon. He’d not found one shred of evidence linking Megan to the death of Unknown Female, case 41.

  He’d not found any snakes, either. Jeremiah would be pleased, if Bernie remembered to tell him.

  The Crawfords were a thrifty bunch. The five members shared one trunk. Although advised to take three dresses, the women had two. No wonder Megan was so devoted to laundry. Most of the wagon’s space was taken up by Louis’s trade stock. The man not only sold books but did taxidermy on the side. A good second occupation. There were limited cooking utensils, and they hung outside. Someone had sewn pockets onto the sides of the canvas. Bernie’s exploring proved that most of the pockets were filled with a belonging that could be traced to Louis. Obviously the man figured to make enough money to purchase the niceties of a home that women find so appealing.

  Very little belonged to Megan, besides her clothes. She didn’t keep a journal, at least not one he’d found. He’d never observed her writing in one, either. Even needlework, a mainstay of the trail women, belonged to Allie instead of Megan. It was as if Megan decided on the spur of the moment to head for Oregon.

  Which made sense if she’d decided to commit murder.

  Had she known she would murder the woman when she left Illinois?

  Or, somewhere in Chicago, did the belongings of Megan Crawford wait for discovery? No, she’d always known she was meeting Louis in Chicago to head west. Or had that been a ploy as well? Maybe she had told friends and family she would be meeting Louis, but she really planned on meeting someone else.

  Wait! Were her belongings in somebody else’s wagon? Maybe the man who inspired her to commit murder? Bernie let out a low whistle. Their train was miles long. He’d set his sights on this one division. The accomplice, if there was one, might be in a division so far ahead that it would take weeks to even pinpoint a likely suspect.

  Touching his hat in farewell, he nudged Samson back toward the Crawfords’ wagon. His attendance at their mealtime was now a given.
He had secured a role as trusted friend. It almost shamed him that his actual goal, the reason he sat by their fire every evening, was to make sure an unconscious girl didn’t escape.

  At least he kept telling himself that was his main goal.

  The train couldn’t wait for Megan’s recovery and, as if prodded into action by an unseen finger, Allie Crawford took back her role as caretaker of the Crawford family. How Louis stayed sane was a mystery to Bernie. He’d endured one hardship after another since leaving Nebraska.

  “God’s will,” Mrs. Green said. Louis nodded and sold Mrs. Green a new Bible.

  Bernie didn’t think God could be blamed for all the calamities. He figured man had some hand in the goings-on of the Crawford family.

  Doc said Megan’d either wake up or fade no matter if they stayed still or moved. Ahead, sections of the train scattered. Some pointed their wagons in the direction of Salt Lake City, but more than half headed northwest toward Muddy Creek.

  Rawhide claimed that up ahead lay better water, better game, and better passage. With Megan unable to function, Allie Crawford picked a sensible time to slowly start her journey back into normalcy. She nodded as he walked toward her.

  Bernie had to give his mother due; she’d always claimed there was a bright side to every situation. Far as Bernie could tell, the positive side to Megan’s ailing was her sister-in-law’s return to reality. She’d probably been a fine-looking woman at one time. Maybe she still was. A good bath and some sun might be beneficial. Her husband didn’t seem to notice the circles under her eyes, how peaked she looked, or how often she paused to rest; he was just happy to have his wife back. Chewing on the noon meal of bread and bacon, Bernie had to agree with Jeremiah’s earlier declaration—“When Aunt Megan remarked that she wasn’t a cook… she wasn’t joking.”

  Jeremiah took seconds for the first time, Bernie noticed. Louis did, too. Only Rebekkah seemed fretful at the change. The little girl stayed close to the wagon, checking often on her aunt Megan.

  Bernie managed to snag the last piece of bacon just as Doc and the preacher walked up. They had a few more moments before their division started again. Doc, medicine bag clutched tightly in one hand, climbed into the back of the wagon; Allie went with him. Rebekkah started cleaning the plates while Jeremiah helped his pa with the animals.

  The preacher had a look on his face that Bernie’d seen before. Fishermen often got it when there came a faint tug on their line. Women got it when the right man reached for their hand. If possible, Bernie might claim later that the dog even looked expectant. Pastor Brewster took a biscuit and sighed. “I am indeed glad that Mrs. Crawford’s feeling better. I sorely missed her fresh bread.”

  “She’s a fine cook,” Bernie agreed.

  “I notice you’ve been taking your meals here quite often. Since it’s not on account of Miss Crawford’s cooking, I’m assuming you’ve got other interests—say, courting—on your mind?”

  Bernie almost choked. He supposed to the casual observer, it did look like courting. And, although he hated to admit it, it did sometimes feel as such. “I’m not in a position to take on a wife.”

  “I doubt if any man feels ready for that responsibility. I certainly didn’t. Yet, I know true happiness now. The good Lord knew in the beginning, back in Genesis, when he said: ‘It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him an help meet for him.’ Are you sure you don’t need some counseling? Miss Megan walks with Jesus. I cannot imagine her feeling comfortable with your lack of commitment.”

  “You’re overstepping the bounds of friendship.” Weaker men had stepped back from Bernie when he used that tone of voice.

  Brewster didn’t even flinch. “I think I’d feel more like I was intruding if I hadn’t seen you riding over here just awhile ago.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Well,” Pastor Brewster said, finishing up the last bite of biscuit, “I know what a man looks like when he’s praying.”

  “I—”

  “You were praying, Mr. Williams.”

  “I—”

  “As it says in James: ‘And the prayer—’”

  “‘—of faith shall save the sick.’ Chapter five, verse fifteen.”

  Pastor Brewster’s eyes lit up. “You do know your Bible.”

  “My pa was a preacher.” It had been more than ten years since Bernie’d said those words. They felt dry, like what you’d get from an empty well. And although he’d stopped going to church, Bernie had never stopped praying. Must be habit, this talking to God. Sometimes, Bernie had the feeling God listened. Oh, yes, Bernie did think God listened. Bernie just didn’t believe that God often answered.

  “Williams?” The inquisition look left Pastor Brewster’s eyes and speculation took its place. “A common enough name. Your father wasn’t by chance Horace Williams?”

  It was the Oregon Trail. It had taken his father far from home, never to return. A simple plea from the Methodist Christian Advocate. They weren’t even Methodist! Horace Williams hadn’t read the Christian Advocate before. How it found its way into his hands, Bernie and his mother never knew. But Horace felt the calling and answered it. He went to convert the Indians. Gertrude Williams didn’t know how or why or even when he died. After four years of waiting for her husband’s return, she’d given his clothes to a needy family. She packed their few belongings, for preachers were rich in salvation but poor in investments, and moved Bernie and herself into her father’s home.

  Bernie’s maternal grandfather hadn’t approved of the marriage between his daughter and a lowly circuit rider. Grandpa attended a hell-and-brimstone kind of church, while Bernie’s father had preached more about love. A once-happy home became an empty home. Bernie’s mother died, maybe of a broken heart, and Bernie ran away when he was fifteen.

  Bernie blamed the Oregon Trail for taking his father; he blamed God for taking his mother.

  No one had mentioned Horace’s name in years. “He was my father; and if you don’t mind, I’ll be checking on Miss Crawford now.”

  The preacher had a look of awe on his face. Bernie knew had he stuck around, Pastor Brewster would have waxed poetic on some of Horace Williams’s published sermons, or perhaps Brewster had even heard him speak. Horace Williams had been a circuit preacher with a vast area he claimed his own.

  Allie was crawling out of the wagon as Bernie started up.

  “She’s looking better,” the woman whispered.

  Before Bernie could hoist himself in the wagon, Henry Green tugged on his shirt. Not in all his days as a Pinkerton agent had Bernie had so many obstacles present themselves in the form of do-gooders. Megan seemed surrounded by champions. The preacher had interfered more than once and now this boy. With his left hand, Henry clutched Bernie’s shirt. He held something behind his back with the other.

  Bernie forced himself to count to ten. He knew the Green boy had a crush on Megan. He also knew the Green boy asked more questions than the pastor. Right now, Bernie just didn’t have the time. “What can I do for you, Henry?”

  Henry took a bunch of wildflowers from behind his back and thrust them at Bernie. “Do you know what kind of flowers these are, Mr. Williams?”

  “No.”

  “Me, either, and you don’t appear to be having much luck. My pa says flowers always work. I thought I’d help you out.” Henry kicked at the dirt. “Jeremiah says Megan’s sweet on you an’ I might as well give up.”

  “Thank you.” Bernie took the flowers. He didn’t know how he’d explain the flowers. Maybe he should just give them to Doc Rogers.

  “I think I’ll be sweet on Miss Rebekkah now anyway,” Henry admitted. “She likes candy. I can tell. She also knows all the names of the presidents. Maybe if you asked Miss Megan—”

  Before the boy could offer any more advice or ask any more questions, Bernie swung himself into the wagon. Doc Rogers had somehow managed to get cross-legged in the small space left in the Crawford’s wagon. Words seemed to fly o
ff his pen as he scribbled notes in a thick journal.

  “Them flowers for me?” Doc said without looking up.

  “Would you believe it if I said yes?”

  “No.”

  Bernie hunkered down beside the doctor, wishing the prairie schooner came in a bigger size. Trying to read the man’s chicken scratch was a study in futility. Bernie gave up. “You got any ideas, Doc?”

  “Yes, and none of them are good.”

  “Want to run them by me?” Bernie offered.

  Doc still didn’t raise his head. “Very few ranchers I know have any medical knowledge unless it has to do with their horses. You an exception?”

  “No.”

  “No one else is sick. There’s not even a high fever nearby. If I were Pastor Brewster fixing a sermon, I’d call that a miracle.”

  “Is she going to make it?” Bernie’s words were in a whisper—why, he couldn’t say. There was no reason not to voice the question normally. Yet the choking, hard-to-swallow, dry-well sensation had returned.

  “I think so. She’s young, she’s strong, and she’s made it this far.”

  She barely made a bump under the covers. Sweat beaded just under her hairline. A white nightgown, which had seen better days, bunched up by her neck. If the doc had turned away or closed his eyes, maybe Bernie might have straightened out the bedclothes. Megan deserved to be more comfortable. Suddenly the wildflowers made perfect sense. Bernie lay them on her pillow. No, that didn’t work. Made him think of death.

  “Stick them in one of the pockets,” Doc suggested.

  The closest, accessible one required Bernie to lean over Megan. He balanced his hand on her pillow, too close. He could feel the heat from her body. A few wisps of hair fanned across his hand. Come to think of it, he’d never seen her without her bonnet before. He’d known she had golden brown hair, but he’d not guessed the length of it.

  Three days without even a sponge bath and she still rated as the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. “So you have some ideas?” Bernie urged. He needed to leave the closed space, get away from her, clear his head.