Where the Heart Is Romance Collection

by Andrea Boeshaar

  “I have a few,” Doc admitted.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking someone tried to kill her.”

  “Who’s Caroline?”

  Megan’s mouth tasted of medicine. She stuck her tongue out a few times and tried to rid herself of the bitterness. “Water.”

  Mr. Williams quickly left the wagon and returned with a dipper. She drank thirstily and long. She didn’t ask but expected him to willingly make three trips to refill that dipper. He did. And then he asked, “What happened to Caroline?”

  “Why are you in my wagon?” Megan croaked the words. She had always thought the wagon small with her niece and sister-in-law taking up space. Mr. Williams reduced the wagon to doll size. She tried to swallow, but couldn’t. Even her ears hurt from the effort.

  “Megan!” Allie climbed in, a wet towel over her wrist. After placing it on Megan’s forehead, she said, “Mr. Williams is the one who carried you here after you fainted. He might have saved your life by finding you so quickly. He’s been as worried as the rest of us, what with you being out so long.”

  “How long was I sick?”

  “You’ve been out for four days.”

  Megan sat up so fast that she lost the blanket covering her. Although her nightgown was more than decent, she grabbed the blanket and held it to her. The wet towel landed on Mr. Williams’s boot. Now he had one clean spot. She wanted to ask this man, no, demand of this man that he leave, but she had a feeling he had more answers than Allie.

  “Was it cholera?”

  Bernie shook his head.

  “Brain fever?”

  Allie shook her head.

  “Well, then, what was wrong with me?” Her voice gained strength as anger built. It didn’t make her feel any better, but it sure made her sound in control.

  “Doc doesn’t know.” Mr. Williams took advantage of the situation and straightened the bed coverings.

  Megan wanted to throttle him, but weakness kept her arms at her side, and the drumming of a monster headache made her close her eyes.

  “Maybe we should let her rest,” Allie suggested.

  “Good idea.” Mr. Williams said the words, but his tone disagreed with them.

  Megan heard the gentle swish of her sister-in-law leaving the wagon. When had Allie returned to coherency? Mr. Williams lingered. He smelled of tobacco. No doubt, he’d been riding with Rawhide. She felt his hand on her forehead. It was scratchy but firm, and for some reason, it soothed her even more than the return of the wet towel.

  “Tell me what you were doing right before you fainted.”

  Megan opened her eyes. “I don’t faint, Mr. Williams.”

  “All women faint.”

  He said it so matter-of-factly, like all women fit in some nice neat bundle to be carted around as the male wished.

  “How many women do you know?” she demanded.

  “Bernie.” Doc poked his head through the back of the wagon. “It’s time for Miss Crawford to rest.”

  Allie crawled past the doctor, balancing a bowl of soup.

  Four days, Megan thought as she allowed her sister-in-law to spoon-feed her. She felt hungry, but the food had no smell or taste. Well, there was a bitter taste in Megan’s mouth, but it could not have possibly resulted from Allie’s cooking.

  Mr. Williams lingered. One leg over the edge of the wagon, the other planted firmly inside. He didn’t want to go, Megan realized, oddly pleased with his intrusion.

  Four days passed, and I didn’t even realize it.

  Four days without nightmares.

  “Auntie Megan, I missed you.” It was Rebekkah. Mr. Williams lifted the tiny girl into the wagon. She clutched a pale blue blanket, a baby’s blanket, and blinked back tears.

  “I know,” Allie whispered. “It’s okay. I gave her the blanket. I need to tell my children the truth so they don’t worry.”

  Rebekkah knelt beside Megan and tucked her hand in her aunt’s. “I said a prayer about you. God answered it.”

  Mr. Williams made what sounded like a choking noise.

  Who’s Caroline? he had asked.

  And for some strange reason, Megan wanted to tell him.

  She fell asleep instead.

  Chapter 6

  Baby blanket dolls are just as good as china dolls,” Megan insisted. For the first time since getting off the Chicago-bound locomotive and meeting up with Louis, she’d spent days sitting. She’d rather be walking. Every time the wheels went into a rut, the whole wagon lurched, sending Megan’s stomach into a type of roll not even the wheels could imitate. Walking would have been easier, but Doc said no. Never before had Megan so looked forward to the nooning. Funny, even when the wagon ceased moving and she stepped outside, the motion stayed with her, making her dizzy and more than a little nauseous.

  Rebekkah didn’t notice that her aunt often turned green. Her whole attention focused on the loss of her blanket. She’d trustingly turned it over to Aunt Megan, but now the little girl looked doubtful as she stared at the forming piece of art. “Dolls are not blue.”

  “Who says?”

  “Henry Green says. He saw that you were sewing, and he asked me what you were making, and then he laughed.”

  Megan chuckled. If Henry Green intended to be a farmer, then he should know more about how ugly ducklings can turn into swans. The Oregon Trail appealed to farmers, maybe because they could see the difference from when they left the overcrowded East and traveled to the barrenness of the Big Sandy, where water either was nonexistent or tasted of alkali. They could appreciate the change into this lush green land. The changing of the seasons, Megan compared it to.

  The Bear River Valley followed a healthy stream. There was plenty of clean water, more fish than Megan ever wanted to see again, and the rich soil actually had the farmers sniffing at the air. They edged forward with more energy than they’d had since Fort Laramie. Henry had perked up along with the scenery. He brought Rebekkah flowers every day. Megan might have suspected that he’d taken to reading one of Bethany’s novels, except Henry couldn’t read.

  Where was Henry? He usually nooned with them and then stuck around asking questions and seeing if they had some chore for him to do. He liked feeling useful. Megan glanced around, finally locating the boy following Jeremiah and Mr. Williams.

  Harumph. Maybe Mr. Williams was reading a novel aloud to Henry. That would explain the cluster of dead flowers that Megan kept in the pocket closest to where she slept. Why had he brought her flowers? Outside of his being there every time she turned around, he’d not said one romantic word. She should throw the flowers away. She really should.

  Mr. Williams had been on her mind constantly since she’d awakened. Megan tried to tell herself it was because she’d seen him, first thing, when she opened her eyes. Those flowers would be pressed and kept as soon as she could convince her brother to part with a heavy book. Louis always grumbled when he found plant resin stuck between the pages of a book.

  She’d watched Mr. Williams so often this past week that she knew exactly where he parted his hair—an intriguing discovery, considering how seldom he took off his hat. She knew how his eyes crinkled when he started to smile. Megan even knew that his socks needed darning, but she could thank that finding to Jeremiah.

  As she knotted the thread, Megan allowed herself the luxury of pretending that someday she might darn Mr. Williams’s socks. She’d be sitting on a rocking chair in a warm room. Maybe a baby would be sleeping nearby. On that day, maybe she’d called him Bernie instead of Mr. Williams. A few of the women on the trail called their husbands by their given names. Megan liked the sound of it. And, from what she could see, those husbands and wives had a togetherness she envied.

  Bernie.

  Such a handsome-sounding name. Strong. Dependable.

  Not like Jasper.

  Dare she depend on that?

  Rebekkah touched the top of the blanket. “Mama ‘splained to me about the little baby.”

  The needle
pricked Megan’s finger as she missed the tiny hole in one of Louis’s buttons. She’d been working on the eyes and had been so lost in a Bernie-created fog, she’d almost forgotten Rebekkah’s presence.

  The button fell to the ground, blending with the dirt. Rebekkah retrieved it without a word. Megan swallowed. Just how much explaining can you do to a child? It was easier to concentrate on the shirt. Louis had brought two good blue cambrics. Now both of them were missing the bottom button, but Louis was too happy about his wife’s improved state of health to care. Megan almost believed that, had Allie requested a sudden return to Illinois, Louis would say yes without blinking an eye.

  Return to Illinois?

  Was that the answer?

  No, not at the moment. She had Rebekkah leaning against her knee. “So,” Megan asked gently, “you understand why your mama was so sick?”

  “Yes, she went to bed for a long time because she was so sad about losing our baby brother.”

  Megan had no clue as to the gender of the child. What should she say? These weren’t her children. They’d sure felt like it, though, since Nebraska. Gathering her niece close, Megan said, “Everything’s all right now. You don’t need to worry.”

  “Yes,” Rebekkah agreed. “Mama’s good. You’re good. Everyone’s good, except…” Her eyes dropped to the strange-looking doll taking shape in Megan’s hands.

  “Honey, you’ll like this doll. Give it a chance.”

  Rebekkah nodded, although she still didn’t look convinced. Behind their wagon, Allie finished the noon dishes. Rebekkah scampered over to help. She’d timed it well; Allie finished the last plate as her daughter joined her. A mother’s touch had given the girl back her vitality, but the loss of the doll still kept her from complete happiness. That was no surprise. Grandpa Crawford had given her the doll last Christmas. He’d told her to keep it always and remember he loved her.

  What he hadn’t said was that they’d probably never see each other again. Although a good many of the Oregon-bound did return east, Louis had stars in his eyes about the future, and Louis had made true every one of his dreams so far. In a family where the sons had roots so deep they reached China, Louis, alone, was a creeping vine.

  Oh, they’d probably return someday for a visit, Megan acknowledged, but would her father still be alive? She was the youngest of eight, born of her mother’s old age. At least that’s what her mother had always claimed. Her father was twenty years past that, he’d often joked.

  I was wrong to run away, Megan suddenly realized. I can never live up to a new wineskin until I get rid of the old wine.

  Megan started to stand, intent on finding Rawhide and seeing about the likelihood of a lone female finding passage back East. If she returned, would Mr. Williams even notice? Instead, she sat back down as Doc Rogers straddled Rebekkah’s recently vacated stump.

  “May I join you?” Doc sat before she could answer, which meant a no was out of the question, besides being rude. He eyed the doll with some suspicion.

  Why did everyone look at her as if she was doing something sneaky? First Mr. Williams and now Doc.

  “I’m making Rebekkah a blue doll,” Megan said, as if she needed to explain. Actually, crocheted dolls weren’t all that uncommon, especially out West. And having a blue doll just meant it was special.

  “I can see that.” Doc looked a little nervous.

  Megan felt nervous. During the four days she’d been unconscious, she’d obviously mentioned Caroline. Enough to pique Mr. Williams’s interest. What all had she said in front of Doc Rogers? She put the doll down, better not to have a needle if he started asking about Caroline.

  “Is there something you’d like to tell me?” Doc urged softly.

  Megan squirmed.

  “As your physician, I’m only asking so I can be of help. If you’re not comfortable talking with me, Bethany would be more than willing to listen.”

  Tell Bethany? No, impossible. If anything, Bethany favored Caroline. Both women were gentle souls intent on happiness. Bethany chose well with this doctor husband of hers. Caroline had made the greatest mistake of her young life, accepting Jasper Mapes’s proposal.

  “Okay, I’ll be blunt,” Doc said. “Did you enter my wagon during the potluck back at Fort Bridger?”

  “What?” The doll slipped from Megan’s lap and fell on the grass.

  “There are at least five doses of laudanum missing. I need to know: Did you try to take your own life?”

  Bernie figured it was past time to find out what Megan discussed with the doc. They’d sat, the two of them, until the train started. And then, even though Doc told her she had to ride, they walked together for more than an hour. Bernie’d have missed their rendezvous had he not returned to the wagon train to spell his horse. Samson picked up a stone. Even after Bernie had taken his knife and sent the stone flying, Samson favored the hoof. Time to let the horse walk without a burden. Bernie returned to the train in time to gain an insatiable curiosity. For a woman who claimed she didn’t faint, she’d certainly been white after her conversation with the doc.

  Should he go to Megan? And do what? Ask what? His job centered around asking questions. He should be the one asking questions! Why wasn’t he asking questions?

  “Mr. Williams, do you know how to make moccasins?” Henry was of a different breed than Jeremiah. Since giving Bernie permission to court Megan, Henry had decided to keep Bernie in sight at all times. Now Bernie had two boys traipsing at his heels.

  Henry asked more questions than a lawyer—make that more questions than two lawyers. “What kind of tree is that?”

  Did it escape the child’s notice that Bernie seldom bothered to answer?

  “What’s laudanum?”

  Now Henry had Bernie’s attention. “Where did you hear that word?”

  “From Doc Rogers.”

  “He told you about laudanum?”

  “No, he was looking for his laudanum. I saw him out searching in the box attached to his wagon. I asked him what he was looking for and that’s what he said. I told him I would help him find it if he just told me what it was. He told me he was too busy to explain and to come back later. What’s laudanum?”

  Bernie figured the boy deserved something—a prize of some sort for giving him the first new piece of information he’d had in days. “It’s a type of medicine.”

  “What does it do?”

  “It makes you feel better.” Bernie slowed his steps so that they matched Henry’s. “Why don’t you go find me some more flowers for Miss Megan. I still need the help.”

  Henry nodded. “I can find the best flowers.”

  There goes a future Pinkerton agent, Bernie thought. He’s asking the right questions of the right person and showing me up.

  Doc Rogers sat beside his wife on the buckboard as their oxen grunted toward Soda Springs. He held a basket in his lap and sorted what looked to be different types of leaves.

  “Got a minute?” Bernie could tell by the intense look on the doctor’s face that something bothered the man.

  “You feeling okay?” Doc asked.

  “Yes.”

  It took Doc a minute to figure out that Bernie wasn’t in the mood to have a discussion in front of Bethany.

  “Okay,” the doctor said, setting the basket down.

  There were too many people around. Never before had Bernie noticed how loud came the sound of men shouting orders at their animals; women shouting advice at their children; and the Green youngsters shouting just for the fun of it. A normal day for everyone else. Pinkerton agents seldom knew normal days. They knew about criminals, and theft, and deceit.

  They knew better than to become personally involved with a woman whose face graced a Wanted poster.

  The people in the surrounding wagons would be more than surprised to find out they had a murderer in their midst.

  Many would not believe it.

  For the first time, Bernie had trouble believing in the guilt of his quarry. His gut told him Megan was
innocent.

  A Wanted poster said otherwise.

  Oxen pounded the dirt and somewhere in the distance birds screeched loud enough to drown out Bernie’s thoughts. He wished he could enjoy the day like everyone else.

  The Oregon Trail stole his father; it would steal Megan from him, too. When the trail ended for the pioneers, it would end for him and Megan in a much different way. Maybe, after he turned her in, he would become a rancher, all alone, somewhere near the Willamette Valley.

  Alone, where no one could disappoint him.

  Or he, them.

  “You want to talk, or we just gonna walk in silence?”

  The sounds Bernie’d been focusing on suddenly weren’t as loud or as important. Doc had a concerned look on his face. “You sure you’re feeling all right?”

  “Yes, it’s not me I’m worried about. I need you to tell me what’s going on with Megan Crawford and why you’re looking for laudanum.”

  “Preacher said he thought you were interested in Miss Megan,” Doc said with a grin. “How much you been talking to her? What kind of help do you need?”

  “I’m not here because I’m spooning with her.”

  “Oh. Then, just what are you here for?”

  “What’s wrong with Megan? Did she try to kill herself?”

  The grin disappeared from Doc’s face. Gone was the boyish expression that at first made Bernie think the Doc looked too young to be a man of medicine.

  “I’m not just being nosy,” Bernie said. “You said you thought someone was trying to kill her. Now I hear you’re looking for laudanum. I want to know what’s going on.”

  “Megan is not suicidal, if that’s what has you worried.”

  Bernie’s relief was so intent, that he audibly let out a sigh of relief.

  Doc stopped. He waited as long seconds ticked by. “You want to tell me, since you’re not courting, why you think Megan Crawford is any of your business?”

  Reaching in his back pocket, Bernie took out the papers that identified him as a Pinkerton agent. He handed them to the doc and then waited while the man read the words.