Where the Heart Is Romance Collection

by Andrea Boeshaar

  “Okay, what does your being a Pinkerton agent have to do with Miss Megan? Do you think someone is trying to kill her?”

  Bernie passed over the Wanted poster. “No, she killed somebody, and I’m trying to prove it. You say she didn’t try to kill herself. Can you prove that?”

  “No, I can’t.” To the doc’s credit, his mouth didn’t drop open as he stared at Megan Crawford’s likeness. “I don’t believe it. Quite frankly, I’m surprised you do. I’d heard you Pinkerton boys were supposed to be intelligent.”

  “What were you two talking about this afternoon?”

  “You’ll have to get that bit of information from the young lady. As her physician, I’m bound not to repeat confidentialities.”

  Most of the time, Bernie felt no qualms about using force to gain information; but this time, on this never-ending Oregon Trail, he felt too close to those involved. Maybe that’s why he felt the attachment to Megan. The proximity. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Surely the law supersedes the binding.”

  “Not a bit. Here’s what I can tell you. Someone relieved me of five doses of laudanum. I’m convinced they somehow managed to drug Megan.” The doc put a steadying hand on Bernie’s shoulder, like a father would a son. “So, while I believe you’re looking for a murderer, and while I believe there is someone on the train willing to take the life of another, I don’t think that person is Megan. I think whoever it is, is quite willing to take Megan’s life.”

  Megan’s life.

  He’d spent this long depending on others to provide the proof that would mean Megan spent a life behind bars. Time to go to the source. He’d not let anyone harm Megan. Given time, maybe he could hire the right lawyer. Megan could pay for her crime. After all, his father, Horace Williams, claimed that to err is human, to forgive divine. Or was that from the Bible?

  It was almost like Bernie could hear his father talking, giving words of comfort on the hated Oregon Trail.

  It was time to get to the truth.

  There was no place for Megan to run. He’d arrest her, proof or not. At least that way if someone was trying to quiet it—maybe the man she’d killed for—then at least Bernie could keep her safe.

  For the first time, Bernie wondered if Megan might be afraid.

  She was in the wagon. He’d spell Louis; that way he’d be alone with Megan and no one would bother them. He managed to take two steps.

  “Mr. Williams?”

  Rebekkah tugged on Bernie’s sleeve. For a moment, Bernie feared that hanging around with Henry had inspired another child who wanted too many questions answered.

  “Mr. Williams, my brother says you can solve secret problems.” This Crawford did cry. Tears started at long lashes and slowly made their way down Rebekkah’s chubby cheeks.

  Chubby cheeks that reminded him of Megan.

  “I solved one problem,” Bernie said gently. “I’ve not had much luck since.”

  “I have,” she hiccupped, which only let the tears flow harder, “a problem.”

  “Can you tell your pa?”

  “No.”

  “Your ma?”

  “No, Jeremiah said to tell you. He wanted me to tell him, but I couldn’t, and he said you were a good solver of secret problems.”

  A secret problem she couldn’t go to a family member with. How many secrets did the Crawfords have? At this point nothing would surprise Bernie. Maybe Rebekkah collected snakes, too. Bernie didn’t dare hope little Rebekkah could tell him about Caroline. For a moment he was tempted to ask. Ronald Benchly would have.

  “What is your problem?” he asked.

  She tugged on his sleeve a little, and he realized that she wanted to whisper in his ear. He’d been riding since early morning. He’d skipped noon meal. His knees were on fire, and he had at least two inches of trail dirt in his throat.

  He wanted a bath; he wanted Megan; and he wanted to head back East. He wasn’t sure of the order. Instead he went down on one knee.

  Rebekkah’s hand was hot and damp as she cupped it behind his ear. “It’s about my doll.”

  “The one you lost or the blue one?”

  “I didn’t lose it.”

  “You didn’t? You know where it is?”

  Rebekkah nodded. “Anna Schmitt has it.”

  He had to stop thinking he couldn’t be surprised. Not in a month of Sundays had he suspected Anna of doll theft. “Why does she have your doll?”

  “I saw her drawing people; and when I asked her to draw me, she got mad because she doesn’t want people to know she can draw.”

  Why would anyone with talent like that be so intent on keeping it a secret? Bernie scratched his chin. “So, she took your doll to keep you quiet?”

  “She said she’d draw Flossie. She said if I didn’t tell, she’d make a beautiful drawing that would last me forever and ever. I’ve waited and waited, but, I don’t think she’s really going to draw Flossie. I’m scared to go ask. She looks at me like she hates me. I want my doll back. Will you go get her for me?”

  Now that wouldn’t be fun. The woman just shot her husband, was grieving in a most particular way, and Rebekkah wanted him to walk over and ask for a doll.

  “I’ll try.”

  Before Bernie had time to hail Louis and volunteer to drive, Rawhide sent one of the Coles back to say they’d found the perfect campground. An hour later, Bernie was eating fish again. Jeremiah caught two, and Henry caught three. The Greens joined them for supper, and Bernie couldn’t find an opportunity to draw Megan aside. She stared at him but avoided him so skillfully that he couldn’t get near her. On the other hand, Rebekkah wouldn’t leave him alone. He’d seen her journal, complete with misspellings and one comical drawing of him. He’d been shown her favorite books, the only two her pa let her bring along. She’d sung for him, and right now he wore a necklace she’d found back at Fort Bridger. It was made of shells, and Rebekkah just knew it had once belonged to an Indian chief.

  Up ahead, in a division so removed from theirs that they hardly knew the travelers, a fiddle started up. It carried on the wind and set Bernie’s foot to tapping. There was a festive feel to the air. Mr. Green fetched his fiddle and clamored in with the same tune.

  Bernie pushed himself up. Megan did dishes. This time she wore her dark green wool. It complimented her eyes.

  “Go for a walk, Miss Megan?”

  She blushed. “I told you to call me Miss Crawford.”

  “I seldom do what I’m told. Now was that a yes or a no?”

  “Go.” Allie took the towel from Megan’s hand.

  “Go.” Louis gave her a gentle push.

  Before she had time to answer, Bernie took her by the elbow and directed her toward an open patch of tall grass blowing in the breeze. Flies buzzed but seemed content to leave the young couple alone.

  He had more questions than time, but he hated to start. The minute he brought up Caroline, she’d change the subject and most likely clam up. Maybe he should use the preacher’s technique: pretend indifference and gain her trust.

  No, he’d wasted too much time already.

  He opened his mouth, desperately trying to decide which question to ask first.

  “I like your necklace,” she said, grinning.

  He didn’t want to ask questions. He wanted to kiss her.

  So, he did.

  Chapter 7

  The Sunday morning sermon on forgiveness couldn’t have come at a better time. Many on the trail outwardly demonstrated the need. Frank Barnes wasn’t speaking to Rawhide. The farmer claimed he’d been doing an unfair share of tasks. Rawhide joked, cajoled, reasoned, and finally spit tobacco on the farmer’s shoe. Tempers were high. The Cole brothers had come to words over whose cow went lame. Pastor Brewster painted stripes on the cow, dividing it into three parts, and offered to slice it up so they all could have their section. The parable worked as well for Pastor Brewster as it had for Solomon. Orson Millberg harangued his wife to such a degree that Pastor Brewster finally pulled the man asi
de.

  Megan thought it was easier to forgive others than it was to forgive oneself. Idabelle Barnes had refused to walk with Megan for two days now since Megan refused to divulge her feelings about Bernie Williams.

  How could Megan divulge when she wasn’t sure herself? After Bernie kissed her, he’d taken off faster than a tornado. Now he avoided her and spent more time with Doc! And never had she thought she was the type to relive a kiss over and over. Mr. Williams hadn’t asked for permission. He hadn’t inquired about her dreams, beliefs, or even about the weather. He overstepped the bounds of good manners, and she wished he’d do it again.

  But right now she sat listening to Pastor Brewster list some steps to take to feel the spirit of forgiveness. Megan mentally started making a list herself.

  Rawhide had laughed over her idea of wanting to return east alone. She should have known better than to go to the man. It might take a few years, but she’d get home. She needed to talk with Caroline’s parents and sister. It might not do any good, but she needed them to know how sorry she was. They might slam the door in her face or they might think she’d exaggerated, like her own father had, but sometimes the truth needed to be known.

  There were other, more immediate things she could do. First of all, she could stop feeling sorry for herself and start giving. The boys on the trail experienced adventures galore, but the little girls were fewer in number and had done boy stuff just to get along. Megan decided to form a girls’ social club. She’d do a little bit of Sunday school teaching and a little bit of school teaching—none of the Green children could read—and do some crafts. Why soon, maybe the whole train would be carrying blue dolls.

  After Pastor Brewster finished preaching, two hymns were sung, and the final prayer was given. Megan then searched out Idabelle Barnes and worked in an apology while asking for help with the girls’ social club.

  Yup, forgiving others worked. Idabelle even had blue yarn.

  Megan looked over at the Schmitts’ wagon. Anna seldom left the seclusion of her own little space. Maybe Megan should invite the woman for supper. Allie had invited both the Schmitts to share a meal back in Nebraska. They’d said no. Others had made overtures to no avail. Anna Schmitt probably needed a friend. Megan took two steps.

  “Miss Megan, my wife says you’ve been looking for me.” Pastor Brewster fell in step beside her.

  Taking a deep breath, Megan said, “I was.”

  “Well, what can I do?”

  Megan clasped her hands together, tightly. “Doc thinks I should talk to you and tell you what’s been bothering me.”

  “I won’t lie. I’ve known something was amiss. Sensed it for a long time. Does it have anything to do with Bernie Williams?” The minister smiled, no doubt believing that everyone deserved the happiness he himself had found.

  “Not directly.” Megan slowed her steps. Her hands started shaking, even in the tight clasp. She’d given Doc only the brief-est of explanations. In some ways, the men on the trail were easier to approach than the men back in Cedar County. She’d have lost her voice if anyone had asked her to talk to the pastor or doctor from her childhood.

  She’d done a poor job of talking to her father. He hadn’t believed her. Today, for the first time since telling her father, she was about to tell the truth about Caroline.

  Her best friend.

  Dead now almost seven months.

  “Go ahead,” Pastor Brewster urged.

  She told herself to talk fast, get it over with, before she had second thoughts and shut right up. Doc said it wasn’t good to carry such guilt inside. Megan began, “Pastor, I promised myself I wouldn’t ever fall in love. I thought I didn’t believe in it. But, I’m really having serious feelings for Mr. Williams. You’re right about that.”

  Brewster nodded.

  “You see, last year at this time I was engaged. He was older, already nearing forty. He purchased the farm next to ours and was quite wealthy. I figured my life would be easy. Looking back, I’m ashamed of how ‘immature’ I was.”

  Brewster didn’t say a word; he only continued nodding.

  Megan took another breath. “About a month before we were to be married, he got real mad at me—I don’t remember why—and grabbed my arm so tight that I had marks left from his fingers. It surprised me. None of the men in my family ever touched a woman in anger, but I thought maybe he hadn’t meant it or that I bruised easy. Then, a few days later, coming home from a Friday night social, he missed a turn. When we tried to go back around, his buggy stuck in the mud. I thought it was funny, so I giggled. Pastor, he slapped me so hard I tasted blood.”

  Brewster still didn’t say a word, but his eyebrows drew together making one line. “Go on.”

  “I gave him back his ring the next day. Two of my brothers went with me. It took a few weeks, but both James and Johnny made sure to remind him to leave me alone. I was frightened. I thought he’d hurt me, but he did something worse.”

  “What?” Pastor Brewster stopped. The train kept going, breaking around them.

  “He started courting my best friend. I told Caroline, Pastor, really I did; but she said I was just jealous because I’d lost him. Jasper made sure they didn’t go to places where he knew I’d be. He told her to avoid me. Within a month, they were married. It happened so quick. I think if there’d been more time, I could have convinced her. We’d been best friends all our lives. She married him, Pastor, and two months later they found her… They found her…”

  Pastor Brewster pulled her toward him, patting her on the back and offering a prayer, the words so softly spoken that she couldn’t make them out.

  Megan wanted to pray, too, but the words kept pouring out. “I should have stopped the wedding. I should have shot that man. I should have been able to convince my father to stop the wedding, but he said I was overreacting and that it was his fault that, as the youngest and only girl, I was so spoilt.”

  “I watch you, Megan. The way you cared for your niece and nephew when Allie was sick. I watched how carefully you treaded on young Henry’s feelings when he laid his child-heart at your feet. The whole train watched that and admired you. You are a good woman, and what that man did was horrible, but it was not your fault. God said in Mark, the seventh chapter, that evil comes from inside. There was no way for you to battle that.”

  “I’m afraid, Pastor Brewster. I’m having feelings for Mr. Williams, but I’m worried that what happened with Jasper Mapes will be such a memory that I’ll never trust a relationship. With the exception of my brothers, I don’t know if I can ever completely trust a man.”

  “You trusted me enough to tell me.”

  “You’re a man of the cloth.”

  “Which doesn’t make me perfect, either. Give Mr. Williams a chance. I think you’ll be surprised.” Pastor Brewster squeezed her hand. “Read Mark, chapter seven. Read it every day as often as possible.”

  Trust, Megan thought, as Pastor Brewster walked away. She’d spent most of her life trusting everyone. One man had reduced her to trusting no one. Could she trust again?

  It took her until the next morning to make her decision.

  Allie and Rebekkah both snored; they claimed Megan did, too, but she knew better. The Greens were still asleep. Megan hurried and dressed. She felt wonderful, free. Carefully, she climbed out of the wagon.

  Jeremiah had grasshoppers in his jar. Megan left them alone.

  Since Mr. Williams seemed so intent on avoiding her, maybe it was time to make her presence known. She hadn’t seen him even once yesterday. He’d missed the Sunday morning sermon and he hadn’t shown up for meals. He’d been scouting the area. The man did sleep; she knew that. And he usually bunked under Dillon Trier’s wagon.

  He wasn’t there, nor was his horse tied behind. He did have a scattering of laundry. She could take that. Why, she’d be the first to reach the riverbank this morning. When she finished, she could hand deliver his clothes and use them as an excuse to find out why he’d kissed her.

 
She bundled up his shirt and pants. Seven brothers had taught her one thing. Clean out the pockets. She wouldn’t look. It felt a little like trespassing to empty a knife, some coins, and a stash of papers. As she sat them down on his blanket, the biggest of the papers unfolded.

  She’d seen Wanted posters before.

  Just not one with her face on it.

  Chapter 8

  Anna Schmitt’s wagon was dirty. All the wagons were dirty, for that matter, but the grim despair that clung to this one was tangible. Bernie found the doll. It was tucked behind a hope chest. He’d had to move some drawings aside. She’d drawn quite a few trains. Bernie recognized two Chicago-based ones. From more recently, there was the serious face of Joshua Rogers as he scribbled a note. Another drawing showed Katie, the Millberg’s Irish maid, as she bent over an open fire. Then there was one of Orson Millberg sitting on top of his horse. As Bernie looked at the one of Geneva Green, he could almost hear the words “God’s will” coming out of her mouth. Anna was gifted, no doubt, and she’d studied somewhere.

  Flossie’s captivity hadn’t been kind. Some kind of brown fungus grew on the doll’s fingers and inside her eyes. Bernie would clean it off before returning it to Rebekkah.

  What a strange woman the Schmitt woman was. Bernie’s father, the preacher, had often been suspicious of artsy folks, but had said to love them anyway.

  Larson and Anna had been mismatched. Gorgeous men seldom married plain women unless there was money involved. Maybe the woman made money as an artist? Why on earth would they be traveling west? The Oregon settlers had little money to spend on art. Was Anna hoping to make drawings and then return east?

  The wagon certainly didn’t look like it belonged to a moneyed couple.

  The early morning sounds of birds and gurgling water and even a few toads croaking in the distance serenaded Bernie as he left the wagon. Anna probably was drawing near Soda Springs. Riverbanks appealed to artists for some reason.

  Bernie wondered whose likeness she’d concentrate on today.