Where the Heart Is Romance Collection

by Andrea Boeshaar

  “Martha Buckley. She’s about twelve or thirteen, and she’s traveling with her family in one of the other wagons. I heard her pa say they needed the money, so he hired her out to the Millbergs.”

  Penny felt a little sorry for the girl.

  Dillon chuckled softly. “But I sure wish I had your tenacity.”

  “Oh, nonsense. You have it and more. You’re so brave and courageous. I’ve watched you all the months we’ve been on this trail and I’ve seen your daring in action. Why, I have no doubt you could stand up to Orson Millberg or anyone else.” Penny sighed. “And yet I do understand your precarious situation.”

  He gave her a rueful-looking grin.

  “However,” she said with a coquettish look, “a certain lady can’t wait forever.”

  She watched Dillon’s face fall with disappointment, and she smiled.

  “But I’m sure she can wait until we reach Oregon!”

  His head snapped up, and Dillon narrowed his gaze. “Miss Penny, I believe you’re something of an imp.”

  “I believe you’re right, although Papa and Josh have another name for it.”

  Dillon laughed, and Penny thought it was a nice, rich, healthy sound. She wished he would laugh more often. But at that very moment, she saw Mr. Millberg’s calculating gaze settle on them.

  Stepping back, she whispered, “You’d better go now. The very troll we’re speaking about is watching us.”

  Dillon hesitated before slapping his leather hat against his knee in obvious frustration. “Thanks again for supper.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Penny pivoted and carried the plates to the wash bucket. Once safely out of Mr. Millberg’s sight, she watched Dillon’s retreating form. The poor man… he just needed some encouragement. How dreadful to be enslaved by the fear of one’s employer. And yet, Penny understood Dillon’s apprehension to some degree. She had dreaded Mrs. Throckmorton’s disappointment and wrath at school.

  “Lord, God,” she began to pray, “I ask You to give Dillon wisdom in his dealings with the Millbergs, and I ask You to somehow soften their hearts of granite.” She exhaled a weary breath. “I also ask that You temper my impatience. In a roundabout way, I told Dillon I’d wait until he was in a position to court me; and now Oregon seems farther away than ever!”

  After a lively game of cribbage, Dillon meandered back to his respective campsite. He shook his head, thinking of John and his cousin, Paul. Their wisecracks reminded Dillon of his brothers back home in Missouri, and suddenly a cloud of homesickness enveloped him like fog.

  Lord, what if I made a wrong decision in coming out West?

  He passed Doc Rogers’s wagon and came upon Penny’s—

  “Dillon.”

  He paused. Was he hearing things? Like a whisper upon the wind, he just imagined he heard Penny calling his name. It sounded nice coming from her lips, too.

  “Dillon!”

  He whirled around, realizing it wasn’t his mind playing tricks on him after all. Penny’s blond head stuck out of the back of her covered wagon and, with a white nightdress-encased arm, she beckoned him to come closer.

  “What are you doing awake at this time of night?” he asked, stepping toward her.

  “Shh,” she warned. “Papa’s asleep in his tent right over there.”

  He looked at her askance. “You should be sleeping, too.”

  “I know, but I was waiting for you. Here,” she said, thrusting a folded piece of parchment at him, “take this. It’s a letter I wrote to you.”

  He accepted it, but narrowed his gaze suspiciously all the same. “What kind of letter?”

  “Well,” she whispered, “I realized that there are so many things I want to tell you about my family and me, but I can’t because of that old troll Mr. Millberg and his ridiculous rules.”

  With a smirk, Dillon glanced at the paper in his hand.

  “So, I decided I’d write down all the things I wanted to say. And I thought you could write back to me. That’s how my brother and Bethany first got to know each other. Here…”

  Dillon took the ink and pen she handed him. Next came a journal.

  “I had planned to write my memoirs on this trip,” she said in a hushed tone, “but I haven’t even filled up my first diary yet… and I brought along three.”

  Dillon mulled over the idea she proposed.

  “Of course, I might be acting much too forward. If that’s the case—”

  “No, no… that’s not it.” He looked up at her, meeting her gaze. “I’m just not much of a writer, Miss Penny.”

  “Oh…”

  Her obvious regret tugged on his heartstrings.

  “But, for you, I’ll give it my best shot,” he quickly amended.

  He saw her smile in the shadows and felt glad he could please her in this small way.

  “I’m not saying my penmanship is the best, mind you.”

  “I understand. Good night, Dillon.”

  “G’night.”

  With that she vanished into the wagon, and Dillon found himself feeling mildly disappointed. Turning, he made the rest of the trek to his tent and bedroll, which were situated beside the piano-laden wagon he drove by day. Then, lying prostrate near the canvas flap, he carefully unfolded Penny’s letter.

  Beneath the light of the moonbeams, he read—

  Dear Dillon,

  I must say that I am intrigued by your given name. It is one I have never heard before. My given name is after my father’s favorite aunt—Penelope Rogers. While I am honored to bear her name, I do not intend to follow her example in life as she was a spinster….

  Dillon grinned, thinking this letter-writing business might prove downright entertaining.

  He quickly read through the rest. Penny wrote of her salvation testimony, then about her deceased mother, whom she still missed. She went on to describe how she was sent to boarding school, where she met her best friend, who wound up marrying her brother. She had no other siblings, but she hoped to have nieces and nephews soon! She ended the letter with Truly Yours, Penelope Anne Rogers.

  Dillon rolled onto his back and gazed up into the darkness of his tent. I wish you were truly mine, Penny Rogers, he thought. Moments later, he realized he’d have to do more than wish in order to make that a reality. Just like his dream of owning a ranch and livestock. It had become apparent to him last year that he’d never attain his goal by staying in Missouri and keeping it a mere wistful longing. That’s why he was headed to Oregon.

  Tell her that! his heart seemed to say.

  Rolling onto his belly again, Dillon opened the ink bottle and journal, figuring that would be a good place to begin. He dipped his pen and wrote: Dear Miss Penny.…

  Chapter 4

  Gracious me, Papa! How could you ever think such a thing? Mr. Rawhide? Never!”

  Beside her as the wagon bumped along on the trail, Penny’s father chuckled. “All right, now you guessed every man in this wagon train except the one I’m sweet on.”

  “Dillon Trier.”

  Penny sighed. “Finally!”

  Again, her father laughed. “I knew that all along, Penny-lo. I would have to be blind not to notice.”

  “I was beginning to wonder,” she quipped. She studied Papa’s profile, his straight nose, the laugh lines around his intelligent eyes. “So? What do you think?”

  “I think Mr. Trier is a fine Christian man.”

  “Good.”

  “But I don’t know much about him.”

  “Neither do I. That’s why we started writing to each other. Look, Papa,” Penny said, pulling a thick letter from the apron pocket of her calico dress. “Here’s my first one. Dillon gave it to me this morning. Shall I read it aloud?”

  “Dillon, is it?”

  Embarrassed, Penny just shrugged.

  “Whose idea was it to correspond by letter writing?”

  “Um… well…”

  “Yes, I thought so. Now, Penny, see here…”

  “Papa, please h
old your reprimand until I explain.”

  He let out a huff, but acquiesced.

  “Dillon would like to court me—he said so. But Mr. Millberg told him that there would be no payment if he didn’t give his every attention to driving that sorry old piano to Oregon. So Dillon asked if he could wait until we reached Willamette Valley, where he can court me properly. I said yes, but in the meantime I thought we could write to each other.” She looped her arm around her father’s. “So you see, Papa, if I’m too bold, it’s all Mr. Millberg’s fault.”

  “Now, Penny, don’t try to work your feminine wiles on me.”

  She withdrew her arm, feeling properly chastened.

  “What’s done is done,” Papa said. “But I think Mr. Trier would have done himself a favor and spoken to me before approaching my daughter.”

  “I’m sure he plans to when the time is right.”

  “Humph. We’ll see, won’t we? But for now, why don’t you read Mr. Trier’s letter, and let’s discover if he can impress me.”

  “All right,” she replied, unfolding the epistle. “Just don’t expect him to be another William Shakespeare.”

  “Indeed I won’t.”

  “Dear Miss Penny,” she began, “ever since I was sixteen, I have wanted my own land and a home to call mine. Since I’m the fourth son in a family of six boys and three girls, I knew I would not inherit my father’s farm. My pa was aware of my hankering and taught me everything he knew about livestock and running the place.

  “Each year I drove the cattle to market along with my brothers, but it was me who got the best prices. My pa likened me to the servant in Matthew 25 who was given five talents and doubled his master’s money. I do not mean to brag. I only mean to write the truth. When I left for Oregon, my pa bawled like a new calf, which is not in his nature to do. But he sent me away with his blessing. So here I am on my way to Oregon.”

  Penny nudged her father. “Isn’t that sweet, Papa? Dillon was so close to his father that the older man wept when his son left.”

  “Spare me your editorials, my dear. Read on.”

  “Yes, Papa.” After a moment’s gaze heavenward, she continued, “My mother is a good Christian woman. She taught me and my brothers and sisters about Jesus since the time we were knee-high to a milk stool.” Penny giggled at the phraseology. A quick glance at Papa told her he shared her amusement.

  “You asked about my given name,” she read on, “so I will tell you how it came about. Ma named all us boys after upstanding members of both sides of the family, using their surnames. First comes Morgan, then Kanter, then Roth, then me, then Hawley, and last is Woodrow. Ma said she would have used first names, but some of them were the same. My sisters have less unusual names. Rebecca, Elizabeth, and Catherine.

  “This is probably more than you wanted to know, so I will close. Fondly, Dillon Matthew Trier.” Penny paused before reading the postscript. “P.S.—I reckon I had best speak to your pa if this is going to continue.”

  Penny sighed dreamily as she set the letter in her lap. “Isn’t he wonderful?”

  “How’s his spelling?”

  “Not too bad.”

  “Hmm…”

  “Papa! I would have expected a better response from you.”

  “Well, now, Penny, I see you as… well, as these blue wildflowers dotting the meadow through which we’re presently traversing. I can’t imagine that you’ll enjoy being plucked and put into a tin vase in some cabin on a ranch. You’ll wither and die. Rather, I foresee you in Oregon City, blossoming at the university I hope to cultivate.”

  “On the contrary, I will ‘blossom’ on a ranch quite nicely. Best place for a wildflower.”

  “Best place for smelly hogs and cattle, too. As a rancher’s wife, you’ll have to help clean up after the animals. Are you really ready for the barnyard, Penny-lo?”

  “If it’s Dillon’s barnyard, then yes, I am!”

  “You’re a sturdy dreamer. I’ll grant you that much.”

  Exasperation bubbled up inside of Penny. “Oh, Papa…”

  “Likewise, I don’t imagine that Mr. Trier knows what he’s getting into, courting a… a wildflower.”

  Penny was about to retort when rousing cheers sounded from up ahead, capturing her attention. The wagons pulled to a stop, and Rawhide came riding alongside each one.

  “We’ll noon on the Snake!” he shouted. “We’ll noon on the Snake River.”

  Within minutes, the wagons rolled into their usual formation. Soon women were unpacking and preparing the midday meal. Penny noticed that Dillon stayed near the Millbergs’ wagon, chewing on a cold piece of bacon. As she and Bethany served Papa and Josh, Penny wished Dillon would join them. But, to her disappointment, only John Wentworth and his cousin, Paul, sauntered over to their camp.

  “We wondered if you had a few spare biscuits,” John said, wetting his lips and wearing a famished grin. “They sure tasted good, and we’re awful low on supplies.”

  “Why, certainly,” Papa said cordially. He nodded to Penny, who quickly served their guests cold biscuits and jerked beef.

  While the men conversed, Penny and Bethany straightened up the wagons and prepared themselves for a short rest.

  “It’s a hot day,” Penny groused. “A swim in the river is quite tempting.”

  “Not to me!” Bethany declared. “And I must say I am not looking forward to crossing that river in a couple of weeks.”

  Penny nodded in understanding. Ever since Bethany’s parents drowned in a tragic accident, she shied away from aquatic recreation of any sort—not that fording the Snake would be “recreation.” Rawhide had warned them that the river was a fast-moving body of water with a swift undercurrent. His tales of crossing the Snake caused even Penny a moment’s apprehension, and she was a champion swimmer, thanks to Josh, who had taught her when they were children.

  “Now, Beth, don’t fret. The Lord parted the Red Sea for the children of Israel. Perhaps He’ll part the Snake River for us.”

  Bethany smiled. “Yes, perhaps He will.”

  Folding the blanket she and Beth had sat upon to eat, Penny lifted it into the wagon; and doing so, she happened to glance across the camp. She caught sight of Dillon just as he looked over at her. She smiled while he tipped his hat and gave her a subtle grin. Then he went back to securing the wagon.

  Her smile faded, and Penny felt slighted that Dillon didn’t do more than give her a polite nod. However, a heartbeat later, Orson Millberg came around the other side of the wagon, barking all sorts of orders. Penny quickly lowered her gaze. In the next moment, she decided that while she rested this afternoon, she’d compose her next letter.

  Dillon wiped the grime and perspiration off his neck before stuffing his handkerchief back into his shirt pocket. It was particularly hot today, and from what Rawhide said, the heat was unusual for this part of the country. But up ahead flowed Salmon Creek, just a few miles up a bluff from the Salmon Falls. Both were tributaries of the Snake. Beside the creek was where their wagon master decided they’d make camp for the night. They’d traveled some seventeen miles today in the August heat, and Dillon felt about as ornery as an old bear. He planned to catch fish for supper, bathe, and take to his bedroll. He had no more patience for the Millbergs and their derisive daughter, who had done nothing but whine and complain all afternoon. Worse was that Miss Lavinia had bellyached about the dust from the preceding wagons so that her pompous father ordered her to ride next to Dillon, who was first in line due to this morning’s rotation. Consequently, he’d heard all he could tolerate from her mouth for one day!

  “As I was saying… I do hope Rawhide knows what he’s doing.”

  “Rawhide knows what he’s doing,” Dillon grumbled.

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know.”

  “Oh, you men! You think you know everything. Why, Daddy would have gotten nowhere in life if he hadn’t listened to Mama. She’s gifted with a keen sense for making money—almost as good as any man.
Although, I do think Mama made a mistake in coercing Daddy to travel to the Oregon Territory. This has been the most miserable trip of my life.”

  “You can say that again!”

  “Miserable?” Lavinia, dressed in all her usual frills, cast a burning look on Dillon. “What in heaven’s name are you complaining about? All you’ve had to do is sit in the wagon all day… and you’re getting paid for it, too! This job has to be a far sight better than digging in dirt and milking smelly cows!”

  Pulling the wagon into formation, Dillon jerked on the reins and nearly unseated Lavinia. Then he jumped down and didn’t bother helping the prissy little thing alight from the bench. Ma would have scolded him for his temper fit even if Miss Lavinia and the heat of the day had provoked it.

  Hot and tired, he tended to the oxen and forced himself not to glance in the direction of the Rogerses’ wagons. Dillon still felt perturbed over this noon when he saw John Wentworth enjoying Penny’s hospitality. The sight plucked a jealous chord in his heart. But Dillon needed to keep his distance—at least when Orson Millberg was around. The older man had questioned him again about his interest in Penny and warned Dillon that if he got “preoccupied” and didn’t give his work his full attention, he would be fired. However, staying away from Penny meant that another suitor, namely Wentworth, might win her heart. On the other hand, without this job, Dillon wasn’t fit to court her.

  “Mr. Trier?”

  Dillon whirled around to find young Martha Buckley gazing up at him with huge brown eyes that sparked with mischief.

  “Miss Penny Rogers gave me something to pass on to you, but she said no one should see me give it to you.”

  Dillon stifled a grin and gazed over Martha’s light brown head. The Millbergs appeared to be distracted by one of Lavinia’s tantrums. No doubt she was telling her parents about their driver’s bad manners.

  “No one’s looking.” Dillon held out his hand, and Martha placed a folded piece of paper in his palm.

  “Miss Penny said you’re invited to supper. She said she’s got a hankering for fresh fish and she hopes you’ll feel like catching some. I’m to tell you that Doc Rogers said he’ll keep you company and not to worry about the Millbergs on account that they’re invited to supper, too.” Martha grinned impishly. “I’m invited also, ‘cept I offered to help Miss Penny and Miss Bethany fry up our meal.”