He looked up. “You mean Harvard?” He shrugged. “I suppose I’ll go. There isn’t much else to do.” He didn’t sound very excited.
“If you could do anything you wanted, William, what would you do?”
“I don’t know. Maybe go to California.”
“California?” That surprised her. “Why?”
“Pa made a fortune there. Maybe I could, too.”
“We could help you get a start,” she said. “But wouldn’t you rather have an education first?” She remembered the days she’d spent with her father in his study. “Your namesake—my father—loved reading his philosophical treatises. He liked nothing better than to think and dream. You’re a lot like him.” She smiled at William, so like his grandfather.
“I enjoy studying,” Will said. “When I’m interested. But too much of school is doing what the teacher wants, not what I want.”
Jenny raised her eyebrows. “Much of life is doing what others want, not what you want.” She sighed. She hadn’t wanted to go West and dreaded the journey when it started. She only went because Mac insisted. “You’ll find that out as you grow. But knowing what you want, that’s important. Because otherwise, there’s no hope of getting it.” She almost waited too late to determine what she wanted—she let Mac go to California, not realizing he was what she wanted. She was grateful every day that he returned, and they had found their happiness.
Tuesday morning, Will and Maria sat in the parlor after the younger children went to school. “Mama says you don’t want to go to Harvard,” Maria said.
“It’s not that I don’t want to go,” Will said. “I’m just not sure.”
“I’d miss you,” Maria said. “But you’ll probably leave us someday.”
“How do you know?” Will said. “Maybe I’ll stay right here and pester you all my life.” He kept his tone light, but he was serious. Maybe he would stay in Oregon City, despite his comment to Mama last night about California. Did he really want the work and responsibility of earning a fortune? If he asked, Pa would probably find something for him to do.
Maria shook her head. “You’re destined for better things, bigger things, than Oregon City, William McDougall. I believe you can do whatever you set your mind to.”
“So you’re pushing me out, too?” he asked.
“No, silly.” She frowned. “But you’ll figure it out. You’ll find your way.”
“What of you, Maria?” He’d never wondered about her plans before. “What do you want from life?”
“Like Mama,” she said. “A family. A home. That’s all a girl can want.”
He harrumphed, sounding to himself like an old man. “You could teach. Like Hannah Pershing did. And Hannah also clerked in a store. Or Ruth Pershing—she’s still teaching. Or Faith Bramwell before she married. Or you could nurse soldiers, like Clara Barton. Girls can do lots of things.”
“But it’s harder for girls.” Maria sighed. “Particularly girls like me.”
“What do you mean?”
“With Indian blood. You forget about it, but I remember my mother was part Indian every time I walk into a store and see people staring at me.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Will scoffed. “You’ve always been part of our family.”
“But it does matter, Will. It does.”
Later that morning, Will was in his room reading. But he couldn’t concentrate on his book. He kept thinking about what Mama and Maria had said—they both had great plans for him. Mama thought he could be a great scholar, like her father. Maria thought he was destined for something grand. Should he go to college? Was Harvard right for him? Should he stay and work with Pa? Should he strike out on his own?
Why did life have to be so hard?
Shouts sounded from the parlor. Then a scream.
Will raced downstairs.
Jenny stitched a pinafore for Maggie in the parlor, grateful for the silence in the house. Mrs. O’Malley had taken the toddler to the market with her, and Will and Maria were occupied on their own tasks.
A knock sounded on the front door. Jenny went to the foyer, opening the door with a smile. “Yes?”
A man burst inside, grabbing her arms and pushing her against the wall. “Jenny Calhoun?” he snarled, peering into her face. “It’s you, ain’t it?”
He was tall, burly, with bearded face and uncombed hair. His right hand grasped her tightly enough to bruise, but his left arm seemed weaker. “Who are you?” she quavered.
“You don’t remember me?” he growled into her ear. “I remember you. Every inch of you. I’m Jacob Johnson.”
“No,” she whispered in dread, searching his face in an effort to recognize the boy she’d known in Missouri. It was him. Her stomach clenched, and she grabbed her belly to protect the babe inside.
“Now you remember.” His left hand grabbed her chin and turned her face toward him. “Look at me good. Be sure you remember everything.”
“G-go away,” she said. “Or I’ll scream.” Visions of her last encounter with Johnson flashed through her memory.
He guffawed, the sound low and mean. “Like you screamed last time? McDougall ain’t here to save you now.”
“He-he’ll be back soon.”
