Hope by Barbara Goss (primary phonics books txt) 📗

a little emotional. As gruff as he was, she could tell that Maurice Mason meant what he said. “I just wish I’d had the guts to put you out front every so now and then. I should have given you something to get your teeth into; I know you would have done us proud.” There was a catch in the rough old voice that forced Grace to swallow down her own emotions. If only.

Grace smiled. Maurice was the only person she knew who said every so now and then. She really would miss him and his curious little ways. She would even miss his unpredictable moods which often resulted in the loudest bellowing coming when it was least expected.

“Well, I guess it would have spoiled me, Mr. Mason. I’d have gone to Oregon thinking I could go writing whatever I liked and leave the recipes and society events behind me. Not that there are too many society events out west, I suppose.” She laughed and shrugged, biding her time, knowing she couldn’t come out with it all too early.

“So, what’s the plan when you get there, Gracie? Keeping house for that brother of yours?”

“I’m hoping not too much. He’s been there for almost two years now and he’s had a housekeeper all that time. I don’t reckon I’d want to see the poor woman out of a job.”

“And I don’t reckon you’d want to take her place either. It’s not for you, Gracie, now is it?” He chuckled.

Once more she felt that emotion rear its ugly head.

“You’ll be out there looking for adventure of some kind. Wouldn’t surprise me to hear one day that you’ve gotten yourself a job as a cowboy or something. No, no ordinary life for our girl.” Now it was Maurice’s turn to look a little emotional.

“I sure wouldn’t want an ordinary life.” Grace laughed to lighten the moment. “But I’m not sure about being a cowboy. I reckon my heart’s in words. Always has been, always will be.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” he agreed and leaned back in his seat just enough to open the drawer of his desk.

He retrieved a bottle of his favorite brand of fire-water brandy and two little glasses; well, this must be a special occasion indeed.

Without a word, he pulled the stopper from the bottle and sloshed two generous servings. Grace knew her own serving was far too generous, but maybe it would give her a little courage to ask Maurice, Mr. Mason, the very thing she had been wanting to ask him for weeks.

“Thank you kindly,” Grace murmured when he roughly pushed her glass across the desk.

“Good luck to you, Gracie.” He raised his glass in toast.

Grace did likewise and, when Maurice took a mighty gulp of the eye-widening brandy, Grace did the same. She swallowed down the fit of coughing that the burning in her throat was about to set off and chose instead to let her eyes water quietly as she kept her lips firmly pressed against one another until the urge to cough had passed.

“Thank you,” she said, cautiously testing her vocal cords. “Thank you, Mr. Mason.”

“I’m going to write you something of a letter of recommendation for them newspapers out west. I’ll have it ready before you set sail.”

“That sure is kind of you, Mr. Mason.” Grace knew the moment was coming. “But I’m not going to be sailing.”

“Well, how on earth are you going to get there?” Maurice asked before taking another deep gulp of brandy.

“I’m going on the trail.”

“The trail?” he said and peered through his heavy brows. “The Oregon Trail?” His voice rose as he leaned across the desk as if to get a better look at her.

“I sure am, Sir.” Grace took another sip of brandy herself; it certainly was bringing a little courage her way.

“You mean to cross with the farmers and the like? The folks traveling in wagon trains? That’s what you’re doing?” Maurice’s voice grew louder in tempo with his confusion.

“I am.” Grace gave him something of an uncustomary broad smile.

“What in tarnation are you thinking of, child? Your aunts and your brother have money enough between them that you could take the easier route, don’t they?”

“They do, Mr. Mason. And believe me, none of them are happy about my decision to ride along with the wagon train.” Grace could feel her excitement building at the very thought of it.

“Honey, I’ve heard there’s folks who don’t even make it that far. It’s a dangerous business.”

“Sailing is a dangerous business too,” Grace said but saw his eyebrows dip dangerously low. So low they almost met the mighty moustache. “But yes, the Oregon Trail is a bigger risk, I’ll admit.”

“Then why on earth would you do it? It’s not like you have farm machinery to haul across with you. You’ll just be taking your clothes and a few bits and pieces, surely. Why would you need to go that way?”

“I am going that way, Sir, because I intend to write a piece about it.”

“A piece?” He leaned back in his seat and drained the last of his brandy before topping up his glass again. “An article?”

“Yes, Sir. I want to write a journal of the whole thing. I want to put in every single bit of life and death on that trail. Every hardship, every friendship, every laugh, every tear. I want to write it on my way across and then sell it to a newspaper as a serial that they can run for a few weeks. Folks like that kind of thing, Mr. Mason.”

“But the folks in Oregon will already know all about the trail, won’t they? Since most of them will have got over there that way.” He looked perplexed.

It was now or never. Grace had this one opportunity to make a name for herself with