by Linda Ford
“Our Father in heaven, thank you for sparing Johnny’s life. And grant our deepest desire that he recover from this wound with no ill effects. Amen.” Emma opened her eyes and patted little Johnny’s back. She straightened.
All this time, Abby sat beside Mrs. Littleton, one arm wrapped about the woman’s shoulders, comforting her.
A man rushed up. “I heard my son was shot.” He threw his hat on the ground and knelt before his wife. He ran his hands over the baby. “Is he...is he?”
Mrs. Littleton pressed her palms to her husband’s cheeks. “It was only a flesh wound. Miss Hewitt tended it.”
“Thank you. Thank you.” He shook hands with everyone around him and introductions were made. “Thank God. Johnny is all we have left. Our other three died of swamp fever last year.”
Ben’s throat tightened. So many bore the pain of loss yet faced the great adventure full of hopes and dreams. Ben and his sisters, Emma and Rachel, shared the excitement. They’d eagerly sold the ranch and most of their possessions, bought three teams of oxen, outfitted their wagon with enough supplies to carry them across the continent to Oregon where they’d join their brother, Grayson. Grayson had gone out two years ago to escape the memory of his young wife’s death in childbirth. He wrote often, urging his siblings to join him and for Ben to consider working at his store. After the death of their father late last year, they made plans to do so. Ben would do his best to see that everyone else on the train made the trip safely, as well.
As he continued inspecting the wagons in the section he’d been assigned, he overheard bits and pieces of conversation.
New beginning. Fresh start. Opportunity. The final word rang throughout most of the conversations. It was the promise that filled them all with hope and determination. For a new beginning almost a thousand people were prepared to face the dangers this journey held.
Soon he was again engulfed by the noise of the camp as he went from wagon to wagon. Men yelled at oxen. Women shouted at children who raced about excitedly. Metal rang on metal as wagon wheels were prepared for the journey. Over it all hung the smell of hundreds of animals.
The poor oxen had to endure inexperienced men ordering them every which way without any real idea of how to direct the animals. Ben had taken the time to instruct both his sisters on how to drive their oxen. He planned to drive most of the time, though being one of the committeemen might necessitate he ride his horse along the wagon train to help convey instructions down the line.
He assessed those he was destined to travel with. An assorted lot to be sure. Many wore the clothes and had the markings of farmers. Others, like Mr. Bingham, appeared to be businessmen hoping for better times. There were small groups traveling together but most of the emigrants were meeting each other for the first time. There’d be plenty of friction as strangers were forced to learn to work together.
It was almost noon before he finished and returned to the wagon where his sisters waited with the meal ready.
Rachel looked ready to burst as he washed his hands and filled his plate. “I’ll ask the blessing,” he said, ignoring her impatience, and bowed his head. His amen was barely out before she spoke.
“I can’t believe the Binghams are on this wagon train. How are you going to avoid running into her?”
He pretended not to understand what she meant even though he knew she referred to the relationship he and Abby had enjoyed back then. “There’s a lot of people traveling together. We don’t have to keep company with any we don’t choose to.” He said it as if that solved the entire problem of encountering Abby and he intended it should.
Rachel sighed. “I just don’t want to see your heart broken again.”
“It’s not going to happen.” Never again would he give Abigail the right to hurt him. He would do his best to keep a wide distance between himself and Abigail. Two thousand miles over several months lay ahead of them. But all he had to do was avoid her one day at a time.
Surely that wasn’t impossible.
* * *
“Please stay with me,” Mrs. Littleton said to Abby as her husband left to attend to other business. “I’m afraid to be alone at the moment.”
“Of course.” Abby sat beside her on a quilt. The blond-haired woman’s blue eyes were friendly and welcoming. Her dress was well-worn but clean.
“You have a sweet baby. How old is he?”
“He’s just a year old.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your other children.”
Mrs. Littleton bent over her son, caressing his brown hair. His brown eyes closed slowly and he slept. “Life can be hard at times.” She looked into the distance. “I hope we can start over in Oregon without so many painful memories.”
“That is my hope, as well, Mrs. Littleton.” Losing her husband had necessitated her move back to her parents’ home. But it didn’t pain her the way losing her twin brother Andy had. That pain never went away but she had learned to let it sweep through her. It would then settle back into a steady ache. Perhaps in Oregon she could think of Andy without the pulsing pain and regret.
She hoped for more than freedom from her past with this trip. It was her chance for a new beginning. She had her private plans. When they reached Oregon, she meant to go her own way. She’d work until she saved enough money to set herself up in business. Perhaps she’d run a boardinghouse. All that mattered was she’d never again depend on someone else. But Mother had other plans...plans that involved marrying in such a way as to improve the social and financial status of the Binghams. Abby hadn’t informed her mother yet, but she would not marry again. To her sorrow and regret she had learned a lesson about marriage that she didn’t care to repeat.
Strange to see Ben on the wagon train. She hadn’t seen him since she ended their relationship six years before. His light brown hair had been tamed some. Only one wave dipped over his forehead. He’d filled out, too, so his six-foot frame seemed all muscle and power. Even his blue-gray eyes had grown serious.
His expression when he looked her way contained only the cool disinterest of a stranger.
Not that she could blame him. Six years ago, she’d dismissed him harshly because she knew no other way to end a relationship that held so much promise. She’d balked at the idea of marrying Frank. Begged her mother to allow her to marry Ben, the man she loved. But Mother had reminded her of her promise to take care of her parents and pointed out that Ben couldn’t possibly provide for her and them. Nor could he offer a way of advancing them socially. His father’s mercantile business had floundered in the depressed economy.
Mrs. Littleton turned to look into Abby’s face. “You’ve had your losses, too, I can tell.”
Abby’s mind flooded with sorrow as she recalled kneeling beside Andy’s lifeless body. He was but fourteen years old. If only she had spoken up and asked Andy not to ride that high-spirited horse. Instead, she had bragged to the snobby Isabelle that her brother could ride any horse they found. She had been wrong. She’d never told Mother or Father of her responsibility in Andy’s death. Her sorrow and guilt had led her to promise Mother to take care of them. In her mind, she hoped she could replace Andy, become the one Mother counted on.
“My condolences over your husband’s death.”
Of course Mrs. Littleton meant Frank, but Abby could not find it in her heart to feel sorrow at his passing. Yes, it left her penniless and back home under her mother’s rule, but it freed her from Frank’s cruelty. She shuddered. She’d never told her parents what marriage to Frank had been like.
Mother had seen him as the key to a promising future for the Binghams and when Abby protested over his offer of marriage, Mother had reminded her of her promise.
“Marrying well is the best way you can help us,” Mother had insisted as they discussed Frank.
“But I don’t love him.” Her throat still tightened as she th
ought of that day. If only her promise didn’t bind her to do her mother’s bidding.
“Love is a luxury few of us can afford.”
“But you love Father, don’t you?”
“I’m happy with our arrangement.”
Abby realized later that love was nothing but a flight of fancy. But at the time she still believed in it.
Out of guilt and duty, and a desire to please her parents, she’d obeyed her mother and married Frank. To be fair, he’d been attentive and gentle when courting her.
That had ended the day of their wedding.
Mrs. Littleton patted her arm. “A new beginning will be good for all of us. And please call me Sally.”
“I’m Abigail or Abby to my friends.”
Sally chuckled. “Then I’ll call you Abby.”
Abby glanced at her mother still sitting nearby on her wooden chair. No mistaking the disapproving scowl. She sighed. She tried, oh, how she tried, to please Mother, but nothing ever seemed enough. Why, mother had even hinted that it was Abby’s fault that Frank had died penniless. His grave had barely been covered over when agents from the bank had come and carried away everything but her personal belongings and had given her three days to leave the house. The harsh truth about her husband had been reinforced yet again. Not only was he cruel behind the closed doors of their home, he was foolish in business. She’d gone back to her parents’ home. Where else could she go? Though it had reduced her to striving for her mother’s approval and always falling short.
Mother would never let her forget her promise.
She remained convinced that Andy would have fulfilled all her dreams of advancement. And now she expected Abby to be the means.
“You’ll need to find a suitable suitor soon,” she’d been saying since they made plans to head West. “In Oregon, there are far more men than women. That means you can have your pick of the best.”
Abby hated the reminder of her duty. Surely she’d paid for it with her marriage to Frank. However, one thing no bank, no demanding mother or cruel husband could take from her was her faith. God would provide the strength she needed for every test and trial. And please, God, a chance to start over.
Sally shifted and glanced at the sun overhead. “It’s noon. I need to start dinner but I hate to put Johnny down.”
“Let me hold him while you cook.” Abby held out her arms. By rights she should offer to make the meal, but she doubted Sally and her husband would appreciate her efforts.
Sally shifted the sleeping Johnny to Abby’s lap. “You never had any little ones of your own or did they—?” She clapped her hands to her mouth to stop the words.
Abby understood Sally feared she might have brought up a painful subject—like she’d had babies and they died. “No, we never had children.”
“I’m sorry.”
Abby brushed Johnny’s hair off his forehead. Oh, to have a child of her own to love and cherish, though she couldn’t be sorry Frank had not given her one. It would have been a thousand times worse to endure Frank mistreating a child and she knew he would have if only to get at Abby.
She shifted the baby so she would look westward. In Oregon she hoped and planned and prayed she would find the freedom she longed for which, to date, had always seemed far out of reach.
Little Johnny fussed and Abby sang softly until he relaxed again. All the while, she watched Sally stir a pot of stew that had been simmering over the coals then slice a loaf of batter bread she’d baked in the tin oven. If Mother wasn’t watching like a hawk, Abby would have asked Sally to explain how she did all that. Mother had forbidden her to ask for help from the women around them.
We’re Binghams. We don’t need help.
Abigail knew otherwise. If they were to make it across the great plains and over the mountains, Bingham or not, they’d need help because Abby had no idea how to manage under these circumstances. She’d have to learn by observation. They had a tin oven, as well. She’d try baking biscuits in it.
Mr. Littleton returned. “How’s Johnny?”
Sally answered. “He’s sleeping.” But at the sound of his father’s voice, Johnny stirred and held out his arms. Mr. Littleton took him gently, careful of the bandaging around the baby’s middle.
Abby pushed to her feet. Her fingers trailed down Johnny’s back then she stepped away. “I best go prepare dinner for my folks.” She returned to their wagon.
Mother huffed as Abby set to work. “I hope you don’t plan to spend a lot of time with the likes of those people.”
Abby pushed aside annoyance. “Mother, it’s a long trip. Those kinds of people will be our constant companions.”
Mother pulled herself into her self-righteous posture. “You don’t need to associate with them. Keep yourself apart until we reach Oregon and then we’ll find you a proper suitor.”
Ben’s image as he faced those rowdy boys and then the questioning men filled Abby’s thoughts. He was a noble and kind man. At least he had been at the time they courted. But that didn’t alter the fact that marriage changed a man. Gave him rights to his wife that no law, no friend, nor even family could defy. She would never again subject herself to such ownership of her body and her rights.
She fried bacon and boiled potatoes. Even potatoes were difficult to cook over a fire. They burned on the bottom and were hard as rocks inside. Father ate them without a word. Mother nibbled at the food. Plain fare had never been her first choice. They both accepted a cup of tea. Abby sighed and turned her attention to washing up the few dishes, but her thoughts went round and round. She must become adept at all sorts of things if they were to survive this trip.
At Mother’s request, Father took her wooden chair into the back of the wagon and parked it atop two chests. Mother followed and perched on the chair. She barely fit beneath the white canvas. Mother had brought as much as she could pack into the wagon which was far less than she insisted she needed.
Abigail had brought a minimum of belongings. A few changes of clothing, a warm coat, a waterproof duster, her Bible, a few of her favorite books and her mandolin. After Frank’s death she’d learned how little material things mattered.
Abigail opened her mouth to warn Mother she wouldn’t be able to ride all the way in that precarious position then she closed it without saying a word. Mother would soon learn or she’d find a way to remain there just to prove to one and all that she was a proper lady who shouldn’t be expected to endure the heat and dust.
Not for the first time, Abigail wondered if this trip would destroy them. She shivered as she recalled Mother’s words. The death of them all. Then she prayed, Father God in heaven, guard and keep us.
How many times had she prayed that on her own behalf when Frank scared her with his behavior? She wrapped her arms about herself and let the tears flow through her heart. Her eyes stayed dry. She wasn’t about to bemoan the consequences of a choice she’d made. Though she had no idea that a man could pretend such sweetness before marriage and reveal such cruelty afterwards.
A walk would calm her. She hurried through the maze of wagons and tents and people to a place where no one was parked. Perhaps she could find a minute of peace.
A glance about revealed there was no one who would recognize her and she stood with her hands clasped in front of her. Anyone watching would assume she was peacefully enjoying the scenery.
They would have been wrong.
Slowly her emotions subsided. She rubbed at her breastbone, knowing the ache would ease but not disappear entirely.
Oh, God, be Thou my strength. To Thee I flee for help.
Chapter Two
The committeemen assembled to discuss the issue of the youths randomly firing their guns. Sam Weston the trail guide stood to one side. The tall, lean man stroked his bushy brown mustache as he observed the crowd with a steady gaze. He’d give
his opinion if called for, but other than that he made it clear the emigrants would have to solve their own problems.
Ben wondered what he saw. An unruly bunch without any sense of working together? An eager assortment of men and women and children willing to do anything to get to Oregon? Likely there was a little of both in each of them.
Jed stood beside a gentle-looking man who seemed more fitted to tailoring suits than driving oxen across the country. No mistaking the father–son likeness.
The other youths also stood by men Ben assumed were their fathers or guardians. Most family groups consisted of an assortment of people. Besides the teams of oxen, most wagons had a milk cow, a horse or two and various other animals in tow. Many families had offered to allow a single young man to accompany them, providing meals in exchange for help with the animals. Like the Morrisons who had young Clarence Pressman traveling with them. Few traveled alone. Miles Cavanaugh, one of the committeemen, was an exception. The journey would be more difficult for him with no one to help with the animals or spell the driver off or even cook meals while the other camp chores were taken care of.
The Hewitt wagon consisted of himself and his two sisters.
Mr. Cavanaugh chaired the meeting. “We are here to deal with the disagreement between Ben Hewitt and these young men. He says they were using their firearms carelessly which resulted in the injury of a child and he therefore confiscated their guns. Is that correct, Ben?”
“Yes, sir.”
The father of the rowdiest boy stepped forward. “He ain’t got no right. Why, he can’t even say for sure it was these boys was responsible.”
“Did you see one of these boys actually shoot the child?” the chairman asked.
“I didn’t but they’d been shooting and yelling wildly and there wasn’t anyone else nearby shooting off guns.” Let the truth speak for itself.
“See,” shouted the belligerent man. “He’s just guessing it were my boy.”
“I didn’t accuse your son,” Ben argued. “Only said the boys were being careless and the baby had been shot. I suggest the boys get their guns back when we are on the trail.” After a day or two, their high spirits would have subsided and they’d be less likely to shoot so carelessly.
