by Linda Ford
Abby measured the flour, lard and other ingredients and mixed them as she had learned at home. She cut them into rounds and placed them on the baking tray. There, she congratulated herself. This was going to turn out just fine.
She put them in the reflector oven, then poured tea for Mother.
Mother pulled her down to whisper in her ear. “I object to sharing meals with...with those.”
“Mother, be grateful.” They’d eat much better for the sharing.
A great clatter and Sally’s sharply indrawn breath jerked Abby’s attention her way. “Oh, no.” The oven had collapsed. The biscuits fallen into a heap.
“I’m sorry,” Sally said. She’d been tending Johnny and hadn’t noticed where Abby set the oven.
Abby rushed to her side. “Are you okay? You’re not burned?”
“No, I’m fine. But the biscuits—”
“They’re ruined,” Rachel said. Abby knew she wasn’t mistaken in thinking Rachel sounded rather pleased about it.
“Why, the oven wasn’t even braced. Now all this food is wasted,” Rachel continued.
“They can be rescued.” Ben had appeared out of nowhere and carefully retrieved the biscuits, then, with gloved hands, set the tin oven back up. He braced it with a branch. “To make sure it doesn’t fall again.”
Abby nodded, unable to meet his eyes. “Thanks.” It was a lesson she wouldn’t need repeated. Not repeating harsh lessons was her only triumph. Mr. Littleton returned from taking care of his animals and shot out his hand to Father. “Didn’t get a chance to introduce myself earlier. Martin Littleton.” He looked about. “So this is our group?”
Ben nodded. “Seems so. These are my sisters.”
Rachel and Emma said hello to the man. Father introduced Mother.
Martin looked about. “It’s a fine group. I’m sure we’ll get on splendidly.”
Abby ducked her head. His attitude might not be so accepting once everyone discovered Abby didn’t know how to cook a thing.
She could only pray she would survive the trip with her resolve intact.
* * *
Ben accepted the plate of food Emma handed him. The Binghams had been placed with the Hewitts because of the proximity of their wagons. It was not a good match. But what could he do but accept it gracefully? It wasn’t like it would change anything. He knew what they thought of him and he, of them. But he would have been happier if he didn’t have to share mealtimes with Mrs. Bingham’s complaining and Abigail’s simpering agreement. Mr. Bingham was okay. He was doing his best to cope in a situation that was completely out of his realm of experience.
Ben sighed. He should do the same.
Mrs. Bingham had been persuaded to pull her chair closer. The rest, including Mr. Bingham, sat in a circle on the ground.
Martin rose to ask the blessing, then they dug in.
Ben guessed by the way everyone tackled their food they were as hungry as he. Except for Mrs. Bingham, who picked at the things on her plate and shot demanding looks at Abby.
Abby seemed unaware of her mother’s looks.
Ben kept his attention on Martin as he talked about the excitement of the first day of travel, but in the periphery of his gaze, he observed Abby.
A thought struck him so hard he couldn’t swallow. He didn’t know how Frank had died. Come to think of it, he didn’t know how her twin brother had died, either. She’d always shied away from any questions he asked. All he knew was there had been an accident. Accidents were common. Swamp fever had killed many, as well. Some, like the Littletons, had lost most of their family. Had she lost children? He couldn’t imagine the pain. Despite his desire to stay as far away from her as possible, the least he could do was offer his condolences.
Emma carried around a pot of stewed apple dumplings and served generous portions to everyone. Even Mrs. Bingham enjoyed the sweet and managed to lose some of her pinched look.
Abby sat beside Mrs. Littleton—Sally, as she’d asked to be called. Ben studied Abby under the pretext of watching a group of youngsters chasing each other in the middle of the circled wagons. Their excitement remained high after an easy day.
Ben had talked to Sam and learned the days would grow more challenging from here on.
But his thoughts were not on the journey. They detoured stubbornly to Abby and the tightness in her expression.
Sorrow filled her face. She carried much loss. Frank and...the same thought surfaced. Had she lost children?
He scrambled to his feet. “I’ll check on things.” He strode away before he could follow his inclination to ask Abby to walk with him. In the next few days he’d find a chance to ask her more about her life with Frank. But not now. Not today. His feelings were unsettled and he wanted them solid as a rock before he talked to her.
Instead, he turned his attention to the many needs of the emigrants. Guards had been set to watch the livestock and keep them from wandering too far. Each man would take turns at a four-hour shift. It wasn’t his turn but even so, he left the wagons and went from one guard to the next. The men were excited tonight and not likely to doze off. Ben knew that it would be harder to stay awake after a few long days on the trail.
He returned to the wagons and moseyed around the circle. It was pleasant to see people in groups, visiting and sharing and learning about each other.
He passed the Jones wagon. Ernie Jones rose to his feet. “You’ve done made a mistake thinking you can tell me and my son what to do.”
Not wanting to get involved in a fracas, Ben would have passed on without answering but several men watched and he knew he must deal with this here and now. “If you care to recall, I had no part in the decision. The committeemen made a ruling.” He’d purposely not involved himself except to present his side of the situation.
Young Arty jogged up to stand by his father. “When do I get my gun back?” Belligerence rang in every syllable and showed in the way the boy stood, legs wide, arms akimbo.
“I believe Miles Cavanaugh is responsible for that decision.”
Behind him sprightly music caught the attention of many and he turned his back on the troublesome Joneses.
“Skip, skip, skip to my lou.”
He recognized the voice and the instrument. Abby and her mandolin. How many times had she entertained him with tunes? And together they had sung song after song. He remembered one particularly pleasant evening. He closed his eyes against the memory but it would not be stopped.
They sat on the porch swing outside her parents’ house. Spring had arrived and with it the promise of good things to come. She’d learned a new song, “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” and wanted him to learn it, too.
They’d laughed often as he stumbled over the words, happy simply to be with her and able to be outside, away from her mother’s constant supervision. How wrong he’d been in thinking Abby shared his feelings.
He escaped the wagons and went out among the cattle. Let people think he was watching them, but in reality he wanted only to forget the bittersweet memory.
But it followed on his heels reminding him how he’d deliberately mixed up the words which sent her into gales of laughter. He’d caught her by the shoulders and shook her a little in mock scolding. Their eyes had locked together. He’d tipped his head low and rested his forehead on hers, breathing in the scent of her. Lavender and things that had no origin in smells but came from a knowledge of her—sweetness, stubbornness, humor, kindness. He’d closed his eyes, thinking how precious she’d grown over the winter months.
It was all a farce. He was only cheap entertainment for the time being.
His stride lengthened as he tried to flee that memory. He forced his thoughts to the ending. Father’s successful mercantile business had faltered. He’d suffered under the strain and had a stroke. And Abigail had turned her back on him and m
arried Frank.
His pace slowed. The sound of the mandolin followed him. He loved her music still. Always would, he supposed, even if the memories were intertwined with pain and regret. It seemed she was still under her mother’s watch. How had Frank dealt with that? Not that Ben cared. Not a bit.
Slowly he made his way back to the wagons. Abby’s music had enticed some of the men to dance jigs and the children to twirl about.
Then she slowed the tunes and began to sing songs of gladness and hope. The children gathered round her. Men leaned against the wagons and women rocked their little ones.
But Ben remained at the far end, content to watch. He realized he stared at Abby with an intensity that belied how he meant to forget everything about her and he shifted his gaze to take in those around him.
Miles Cavanaugh nodded at him. He remained at his wagon. He traveled alone and perhaps felt as if he wasn’t a part of the social gathering. Ben couldn’t say, though, as he knew little about the man. He would certainly learn more about him as they traveled together.
A little further along, he detected another lone figure. Clarence Pressman—a smallish man with pale skin like he hadn’t spent any time outdoors. Ben had noted the man before and was grateful he’d signed on with the Morrisons. Both parties would benefit from the arrangement.
The Tucker brothers, Amos and Grant—twins, Ben had been told though they didn’t look a bit alike—crossed the tongue of a wagon and joined those gathered around Abby. No doubt they’d been out checking on the animals. The pair had joined them part way through the day, driving their oxen at a rate that had the animals sweating and snorting.
Amos introduced them. “We got behind the cattle train by mistake. Took us some hard going to catch up to this group.” They’d nudged each other and laughed like the mistake was a huge joke.
Ben couldn’t help but like their attitude but he hoped they’d be better at following instructions in the future.
His study brought him back to Abby. And the memory of sitting on the porch swing rushed again to the forefront.
Why must sweet memories be clouded by sorrow?
But they were and he couldn’t change that.
He didn’t have any doubt that Abby’s memories were also clouded with sadness. Oh, not over him. But over the death of her husband.
He ground his fist into the soft spot beneath his ribs but it did nothing to ease the pain lodged there. He didn’t wish for anyone to deal with such grief. He’d seen how deeply it had affected Grayson, driving him away from the family.
Ben missed him every day of his absence and anticipated their reunion.
All too soon the mothers called their children to them and prepared them for bed. While Abby had entertained the children, the menfolk had set up tents next to their wagons where their families would sleep.
Emma had prepared the tent she and Rachel would share. He’d sleep under a piece of canvas or just roll up in a bedroll under the wagon.
Abby and her father struggled to put up their tents. It appeared the older Binghams would share one tent and Abby would sleep in another.
After watching their vain attempts for a few minutes, Ben trotted over to assist.
“We can manage just fine, thank you,” Mrs. Bingham told him, though she didn’t lift a finger to help.
“I can’t quite figure it out,” Mr. Bingham said as if his wife hadn’t uttered a word.
“Here. Take this rope and stake it out there about three feet. Be sure and angle the stake away from the tension so it stays in the ground.”
In a few minutes, the tent was up. Mr. Bingham assisted his wife inside. Ben turned to Abby. His first instinct was to offer her help. But the knot in his heart warned him to give her a wide berth.
She grabbed a hammer and stake. “I watched you and Father. I think I can do it.”
He’d watch for a moment then leave her be.
She drove in the first stake but when she tried to do the one opposite it, the rope kept escaping her. She laughed. “It’s as slippery as a snake!”
How could he walk away from her need? What kind of neighbor would he be if he did? What sort of committeeman? His insides warred between responsibility and a desire to get as far away from this woman as possible.
Duty won out. Duty would always win.
He caught the errant rope and secured it. “It works better with a little help.” He had no doubt she’d get the hang of it soon enough. In the meantime, he had no choice but to lend a hand. His gut twisted. How could he put distance between them when they were to share mealtimes and only one wagon separated his from the Binghams?
He straightened and took one step back and then another.
“Thank you for helping,” Abby said. “I’ve been wanting to ask after your father. How is he?”
Ben pulled his thoughts into some semblance of order. “He never recovered.” The shock of losing everything had caused him to have a stroke. “He died last year.” That said so little of the long years of watching his declining health and how it had impacted all of them. “Emma nursed him.”
“I’m sorry.” She turned to his sisters who watched the proceedings. “My condolences.” She tipped her head to Emma. “I could tell when you helped little Johnny that you are a skilled nurse.”
“Thank you,” Emma said.
Rachel still looked rather unfriendly.
Abby, to her credit, appeared unaffected by Rachel’s expression and spoke to her. “You’ve grown up since I last saw you. In a very good way.”
Rachel gave a half smile.
Abby nodded and bent her attention to the hammer in her hand.
Ben dropped his arms to his sides and opened his mouth, prepared to scold Rachel for her rudeness but before a word left his mouth, Abby spoke.
“I venture to say we’ll all change before this trip is over.” She fixed Rachel with one of her piercing looks that he suddenly remembered with startling clarity. Anyone but Rachel would have flinched before those flashing eyes, but Rachel didn’t even blink.
“T’would be good if we didn’t forget the lessons of the past.” No mistaking Rachel’s meaning. She’d already made it clear she feared Ben would be hurt again and her words were meant as a warning to him as well as to Abby.
But she needn’t worry about Ben. He’d learned his lesson when it came to Abby and he wasn’t fool enough to want to repeat it. He might be forced to share their mealtime, even help her with some of the camp chores.
But he would never again be so foolish as to think she could care for him.
Chapter Four
With a murmured goodnight, Abby slipped into her tent. Her insides coiled with so many thoughts. Ben had never married. His father had passed away. How hard that must be. Ben had always been close to his father and brother. Grayson wasn’t in the group. Had he stayed behind? That would be a doubly hard goodbye for Ben.
She tumbled the thoughts and questions round and round in her head in an attempt to ignore Rachel’s warning. Her meaning was unmistakable—Don’t hurt my brother.
Abby had no intention of doing so. She’d stay as far away from him as possible. She’d burned that bridge six years ago when she informed him she’d chosen Frank over him. Wanting to cut herself from his thoughts, she said Frank had more to offer—possessions, position, power.
She pressed a hand to her stomach as she thought of the cruel, unkind things he’d given instead.
Ben’s response had been, “I wish you all the best and I trust your marriage vows will mean more to you than the words you spoke to me.”
She knew exactly what he meant. They’d secretly confessed their love to each other. They’d planned to announce it to the world when she turned eighteen. She’d warned him her parents, Mother especially, would object, but had said she wouldn’t let those
objections change her mind.
But she had. So much guilt had filled her that she was unable to say no to her mother. Not that Mother would have accepted no. Abby would have been forced to follow her parents’ wishes. Far better to go freely and of her own will, though every yes was filled with pain and regret.
“I see I was wrong to trust you. Good to know now rather than later.” Those were Ben’s parting words.
He’d never trust her again. And she couldn’t blame him.
She, on the other hand, had learned after the fact how easily trust could be given to the wrong person. She would not trust her heart to any man ever again.
In Oregon, she’d start over. No regrets over anything in her past.
She tried to get comfortable on the ground but the waterproof ground cover rumpled underneath her. She finally pushed it aside and hoped it wouldn’t rain.
She’d barely fallen asleep when the sentinels fired their rifles, waking everyone up. They’d been warned they would be called at four in the morning to prepare for departure. Abby hurriedly dressed and rolled up her bedding. She fashioned her hair as best she could then dashed outside.
“Vernon.” Mother’s voice came from her parents’ tent. “I simply cannot survive under these conditions. Why, I don’t even have my mirror. Someone stole it right under the nose of that young Hewitt who is supposed to be guarding us.”
“Hush, Martha, do you want the whole camp to hear your complaints?”
Abby glanced around. Emma and Rachel were already tending the fire and from the looks on their faces, it was obvious they’d heard every word and did not appreciate Mother badmouthing their brother.
Sally crawled from their tent, baby Johnny cradled in one arm. “My, that was a short night. Johnny wouldn’t settle. I did my best to keep him quiet, so he wouldn’t wake the whole camp.” She rushed on at such a rate that Abby knew she meant to turn attention from Mother’s unkind remarks and she silently thanked the woman.
Emma went to Sally’s side. “Do you want me to look at his wound?”
