by Linda Ford
“I’ll get it.” Abby went to the Bingham wagon and returned with the mandolin and a book. She played and sang several songs. A dozen or more children gathered round to listen and as many grown-ups. When she played hymns, many of the adults sang along.
“She plays beautifully,” Rachel murmured, the surprise in her tone conveying her reluctance to admit it.
“Yup.” Not only did she play and sing beautifully, she was beautiful in every way. Too bad her unfaithfulness canceled out the fact.
“I’ve always wanted to play an instrument.”
He shifted to look at his sister. “I remember you playing the piano.” They’d sold it four years ago to pay a bill.
“Only a little.”
His little sister watched Abby with such longing that it tore at Ben’s heart. “We should have kept the piano.”
She flung about to face him. “That would have been foolish. A piano is nothing but a luxury.” Her gaze went back to Abby.
Ben watched her, too. “Say, why don’t you ask her to give you lessons?”
Rachel gave him a look fit to cure his hide. “I couldn’t do that.”
“Why not? She seems to like helping people.”
Rachel plucked at a blade of grass. “I haven’t exactly been welcoming to her.”
“I noticed.”
Rachel lifted one shoulder in a dismissive gesture as if that took care of the matter.
Ben studied her a few minutes. “Rachel, don’t let pride rob you of the possibility of joy.”
Her head jerked up. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Good to know.” They both settled back. He hoped Rachel would take his words to heart.
After a bit, Abby put the mandolin down. “I thought the children might like a bedtime story.”
“Yes, ma’am,” a young fella called out.
She began to read. Not only the children listened. Adults hovered by, as well, he as intently as any. Not that the story mattered. It was her voice. The gentle, modulated voice of an educated woman made listening a joy.
He’d always taken pleasure in the sound of her voice and six years’ absence, time and losses, not even a world of regrets over how their relationship ended, changed that.
She read only a few minutes. “I can read more tomorrow, if you all like.”
Ben chuckled at the enthusiastic response.
She put her mandolin and book back in the wagon. She gasped and he jerked to his feet. But she returned unharmed.
“Mother, look what I found. Your mirror. It must have slipped into the corner when the wheel came off the wagon. At least it wasn’t stolen.”
Mrs. Bingham took the mirror. “No thanks to anyone here.”
Abby patted her mother’s shoulder then prepared to pitch her tent.
He waited a moment, so it didn’t appear like he rushed to her assistance, then ambled over. “Can I give you a hand?”
She brushed strands of hair from her face. “I will learn to do this.” She favored him with a bounteous smile. “But in the hope of getting some sleep tonight I’ll gladly accept help...again.” A tiny sigh escaped.
He chuckled at her wry expression. “I expect you’re wore out.”
“I’ll be glad of a few hours sleep.” Not a word of complaint, though her mother could be heard murmuring in her tent about the dust, the crude accommodations and a myriad of nitpicky things.
Abby shook her head as she stared at her parents’ tent.
“Martha, hush now and settle down,” Mr. Bingham said.
Abby grinned, sending a jolt clear through Ben.
He opened his mouth wanting to ask her so many things.
“Let’s get this tent up, so we can all go to bed.” His voice carried a sharp note.
She grabbed a rope and jerked it into place, the smile gone from her face.
He wished it could be different. But it was too late for that. Her earlier words blared through his head. Once is enough for me.
It was enough for him, too.
Chapter Six
Abby lay in her tent waiting for sleep. Her arms ached from carrying Johnny so many hours. She was such a softy. But she’d made biscuits enough for tomorrow and amused the children with music and story.
The camp quieted around her. From nearby came the sound of snoring. How did anyone sleep through that? Pity the poor man’s wife and children. Johnny fussed and Sally shushed him. Poor baby was so uncomfortable.
Abby pulled the covers from her blistered feet. Johnny probably hurt worse than that.
A dog barked. A man ordered him to be quiet. The oxen snorted. The guards called out to one another.
Next thing she heard was the sound of rifles rousing them from their sleep. She groaned, feeling pain in places she hadn’t known existed before this journey. But she would not repeat the mistakes of yesterday. She dressed in record time and hurtled from the tent.
She joined Emma and Rachel at the fire. “I’ll make coffee this morning.” She’d watched enough times to know she would get it right.
Sally returned from milking the cow.
“How did Johnny sleep?”
“He was restless all night, but I think he’s finally settled. I put him in the wagon. Maybe he’ll stay asleep after we pull out.”
She took care of the milk while the others worked together on the meal.
The men had left to gather the stock and bring the oxen in to harness.
“Abigail.” Mother’s call came sharp and demanding.
Abby gave the others an apologetic glance. “Excuse me while I help her.”
Sally patted her arm. “You go ahead. We each have our own duties to attend to and she’s one of yours.”
Abby smiled her gratitude, then hurried to help Mother get dressed.
“Am I supposed to wear this dress again?”
“We had to limit how much we brought.” Mother knew that and had complained bitterly about it.
She sniffed. “Some people might not object to wearing the same dress day after day, but I was raised better than that.”
“Yes, Mother, I know.” Abby had learned long ago it was best not to argue. It only added fuel to her mother’s opinions. She did her best to hurry her parent but the faster she went the slower her mother went. “Mother, I must do my share.” And yours.
“I didn’t raise you for this kind of life.”
“Of course you didn’t, but things change.” Abby would have given up some of her history and art lessons for cooking and husbandry lessons.
Mother fussed with her hair. “It doesn’t feel right.”
“It’s fine.” It would be covered with a bonnet most of the day so what difference did it make?
Mother drew herself upright as far as the low tent allowed. “We might be forced to live with those people.” She waved her hand dismissively. “But there is no need to lower our standards.”
“Yes, Mother.” Not wanting to have to endure a lecture, she managed to keep any hint of disagreement from her voice.
“You must stop encouraging that...that Hewitt man.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do. You let him help you with your tent. Get Father to help if you must have help. Or Mr. Littleton. I don’t want you encouraging him.” No matter what Mother thought, Abby wasn’t begging for Ben’s attention. She had plans in mind that did not involve a man, any man.
Mother poked her finger in Abby’s direction. “When we get to Oregon, you will marry someone suitable.”
Abby could bear to hear no more. The time would come when she must confront her mother with the fact she had no intention of marrying anyone—suitable in Mother’s opinion or otherwise. All she had to do was convince Mother she ha
d fulfilled the spirit of her promise to take care of her parents. Now was not the time or place to deal with her plans. Thankfully, she had finished helping and she backed from the tent.
She turned and looked into the hard eyes of Ben. “I—” She shook her head. What could she say? And what was the point?
Shifting her gaze, she encountered Emma. Her wide eyes and dropped jaw informed Abby that she’d overhead the conversation.
No doubt they all had.
She could either run and hide or—
She followed Mother’s example, stiffened her spine and went to the fire to look at the mush simmering. Let them think what they would. She wasn’t responsible for Mother’s opinions.
But how she wished she could tell them she didn’t agree. They were a fine bunch and she was proud to be associated with them.
At that moment, Johnny let out a wail. Poor baby was so tired from crying, he could hardly make himself heard.
“Something’s wrong.” Sally dashed for the wagon and scrambled in. Three seconds later, she called, “He’s burning up. Someone help me.”
Emma raced for the wagon, Abby hot on her heels. Her breath caught midway up her chest. She didn’t know anything about treating disease, like Emma did. But she knew the fear of someone sick or injured.
Lord, spare us that sorrow on this journey.
* * *
Ben struggled to get over the words from the Bingham tent. Mrs. Bingham’s opinion had not softened with time. He shook his head so hard he unsettled his hat and jammed it back in place with unusual force.
He already suspected that Abby would be searching for a rich man in Oregon so it shouldn’t surprise him.
Nor did it. No, it wasn’t surprise so much as shock that everyone had heard Mrs. Bingham’s comments. And...
He couldn’t think what to call this feeling except it caused a burning taste in the back of his throat. Reminiscent of how he’d felt six years back when Abby and her mother had told him the truth about how they saw him. It hadn’t bothered him to hear the harsh words from Mrs. Bingham, but to hear Abby inform him he wasn’t suitable had shaken him to his core. Left him with feelings of uncertainty. It had taken him a long time to realize their opinion—Abby’s opinion—did not define who he was. From that moment he had sought to develop strengths that came from within. No one could take that from him.
Not even cruel, unkind comments from the Bingham tent. He would simply consider the source.
At Sally’s cry for help, Emma rushed to the Littletons’ wagon and jerked Ben from his troubled thoughts.
Martin had been tending his oxen and returned in time to see Emma clamber under the canvas.
“Johnny?” Forgetting the animals, he ran to his wagon. “Is he...”
Ben dragged his feet after the man. His chest felt heavy. Please, God, don’t let Johnny die. The Littletons have already lost three children. Of course, God knew that and didn’t need reminding. Ben couldn’t think how they’d endure the loss of their baby, as well. He’d watched Grayson struggle when Suzanne had died delivering their firstborn. For a time, he worried his brother might not ever be the same and despite knowing he’d miss him like crazy, he’d been glad when Grayson said he was going to Oregon. It would provide a new start.
Which is exactly what Ben hoped for. He filled his lungs with a mighty gulp. The future still beckoned. He had only to endure the days of crossing.
Abby scurried past him to the wagon.
He forced his feet onward until he reached the tailgate. “Is he...?” The word stuck on his tongue.
Abby answered him as she jumped from the wagon and scurried away. “Fevered. I have to take water to sponge him.” She filled a basin from the barrel of water, grabbed a cloth and slowed her steps to carry the water without spilling it.
“Infection?” From the beginning Emma had been concerned about the flesh wound, saying she hadn’t treated it as aggressively as she normally would because of the pain she’d have to inflict on the baby. She would never forgive herself if her concern resulted in something far worse than temporary pain.
Abby kept her attention on the basin and spoke without glancing at him. “Emma is looking at him now.”
She reached the wagon and handed the basin inside.
Ben stepped to her side, resisting the urge to reach for her hand and grip it, offering his strength and encouragement. She’d already grown fond of the child. And if she’d lost her own children, this little one’s illness would be a sharp and painful reminder.
He looked into the crowded wagon. “Emma, what’s wrong with him?” he asked his sister who knelt by the baby. All Johnny wore was his white diaper.
“I can’t see any sign of infection.” She spoke calmly so as to not alarm the baby’s parents, but Ben knew her well enough to hear the note of alarm in her voice.
Rachel hurried up. “What’s going on? What did I miss?”
Ben filled her in.
“What can I do?” she asked, ignoring Abby at her side.
There was not room inside for another person. Emma and Sally both hovered at the baby’s side. Sally sponged the baby while Emma studied him. Her shoulders rose and sank just once. “We’re doing all we can. Go ahead with the chores.”
“Look after Brownie for me, will ya?” Sally called.
Abby spun away first and marched toward the cow. She stopped two feet away and stared at the animal, then slowly turned away. “I’ll see to the dishes.”
Rachel glanced at Ben, but at least she had the good grace to keep her opinion of Abby to herself.
A person isn’t born knowing everything, he wanted to shout at her.
Sam rode to them. “What’s the holdup here?”
Ben jerked around. He’d forgotten his duties. “The baby is sick.”
“Sorry to hear that, but we have to keep moving. We’re already behind schedule with spring so late.”
Ben knew what he wasn’t saying. They had to cross the mountains before winter. He clapped Martin on the shoulder. “I’ll yoke your oxen for you.”
Martin slowly eased away from watching his little son. “I’ll do it. Sally and the boy will be fine in the wagon. I’ll get on with the business of the day.”
Rachel and Abby scurried about cleaning up the camp. Mr. Bingham folded away the tents and moved his wife’s chair into the wagon while Ben backed his oxen into place.
Rachel climbed to the bench and took the reins. The Bingham wagon was ahead of them and Mr. Bingham had not yet yoked his animals.
Rachel sighed. “You better go help him. Or maybe we should just leave them behind.”
Abby came around the back of their wagon in time to overhear Rachel’s comments.
Ben gave his younger sister a scolding look. “I know you don’t mean that.”
Rachel shrugged.
Ben turned to apologize to Abby but she was gone.
“Rachel, you were raised better’n that.”
She had the grace to look contrite.
Martin saw Mr. Bingham’s struggles and hurried to help him.
The wagons had begun to move and Ben swung into his saddle. He’d neglected to check on things last night and rode up and down now. The few cattle—assorted milk cows mostly—and spare horses were guided along by young men.
Jed Henshaw herded several animals in the right direction only to have them snort and veer away. Jed couldn’t see what frightened them but Ben did. Arty Jones had pelted the lead animals with rocks.
Ben rode up behind Arty. “Having fun?”
Arty jerked about, surprised at being discovered. “Don’t know whatcha mean.”
“Go find something useful to do.” Ben reined about and headed back to the wagons. Something hit him in the back. Arty had taken to throwing rocks at a human target. Ben d
idn’t turn around. He knew Arty was the sort to find pleasure in getting negative attention and he didn’t mean to give it. He rode onward and chuckled when Arty uttered an angry grunt just like a frustrated child.
All morning he mulled over how to deal with Rachel’s unkind remarks. Should he simply apologize to Abby and say none of them thought they should leave the Binghams behind? But of course, he couldn’t speak for all of them. Only himself.
He didn’t want to leave them behind. Didn’t want them to give up and head back to Independence and that bothered him. They had every right to be among the emigrants but that wasn’t what he meant. His heart was closed to her but somehow or other, he still cared if she succeeded or failed in her endeavors. Seeing her daily constituted both torture and delight. For now, one balanced the other. The good part would come to a sudden and painful end when they reached Oregon.
He’d ridden full circle back to his own wagon. He passed it, passed the Bingham wagon where Abby’s parents perched on the bench, and slowed at the Littleton wagon. Abby walked beside it.
“Any change,” he called as if talking to Emma or Sally but his gaze met and held Abby’s concerned eyes.
Emma climbed from the back of the wagon and withdrew several yards from it. She waved Ben to follow. Abby, too.
He dismounted and faced Emma. His nerves jangled at Abby’s nearness. She smelled of campfire and something sweet and familiar.
Remembrance rushed over him. Sitting next to her on the porch swing or on a church pew, lounging on a blanket at a picnic or walking her home after a meeting. At each and every occasion he’d inhaled the same sweet scent.
He closed his eyes and pushed away the memories.
“Johnny has a high fever,” Emma said. “It doesn’t want to break.” She brushed strands of hair off her forehead. “His wound doesn’t appear to be infected. What if—?” She swallowed loudly and couldn’t go on.
Ben pressed his hand to her shoulder. No words were necessary between them.
She slowly sucked in air. “What if his insides were damaged?” A shudder shook her.
“Emma, you can only do what is humanly possible.”
“I know.” Her shoulders slumped. “If only I knew what was wrong with him.”
