“What’s a dulcimer?”
“An instrument they make in the mountains, where the Jaspers are from,” said Doc Isaacs, who was sitting nearby.
Hoke scowled. Doc Isaacs hovered near Abigail Baldwyn more than he liked. They seemed all the closer since Lina had fallen sick.
Harry Sims, the preacher, produced a harmonica and Alec Douglas, who seemed to have little else to his name besides sheep and Scottish brothers, a violin.
“Where have you been hidin’ that fiddle, Alec?” asked Colonel Dotson. “I’ll be . . . I thought I knew everything.”
Hoke understood what he meant. A man in charge had to know everything. The Peterses’ wagons rode low, for example, and it wasn’t just because of merchandise they’d brought for their general store. Hoke figured they had enough gold to start a bank.
Sam Beckett had a lousy gun, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t know how to shoot it anyway. He was a writer and always had his head in the clouds.
Old man McConnelly and Ty Vandergelden were no good in a fight, either. Irene McConnelly word-whipped her father as bad as Sue Vandergelden word-whipped her son and husband.
But Michael Chessor, a young adventurer in Company D, was a keeper. So was Harry Sims, the preacher. The verdict was still out on the Schroeder men. They liked their hogs, he knew that much.
Hoke, like the colonel, had been assessing what benefit each traveler brought to the whole ever since leaving Independence. The colonel had just missed this one. Hoke couldn’t blame him. Nobody would have guessed those simple Douglas boys possessed anything of value, or any musical talent.
Josephine scolded the group. “I can’t believe we had this kind of bounty right under our noses and no one has said a word about it! If James Parker hadn’t started singing, we might have gone all the way to Oregon without discovering it.” She demanded that those who hadn’t produced their instruments already go get them at once.
James made it back first and said, “Sing with me, Hoke.”
“Hoke sings?” teased Doc Isaacs, who was bouncing his nephew on his knee.
“No,” said Hoke, shaking his head, glaring over at the doc. Doc Isaacs spent most evenings bouncing someone’s child on his knee or doling out advice to mothers who had questions about fever, diet, or sickness.
“Sings like a bird.” James winked. “Like a deep-throated songbird. Makes weak-kneed women swoon.”
“I’d like to hear that,” said Irene McConnelly, who had perched herself nearby, staring hard at Hoke.
Hoke threw James a dark look.
James muttered, “You started this.”
“A rare mistake. I won’t let it happen again.”
“Come on, Hoke. Sing with me.”
“I don’t sing in public.”
“Hoke, don’t be selfish.”
“I’m not bein’ selfish, James.
“Yes, you are. You’re hurtin’ Mrs. Josephine’s feelin’s, too. Ain’t that right, Mrs. Jo? Tell him he has to sing.”
“Aw, you two quit arguin’ and give us a song!” bellowed Tam Woodford.
Hoke bowed his head and James elbowed him. “That’s a sport.” He strummed a couple of chords and winked at Hoke. Together they sang.
I had a true love,
Who was sent from above,
But she broke my heart in two.
She got cold feet in the spring,
And slipped off the ring,
That I had given her to.
She will never be mine,
She will never be mine,
But I have decided that’s fine.
Because I found another,
I went back to my mother,
For she still loves me true.
Everyone laughed. Irene McConnelly fanned her face and pretended to swoon.
“Did you make that up?” asked Prissy. “I never heard it before.”
“James doesn’t have a wide selection,” said Hoke.
“Now that’s not true, Hoke. Mrs. Josephine, I even know some spirituals.”
“Let’s hear them!”
Doc Isaacs picked up his nephew and carried him toward the wagons, and Irene stood up and headed in Hoke’s direction, so he slipped from the circle and went to sit by Abigail.
“You’re about to finish that seat. What are you goin’ to do with it when you’re done?”
“Rock!”
Abigail’s eyes sparkled. Hers were quite a contrast to Irene’s, which had grown dark, as she’d just located him again. Hoke shut Irene out and concentrated on the woman beside him.
“Lina loves to be rocked.” Abigail smiled at Jacob, who was still sitting nearby. The other kids had gravitated to the music, closer to the fire. “All my babies loved to be rocked.”
“Ma,” groaned Jacob.
“What did I say?”
“I’m going to look for Charlie,” he muttered.
Abigail was sure that only moments ago Jacob had been proud of her. Now she had embarrassed him in front of Hoke.
Rascal looked longingly at Hoke before he followed Jacob. Rascal often ran at the heels of Hoke’s black stallion during the day and followed him around camp in the evenings.
“To a stranger, it would look like Rascal is your dog, not ours,” said Abigail.
Hoke ignored her comment. “How do you like the trip so far?”
“Other than thinking I might lose my daughter, it’s been fine. I mean, the mattress is lumpy, the cow’s being stingy with her milk, there’s a layer of dust on everything from morning till night, and my feet have never been so sore . . .”
She laughed. At least her back had finally quit hurting . . . in part because of the side box he’d built for the dish crate. “But I like it. I like being part of a close-knit community. I like the hope that hangs in the air when everyone talks about their plans and their dreams. And I love seeing my children so happy.”
“You have good children,” he said.
Those had been Mimi’s last words to her.
His buckskin shirt lay open at the neck and his hat was off. Hoke’s black hair—or was it dark brown?—fell in waves down to his collar. Abigail looked at his boots next to her once-slender feet that were so swollen she’d left her shoes off since supper. The cool grass felt good on them, but now she dug her toes deeper into the stalks, suddenly shy about their bareness.
Trail dust covered his black, worn boots, which seemed intensely masculine, as did his hands. She had first noticed his hands at the corral in Independence, the way he had stroked the horses. His hands were always working, it seemed . . . always busy.
Her own hands were coarse all the time now, and she often had dirt under her nails from working in her gardens. She tried scrubbing them, but stubborn traces of soil hid in the corners, only to show up in the light and embarrass her later.
Hoke needed a shave again. And those eyes . . . his gaze was so full of heat it nearly burned her skin.
Abigail looked back down at the rocker seat. Why was it so hard to meet this man’s eyes? Why did he make her feel so self-conscious? Few men had ever done so.
“Thank you. Your approval means a great deal to them, especially Charlie and Jacob. I hope you didn’t think I was mad at you over Lina. Her fever scared me. But I know you didn’t cause it. I appreciate all the kindnesses you’ve rendered us.”
Hoke loved to hear Abigail Baldwyn talk. She was perhaps the most refined and educated woman he’d ever met. He had a strong desire to ask about her husband but couldn’t bring himself to do it.
“Scared me, too,” he said instead.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”
“About what?” He looked up at her.
She kept her eyes on the rocker seat. “The kindnesses you’ve been rendering us. I don’t want to be a burden to you, Mr. Hoke.”
“Just Hoke.”
“You’re doing little things for us that you shouldn’t have to do.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’m afraid Colonel Dotson wasn’t fair to you, putting us in your company.” She laid a hand on his shoulder.
He looked down at it, trying to remember when he’d last been touched so casually. By her . . . when she laid her hand on his arm the day he met her. “I don’t see it that way.”
“We can pull our own weight.” She removed her hand.
He nodded, missing the warmth of her touch already. “I’m sure you can. You do.”
“We’re not as experienced as some, but we’re fast learners.”
“I can see that.”
“Like watering my plants, for example.”
He tried to think of something to say that would make her lay her hand on his shoulder again. “Water’s heavy and those boxes are high.”
“I know, but that’s my problem, not yours.”
“Well, you’re in my company.”
“I know. That’s my point. I’m sorry Colonel Dotson put us in your company.”
He jerked his head up. “You don’t want to be in my company?” he asked, hotly.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
A fire lit in her eyes. “If you would stop cutting me off after every sentence, I would tell you!”
She sounded testy, but Hoke didn’t care. He was just glad to be near her. His own hungry eyes couldn’t drink in enough of her.
Her yellow hair was pulled into a knot at the back of her head, but little strands were sneaking out like always. He loved the way they curled around her face in the heat of the day. She refused to wear a bonnet like the other women, so he didn’t know why it surprised her that Lina wouldn’t keep hers on, either. There was the brown hat she’d been wearing the day he met her, and another wide-brimmed straw hat she wore more often.
Both suited her nicely.
She looked the way he imagined all Southern ladies looked—genteel women in cotton frocks, with wide-brimmed straw hats, gathering flowers from a field.
Each afternoon she wore the straw hat as she and Mrs. Austelle gathered flowers for the porcelain pitcher on Abigail’s makeshift supper table. Girls from all over the camp would come by asking if they could have the flowers to make necklaces or bracelets, which they’d wear until they wilted.
He loved having her wagon so near his own. It allowed him to steal glances at her as she pulled her hat off in the afternoons.
He had expected her to be spoiled and take his offers of help readily, but she hadn’t. In fact, she never complained or asked for anything. So far as he could tell, she only allowed herself one luxury—a small basin of water that she used to wash the back of her neck and her feet before she got supper ready. So he’d started bringing her water when they made camp in the afternoons.
He’d reach up and water her plants, leaving enough in the bucket for her feet, then set the bucket down at the back of her wagon without saying a word. This had been happening for several days.
Abigail yanked at the fabric of the rocking chair seat she was working on. “I feel guilty that you are working harder than you would have to if you didn’t have a woman with four children and no husband in your company.” She seemed flustered.
It pleased him. “I was told you did have a husband.”
“You know what I mean. He’s not here.”
“That is a curiosity to me.”
She turned to look him in the eye then. “And to me, Mr. Hoke.”
“Just Hoke.”
“What kind of name is that anyway?”
“It’s my name!”
She lifted her chin. “Is it your Christian name or your surname? Because Colonel Dotson called you Hoke Mathews. Is Hoke really your Christian name?”
He gave her a sideways smirk. “Why do you care?”
“I want to know how to address you properly.”
“I keep tellin’ you and you keep ignorin’ me.”
“Just Hoke.”
“That’s right.”
She shook her head. “I’m trying to set an example for my children. They are to call you Mr. Hoke, unless they should be calling you Mr. Mathews.”
“Are you avoidin’ my question?” he said, avoiding her question.
“What question was that?”
“About your husband.”
“You didn’t ask me about my husband, you only said it was a curiosity to you that he wasn’t here. To which I replied—”
“The question was implied.”
“And the question is?”
“Are you always this difficult to have a conversation with?” he bellowed.
She tied a final knot in the rocker seat, jerking it harder than he suspected she had to, and turned to face him. He could feel his eyes blazing and knew all of his emotions lay on the surface, but he couldn’t seem to tamp them down.
“No. I don’t consider myself difficult at all. And I don’t know how I manage to make you angry. You aren’t short-tempered with anyone else. Why are you short-tempered with me? It must be because I’m a burden to you. I’ve not asked for your help. If you resent giving it, then don’t!”
Hoke was angry, but not with her . . . with himself. Now that she had said the words out loud, he could see how she might interpret his irritation that way. He needed to keep a better handle on his emotions.
Frankly, he didn’t know why she affected him the way she did. It made no sense. She was a married woman with four children! But he had trouble imagining the husband—had trouble believing he really existed. It would not be the first time a woman had purported to have a husband when she didn’t, just to keep other men at bay. Why had she cursed Robert Baldwyn when Lina was ill? And what did she mean by saying to Charlie that she had driven him off?
If this woman really did have a husband, Hoke had no business looking at her feet and the cute way she kept burrowing her toes into the grass.
“Mrs. Baldwyn, I’m sorry you feel that way. I assure you, you are not a burden to me or to anyone else in this group. Tell you what . . . tomorrow I’ll try to turn over a new leaf. How about I let you ride that white filly as a peace offering?” He stood and offered his hand.
“All right,” she said hesitantly, standing up to shake hands with him.
Instead, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he picked up the rocker and took it to her wagon without asking if she needed or wanted his help with it.
He could feel her puzzled expression through the back of his shirt.
CHAPTER 12
Where the world dripped with hope
Cecil Ryman never made it to Idaho Territory. He never even made it to Fort Kearney, north of Kansas.
After he spoke to Abigail Baldwyn, Cecil Ryman traveled due west, thinking to shave some time off his journey before turning north to get on the Oregon. But a lone man gets lonely weaving through unfamiliar land, so when Cecil Ryman spied a faint light at dusk one evening, he turned his horse to meet it.
Because he wasn’t a bad man, he called out as he neared. “How-do, there!”
There was no reply, but Cecil Ryman didn’t let that stop him. He nosed his horse on in, drawn to it by the hope of food and company. He got all the way to the camp—to the fire—and saw no one about.
Thinking the builder of the fire couldn’t be far, Cecil sat on a rock and warmed his hands while waiting for the stranger to return.
And the stranger presently did.
A trapper, deciding that Cecil was harmless, emerged from the trees. One minute Cecil Ryman was sitting alone on his rock, and the next minute a trapper was squatting at the fire across from him.
Cecil jumped like he’d been shot.
“Lord, have mercy!” A nervous laugh escaped him. “If you’d a been a snake, I’d been bit ’fore I knew you was there!”
The trapper only looked at him.
“You travelin’ alone?” asked Cecil.
“Are you travelin’ alone?” asked the trapper.
Cecil was quick to nod. “You sound Irish. My name’s Cecil
Ryman. I’m headed to a fort in Idaho Territory. Man up there killed my brother and I got to make it right.” Cecil reached in his pocket for the folded paper, even though the fire was small and didn’t offer enough light to read by.
“This story gives the details but it don’t name his killer. A man travelin’ through Arkansas about a year ago, though, he seen it. Said it was a man named Baldwyn. Carries him a fancy sword and run it through my brother Dan’s heart. The man didn’t know why—said they apparently was friends and had served in the war together—but Baldwyn cut him, then stood and watched him bleed out. Baldwyn didn’t think he was seen, but he was, by this man.”
“Interestin’,” said the trapper. “And you’re not afraid to face him?”
“Well, truth be told, I hate to do it. I come across Baldwyn’s wife back in Independence and I made apologies. But like I told her, I swore on Dan’s grave I’d make it right and I mean to keep my word. I never killed no one before, but I’ve never had to. Not even in the war. I’s a cook.”
The trapper reached down and pulled a knife from its scabbard in his boot. He selected a long blade of grass from the ground and set it over the knife’s edge. It sliced cleanly.
“Baldwyn has a wife, you say?”
Cecil frowned. “Yeah . . . pretty yellow-haired lady. I feel bad this is going to put her in a spot—her travelin’ out to meet him and all. They got nice-lookin’ children, too. I never had no children myself. Dan left two boys. That’s why I got to go ahead and make it right. If I don’t, those boys’ll feel the need to when they get older.”
Moments later Cecil Ryman lay dying by the fire. He bled out, just like his brother, Dan, wondering what he’d said to the trapper to set him off and make him want to slit his throat like that.
May 2, 1866
. . . I realize in reading back over my letter, Mimi, that I failed to finish telling you about Mr. Hoke, the gentleman who leads Company C. He is alternatingly wonderful and disagreeable. He bosses the children, and sometimes bosses me. Then he’ll go and do a thing so thoughtful it will leave me speechless.
The next morning, true to his word, Hoke brought his white horse, saddled and ready to ride, to the back of Abigail’s wagon.
Leaving Independence Page 11
