Leaving Independence

by Leanne W. Smith

  “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” she said, coming around the corner. “I got behind, but everyone should be settled now.”

  He grinned with that sideways smirk he had. “I heard Rascal cornered Paddy Douglas’s coon.”

  “We don’t need anybody else mad at us because of Rascal.”

  “He’s just being a dog.”

  “Since he’s partly your dog, could you try keeping him in line? And of all the animals in camp—Paddy Douglas’s coon! Paddy would be crushed if anything happened to him.”

  Paddy Douglas’s sweet simple-minded nature has won the heart of everyone in camp. When Michael Chessor found a baby coon the first week of travel, Paddy’s brother, Baird, said, “Give that coon to Paddy. He’s a great one with critters.” And sure enough, Paddy had it tamed in no time. His stature with every child in camp increased after that. They seek him out now every evening to pet the coon he keeps inside his shirt on a sling that his brothers, Alec and Baird, have rigged for him.

  “What’ll Mrs. Austelle do without you today?” asked Hoke, coming around the horse toward her.

  “She’s helping Caroline Atwood with baby Will. Oh!”

  Instead of making a cup for her foot like her brothers always did, Hoke had put his hands on either side of her waist and said, “Jump.” She barely had time to comply before he lifted her up like she weighed no more than a horse saddle. Surprised, she swung a leg over.

  “I wasn’t ready for that.” Color crept into her cheeks. Abigail pulled at her sleeves, hoping he wouldn’t notice that the lace of her blouse was starting to fray. Her dark-green skirt was about twelve inches shorter than she normally wore her skirts and split, then sewn up the middle like wide-legged pants. Brown riding boots covered her calves.

  “I thought Southern ladies rode sidesaddle.” He grinned again, adjusting her stirrups, then patting at the filly’s stomach with the back of his hand to make her exhale before he cinched the belt tight.

  Abigail stroked the horse’s velvet neck, relishing the feel of Hoke’s shoulder brushing against her leg. “Some do, but I grew up with brothers. They made fun of me if I rode sidesaddle. So my mother made me split riding skirts. That way I could keep up with them.”

  The filly danced and pranced, causing Abigail to smile as she worked the reins to get the feel of her.

  Hoke mounted the stallion. “Looks like she wants to run.”

  “Should I let her?”

  “Why not?”

  Abigail let the white have her head, racing her out far ahead of the first wagons. Dotson and Jenkins, who were riding in the lead, waved as they passed.

  It had been a long time since she’d ridden like this back in Tennessee. But out here, where the world dripped with hope, the urge to fly over the land was irresistible.

  “Now you’ve done it!” she shouted as he came along beside her on the stallion. “I was liking my gray horse.”

  This white Appaloosa was something special, though. Abigail suddenly felt younger than she’d felt in years. Her hat flew back, caught by the string at her neck, and her hair started falling out of its tight bun, but she didn’t care.

  How long had it been since she’d really ridden a horse?

  Not since she lost the baby.

  She remembered how she had loved riding as a child. But then thoughts of racing Seth over her father’s land, Mimi wiping blood from between her legs, and Robert angrily shoveling dirt behind the springhouse all ran through her mind.

  Tears sprang to her eyes as the filly slowed. She ached to be young again and free of the memories that weighed on her.

  Hoke’s stallion slowed in front of her and she swiped at her eyes, embarrassed. He pulled up beside her and they slowed to a trot.

  They rode in silence for what seemed a long time. It might have been awkward with anyone else, but Hoke was the sort of person with whom you could ride in silence. If he’d started talking and acting moody like he’d done the night before, her tears would probably have dried quickly. But his more jovial spirit this morning and now his thoughtful silence only made them worse. She couldn’t seem to stop. There was no question now that he had noticed, but he had the decency not to comment.

  Hoke wanted so much to know what was troubling her and whether he could fix it. Fixing things was what he did. He could repair or build most anything that needed to be repaired or built. But unlocking the mysteries of a woman’s heart . . . he had never learned to do that.

  “See that track?” he said finally, pointing to marks that crossed the trail in front of them. They were far ahead of the train.

  She nodded.

  The land was growing flat. Out here a person could see for miles on a low rise like the one they were on now. Each tree and bush they passed was budding with its own shade of green. Wild yellow flowers dotted the landscape in random clumps.

  “Elk.” Hoke nodded down at the tracks. “Herd of elk came through here. About four days ago.”

  Abigail swiped at her nose. “How can you tell it was four days ago?”

  “The debris left in the tracks, and the dullness of the edges. You learn to tell if you study them long enough. An elk has a cloven hoof just like a deer, only bigger, thicker. A deer’s are a little more spread out and sharper at the top.” There were even fine differences in the track of a buck versus a doe—a doe’s toes were more pointed. Hoke didn’t like to track a doe this time of year when she might be pregnant with a fawn.

  Abigail pointed to the nearest clump of flowers. “Did you know that jonquils are part of the narcissus family?”

  Hoke grinned. “No, I didn’t know that.” He thought for a minute. “Is that the guy that became so enamored with himself that he drowned in a pool?”

  “According to Greek mythology, yes. He was purportedly very handsome.” She swiped at her nose again and grinned, and then her smile faded. “Yellow jonquils lined my front walk at home.”

  She squeezed her eyes closed, but one more tear slid from between her lids. He wished he knew what was making her sad.

  She brushed it away and turned to face him.

  “Have you always lived in the West?” she asked.

  “No. I was born in Kentucky.”

  The horses had fallen into a nice rhythm, stepping slow and steady, their strong shoulders rolling Hoke and Abigail in a side-by-side motion.

  She’d bravely fought whatever had made her sad, so he decided he’d bravely share, too. “My folks came to Missouri when I was eight. They both died before I was ten. A lot of folks got cholera in those days from diseased people coming off the boats.”

  “That’s terrible! Who raised you?”

  “Raised myself. Ed Branson and his wife, Ruby, were awfully good to me.”

  Abigail’s breath caught. “Ruby Branson . . . and Rachel Mathews. You were the man we saw at the cemetery that day!”

  He’d seen her there, had known it was her from the way she walked. “It’s where my folks are buried. Anyway, I traveled to Texas when I was fifteen; been somewhere between Texas and Missouri ever since.”

  Hoke didn’t look to see her reaction but felt her eyes travel the length of him.

  “I can’t bear to think of Jacob having to raise himself, or Charlie going all the way to Texas alone. Did you not go to school?”

  “Not formally. Mrs. Ruby made sure I knew how to read and write. I never saw a woman who loved to read more.” Abigail read to her children every night. Hoke could hear them through the canvas.

  Her eyes were studying him again. He liked the feel of her eyes on him.

  “You’ve no other family?”

  Hoke looked at her then, relieved to see she’d stopped crying. That had been his goal. Her eyes were bluer when wet. And the tip of her nose had turned pink.

  He wasn’t used to talking about himself. Even James knew little of his past. But for some reason he wanted to tell her. He wanted her to know—not so she could feel sorry for him, but so she could know him. Understand him. Forgive him fo
r faults he knew he had, like clamming up and holding his cards too close to his chest.

  “No family that I’m aware of. I’m sure I’ve got relatives somewhere, but as a ten-year-old I didn’t pay close attention. I faintly remember some talk of it, but they weren’t folks I recalled well enough to seek out when I found myself alone.”

  Hoke had been alone for years but for the occasional riding partner, like James. He was tired of being alone. Freedom was important to a man. At least, he had told himself it was important. He never thought he could travel with a group like this and not go mad from being tied to the responsibility of it. But it wasn’t bad.

  Some of these folks were annoying and downright funny in their choice of things. It was all he could do not to belly-laugh at those Schroeders for getting bent out of shape over a chicken. And those mindless sheep! Who in his right mind had the patience for putting up with sheep? But the Douglas brothers were good at it. Alec and Baird were as patient with the sheep as they were with simple-minded Paddy. Hoke would have lost patience long ago if John Sutler or Tim Peters had been in charge of this train, but they weren’t. Dotson was. And Dotson was a man he could follow. Dotson had sense.

  Hoke studied Abigail’s face again, eager to know what she thought of him, but he couldn’t tell.

  “What made you leave Independence?” she asked.

  It was the question he had dreaded, the one he had known she would ask. And he had thought he might tell her, but now he couldn’t. “Just restless.”

  “So you traveled from Texas to Missouri, but you’ve not traveled this route?”

  “No. I’ve seen the lower half of the Rockies but not the upper half.”

  It didn’t seem either one of them could look on the other and lock the gaze. Each time he looked at her, she looked away as if not entirely willing to be known. And he did the same.

  “Is the lower half where you marshaled? In Colorado?”

  “Yes. I didn’t do it for long—only a year.”

  “It must have been dangerous.”

  “I been through some scrapes. You learn to do what it takes, or you die. It’s that simple. The will to live is a great teacher. Only real skill it takes is knowing how to track people.”

  “And how to bring them in,” she corrected. “Staying alive when you find them.”

  He winced. Then he caught her gaze and held it. “I didn’t like tracking men, then having to kill ’em when they started shooting back at me.”

  There . . . he’d told her that much: that he’d killed men. Would she think less of him now for knowing it? He hadn’t forgotten the look she had in her eyes when she’d told him about her conversation with that man at the creek bank in Missouri, how troubled she’d seemed at the thought of one man killing another.

  But she held his gaze, and he read no judgment in her eyes. Warm relief washed through him. He felt safe to continue.

  “I always loved working with horses. My dad had a half-decent horse when he died. After I found myself alone I slept in a barn with that horse for a long time. That’s how I got to know Mr. Branson. He gave me my first job. It was always my favorite job. So I went back to working with horses after I met James.”

  “And then you decided to come out here. To see new country.”

  He watched her as she looked out over the land ahead of them. “Yeah.” He couldn’t tell her that he’d come because of her. He didn’t know how she felt about him and it was making him irritable, that and wondering if she really had a husband. All the evidence said she had one, so where was that nagging doubt in the back of his mind coming from? What would Hoke do if and when the husband showed up?

  Do what he’d always done, he reckoned. Get up. Make coffee. Ride off. Survive.

  What had Dotson said? The Oregon Trail was a road to anywhere.

  He’d figure it out. It was just that for the first time in his life, he didn’t want to live only for himself. He wanted to make a difference for someone else. He felt like she and those kids could use a guy like him—or at least he could make their lives easier. They could sure make his life more meaningful . . . they already had in a short time, whether they realized it or not.

  Something unexpected had happened to him. It had stolen in slow and subtle when he showed those boys how to hobble the mules, figured out why Corrine was so sassy, and held that sleeping angel in his arms. When Lina was sick his heart had actually burned inside his chest with worry. He’d never experienced anything like that before. Even the dog had captured his heart somehow.

  She looked at him again. “What was it like, being in the army?”

  He shrugged his shoulders, wondering how to answer. “Some men like it. I didn’t. Saw too many men let the power go to their heads. The farther west you go, the easier it is for officers to behave badly. Men like Colonel Dotson are rare. I saw one officer put a man in the stockade because he drank too much one night, and that same man had saved the officer’s life in an Indian skirmish the day before. That man would have died for his superior officer, but because his shirt wasn’t buttoned all the way the next morning and his shoes weren’t shined to the right sheen, he got drug off and punished for it. I can appreciate order and discipline as much as the next man, but some of the eastern rules don’t make a lot of sense out here.”

  “But there are some men like the colonel. Some good ones?”

  “Oh, sure. There are some great men in the army.” Was she wondering about her husband?

  They rode in silence for a bit. Then Hoke, suddenly making up his mind, dismounted and stepped toward the filly. He reached in his shirt pocket, then reached for her hand. “I’ve been looking for a good time to give this back to you.” He laid the blue crocheted bag on her open palm, holding her hand between his own longer than he really had to, enjoying the feel of her skin next to his, and enjoying the sweep of her eyes rolling over each of his fingers. That was the second time she’d examined his hands. He wondered why.

  He reluctantly stepped back and remounted as she pulled open the string.

  “I don’t understand,” said Abigail.

  “You overpaid me.”

  She shook her head. “I did not. I underpaid you, if anything.”

  “You overpaid me a hundred dollars.”

  “Is this because my money was stolen? I don’t want you feeling sorry for us, Mr. Hoke.”

  “Just Hoke. Look, I don’t feel right about keeping it knowing you may have need for it. I told you I was fine with six. I’m trying to do this in private, so don’t get up in airs about it, just take it.” Realizing he was on the verge of irritable again, he added, “Please.”

  Abigail put the bag in her pocket and didn’t say anything for a while. Just when it started to worry him, she said, “What will you do in Oregon?”

  He took his time answering. “I’m not sure I’m going all the way to Oregon.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Haven’t decided yet. What about you?” He turned to look at her.

  She looked away. “My husband is supposed to be at Fort Hall.”

  “Supposed to be?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  They’d been climbing and had come to a plateau, far ahead of the train now. Hoke stopped and looked back behind them. The train was like a miniature moving village—like tiny children’s play toys.

  “Looks like we’ve got time.”

  Abigail hesitated. “He never came home,” she finally said. “So for a long time I believed he had been killed. But when I tried to claim his death benefits, a gentleman in the War Department said he was alive and serving at Fort Hall. In February I got a letter from him. It was short, but I remember it verbatim. Abigail, it looks like you tracked me down.” She turned in the saddle to face him. “How would you take that, Mr. Hoke?”

  He opened his mouth to correct her—just Hoke—but thought better of it.

  If Baldwyn hadn’t wanted to be tracked down, maybe Baldwyn didn’t want to be married anymore. If Baldwyn di
dn’t want to be married anymore, how was he going to feel when she showed up on his doorstep . . . with four kids and a dog in tow?

  But what man in his right mind wouldn’t want such a woman? She was the most fascinating creature Hoke had ever met.

  He started to answer, then stopped himself and glanced over at her. She was looking down, so he studied her, from her blond wisps of hair that had blown about in the wind, her flushed cheeks washed by the falling tears, the white blouse she wore under a black vest, the green skirt, the tall leather boots. Curse the man who would ever walk out on her . . . who would make her cry.

  “I don’t know how I’d take it,” he said.

  Abigail looked up at him with an expression he couldn’t read. “I feel like our lives have been hanging in the crook of a question mark for years. I’m tired of feeling helpless and not knowing what the future holds.” She nodded once, decisively. “I’ve come on this trip in search of answers.”

  Hoke’s heart went out to her. Baldwyn had put her in a bad spot. Somehow his behavior didn’t match up with the feelings Hoke had gotten about him, though, by watching her and the children. It didn’t sound like it matched with her own feelings about Baldwyn, either.

  War could do strange things to a man.

  Something deep in Hoke’s gut was drawing him to Abigail Baldwyn. She was a good-looking woman, but it was more than that. There was something so fine about her—something that drew him like a spell. He didn’t understand it and couldn’t articulate it, but he was a patient man. He’d wait and see what happened when they got to Fort Hall.

  A sudden rumble caused them to look up. To the west, still several miles in front of them, a storm was brewing.

  CHAPTER 13

  The thunder of the water

  May 4, 1866

  We experienced our first storm, Mimi—a fearsome thing with lightning popping all around and winds rocking the wagons. My plants were badly beaten. Some of our livestock bolted in the night and we spent half a day getting them back. Our mules were shaken and were as unruly as they have ever been while getting harnessed. The softness of the ground made the wheels sink and it was rough, slow going.