“Because I’m not married, and she is.”
Lina cupped her hand and whispered in Abigail’s ear so Corrine couldn’t hear. “I think you’re the prettiest mother, and I think you should wear the prettiest dress.”
“Thank you, sweetheart, but Corrine’s probably right.” Just yesterday as Abigail passed the McConnelly wagon she’d overhead Irene say to her sister, Diana, “She’ll have those hemlines up over her waist next.”
They had to have been talking about her. She was the one who had taken up her hemlines after catching her skirt on fire. And she knew her green riding habit was shorter than was customary, but she didn’t think there was any harm in it. After all, she’d had knee-length boots on.
Maybe Irene had never seen a split riding skirt in Boston, where she was from. Maybe Irene also thought it was wrong for a married woman to ride horses with an unmarried man. Abigail didn’t want to cater to the judgment of a woman like Irene McConnelly, but perhaps she should be more guarded in the future.
May 12, 1866
Mr. McConnelly and his two grown daughters are in Company D. The oldest, Irene, is unpleasant. She said some disparaging things about the South, and Southern soldiers in particular, so I keep my distance and do not remind her that I had a brother who gave his life for the Confederacy. I suspect she has been told this by the Dotsons. Everyone else in this group seems willing to move on from the recent conflict.
The blue of the dress perfectly matched her eyes. But as much as she would have loved to wear it, she tucked it back in a burlap sack and scooted it under the feather bed.
Abigail had washed her other clothes that afternoon and they were still wet, hanging on a rope tied between their two wagons, leaving only the dress she was wearing. It was a soft pink, in a high-waisted style, lighter weight for summer, freshly pressed by rotating irons in the fire and fine enough for a dance out on the trail. She dressed it up with a lace shawl and sprinkled lavender powder on her neck. Then she found a pink ribbon and used it to tie her mother’s brooch around her neck. Instead of her usual midcalf boots, she donned daintier ivory boots that buckled around her ankles.
As they were leaving the wagon, Abigail caught a glimpse of gold outside. “Go on, girls, I’m coming,” she said, walking back to investigate.
There, in one corner of her box garden, was a new patch of jonquils—about a dozen of them.
Couples were already dancing when Abigail arrived at the campfire. Word had spread and some folks from the nearby village had joined them.
James Parker whistled long and low as Corrine walked up, but she acted like she didn’t hear him. Abigail loved the blue Regency dress on her daughter. The high crossover bodice offset her tiny waist, and the short sleeves, tied with long ivory ribbons, revealed arms as strong as Corrine’s will. Another ivory ribbon tied her long hair back.
“You better save me a dance,” James told Corrine under his breath.
John and Marnie Sutler were dancing, to the joy of their six children. Their son Paul watched Corrine, but Cooper Austelle got to her first on Jacob’s dare. “Would you like to dance, Corrine?”
She glanced over at Paul, taking Cooper’s arm without enthusiasm. “Sure.”
Lina, wearing a bib dress of pink-and-white calico with yellow rosettes along the collar, skipped off to sit by Caroline Atwood and baby Will.
“Don’t you look like a princess!” Caroline twirled Lina around.
Rascal ran up to Abigail. She turned, looking for Hoke. There he was across the opening talking to the McConnelly sisters, who looked extra pretty in satin frocks. For once, they were animated—especially Irene, who wore a green bonnet with a wide ribbon. It made her face hard to see, even though the men had lit several lanterns around the circle and two fires on either side. Hoke’s face was clear enough. He was smiling broadly—he, who hardly ever smiled.
Abigail felt a pang of jealousy followed by guilt. Just because he watered her box gardens and let her ride his white horse didn’t mean he cared for her. But of all people for him to be smiling at—Irene!
Doc Isaacs approached, looking dapper in a gray vest. He invited Abigail to dance.
Hoke was conscious of Abigail’s every movement. She and Doc Isaacs made a striking couple, he noted with a scowl. The two talked frequently in the evenings. Both were cultured and educated.
Irene smiled up at Hoke. “I see Mrs. Baldwyn hasn’t raised all her skirts above her ankles.”
Tipping his hat to her, Hoke excused himself. “Enjoy the rest of your evenin’, ma’am.”
He heard Irene mumble to Diana, “I thought he was going to ask me to dance.”
“Maybe he doesn’t dance.”
Doc Isaacs expertly wove Abigail between the other couples.
“It must be hard to be a physician,” said Abigail. “We all want you to work miracles for us, and in the end . . .”
Doc’s face fell from mirthful to somber. “I’m just a man.”
Abigail was sorry to have caused his mood to change. She squeezed his shoulder with the hand that rested there. “Thank you for your patience when I was unreasonable.”
He looked in her eyes. Doc’s eyes were blue, like hers. “I don’t recall you being unreasonable.”
“You have a kindly forgetful memory, then.”
He grinned at her mischievously. “So this husband you’re rumored to have . . . is he real?”
Abigail laughed. “I hope so. I’m going to a lot of trouble on his account. What about you, Dr. Isaacs?”
“What about me?”
He reminded her so much of her brother Seth. Maybe that was why Abigail had felt drawn to him so quickly.
“Why is there not a Mrs. Isaacs?”
He shook his head, his eyes filled with laughter. “Best ones go quick.”
“Well . . . you’re young. There’s no need to hurry the matter.”
Orin Peters cut in. Orin wasn’t nearly as polished a dancer as Doc Isaacs, and he concentrated intensely on his feet. When the song ended, Abigail thanked him, but Orin lingered. “It’s a nice evenin’,” he said after a bit.
“It certainly is.” She watched the colonel and Christine Dotson dance past.
“Someone said you lost your mother.”
Abigail turned to look at Orin. He’d barely ever spoken to her before. She’d been surprised when he’d cut in on Doc Isaacs. He must have wanted to talk to someone. “I did, about a year ago. When did you lose yours?”
Orin peered down at the ground. “I was a baby. I don’t even remember her.”
“I know she would have loved to know you—to see you all grown up and dancing.” Abigail put a hand on his arm. “I’m truly sorry about your brother, Orin.”
He excused himself.
After that Colonel Dotson asked Abigail to dance. Then she danced with Baird Douglas. Baird’s brother Paddy stood to the side, smiling and nodding to the music.
“Do you dance, Paddy?” Abigail asked when she and Baird stopped. Paddy shook his head. She looked at the raccoon in his arms. “Does Carson dance?” Paddy grinned and shook his head harder.
“He could dance. If I taught him.” He held the raccoon out for her to pet, then pulled him back to sit inside his vest, where Carson liked to ride.
Abigail danced with Charlie next, then swooped over and grabbed Jacob. Hoke tottered on the sidelines with Lina on his feet.
Finally, James Parker, taking a break from his guitar, asked Abigail to dance while Alec played on with his fiddle.
“Mrs. Baldwyn, you are a vision.”
She laughed. “I’ll take that with a grain of salt, considering the source.”
“I do like women,” he admitted. “Is Corrine too young for me, you think?”
“Yes, I think.”
“Darn. Then Lina’s out, too? I was thinking I could get her young and train her like I wanted.”
Abigail laughed. It would take a confident woman to snag James Parker.
He whirled her around. Her skirts
fanned out and brushed over the holster he wore low on his right hip. Few of the men in this wagon train wore guns all the time, but Hoke and James did.
She nodded her head toward it. “Do you sleep with that gun, Mr. Parker?”
“Yes, ma’am. In my hand.”
“You do not!”
James Parker, who kept a verbal jab going with nearly everyone around him, turned serious eyes on her. “It doesn’t protect me if I can’t get to it. Considering some of the trails Hoke and I have ridden, I’ve needed it close at hand.”
It made Abigail wonder what kind of trails they had ridden. “How long have you and Hoke known each other?”
“Six years. We met as cavalry scouts. He’s one of the best men I’ve ever known.”
“How so?”
“You can count on him. If he gives his word on something, he’ll do it or die. And he can outwork anybody. You probably haven’t noticed.” He laughed. “He’s like having three men around instead of one. I don’t know why he puts up with me—probably because I’m so charming.”
Abigail smiled. James Parker was charming.
“Hoke also has an uncanny sixth sense that has saved our scalps more than once. He just knows things lots of times without knowing why he knows ’em.”
“Why aren’t you both married?” It wasn’t really any of her business, but Doc’s earlier questions had set her mind to wondering.
“Personally, I find it difficult to settle on just one woman. I have several I’m keepin’ my eye on in cities all up and down the trail.”
Abigail laughed. She didn’t doubt it. “You seem to have a good relationship with Tam Woodford.”
“Tam?” James furrowed his brow down at Abigail. “Why, she’s crazy about Harry Sims, can’t you see that?”
“No! Really?” Abigail swung her head around to look at Tam and Harry dancing nearby. Had they been dancing together all night? How had she missed it?
“I thought women had instincts about these things. You’re slippin’, Mrs. Baldwyn.”
“What about Hoke, then? Does he have women all up and down the trail?”
“Oh, no . . . I never a saw a man more pa’ticular about women than Hoke. He’s not fussy about what he eats, but he’s most pa’ticular about guns, horses, and women.”
“He doesn’t seem interested in any of our ladies.”
“Oh, he’s interested.”
Abigail’s foot faltered. “Really? Who?”
She was embarrassed the moment the words left her lips. James was going to see right through her. But . . . Hoke had been talking to Irene earlier and Irene was attractive.
He raised his eyebrows and looked away. “I can’t say.”
Abigail stole a peep over James’s broad shoulder at Hoke, who was now talking with Christine Dotson. His back was turned but she could see Christine’s eyes. Abigail hoped when she got to be Christine’s age that her eyes crinkled at the corners.
Hoke turned suddenly and caught her gaze. Excusing himself from Mrs. Dotson, he walked toward her and James.
Abigail’s pulse quickened. Once again, she hoped James didn’t notice.
Before the dance, when James had seen Hoke planting the flowers in Abigail’s box garden, he’d said, “Hoke, you might want to be careful.”
“You might want to mind your own business.”
“I’ve never known you to look twice at a woman. You would wait and fall for the most out-of-reach female you’ve ever crossed paths with.”
Maybe she was, thought Hoke, but by God, he wanted her to have those flowers that reminded her of the home she’d lost, and him of his mother. When he’d spied those flowers coming back from the springs that afternoon, he couldn’t resist digging up a few to add to her collection.
“James,” he said now, “let me show Mrs. Baldwyn how to dance.”
James tightened his grip on her. “I just showed her.”
Hoke glowered.
“All right, then.” James looked down at Abigail. “Don’t let him step on your feet.”
Hoke laid his hand low on her back, pulling her toward him, a reckless thrill shooting the length of him. He’d itched to take this woman in his arms for weeks now—had come close to sweeping her off the white filly that day he returned the blue crocheted bag to her.
Harry Sims whirled past and Tam leaned over to Hoke. “You’re holdin’ her awful close.”
Hoke scowled and spun Abigail away from them, refusing to relax his grip.
His eyes followed Abigail’s as they traveled around the circle. “Those two have been talking for a while, your young she-cat and Master Sutler,” he said when her gaze landed on Corrine. “It happened while you were consoling Peters.”
Abigail looked back at Hoke. Did anything get past this man?
She had been taught to lay her right hand on a man’s left when he held it out for her. This created a safe pocket of distance between the dancers’ bodies. But Hoke curled his hand over hers and laid it on his heart. It brought her so near to him she could feel the brush of his breath on her forehead.
How long had it been since she’d been held close by a man?
She drove the thought from her head. “Is that Paul Sutler Corrine is talking to?” She looked but couldn’t see the young man’s face.
“Yes. What’d Peters want?”
Hoke could be so abrupt. Abigail avoided his probing eyes. “I don’t know that he wanted anything. Just someone to talk to.”
“There’s plenty of people here for him to talk to. He’s sweet on you.”
Abigail scowled up at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m at least ten years older than him.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
Hoke was clean shaven and smelled like leather and . . . what was it? Trees. He was always chewing on some stick from a certain kind of tree. Abigail had seen him select the stems and whittle them down; a couple of them were in his shirt pocket now. He wore a white shirt and black pants. A gun belt hung low on his left thigh.
“You favor your left hand,” she said, looking down at the pearl-handled gun.
“That’s right.”
“Jacob favors his left hand.”
“I noticed that. Been meaning to give him some pointers. I favor my left foot, too, so it’s a wonder I can dance.”
He smiled suddenly. When he smiled it changed the whole look of his face.
“And you’ve had a haircut.” She bit the inside of her lip as soon as she said it. What lack of control! He was going to know she’d been paying attention.
“Ingrid Schroeder gave haircuts to several of the men this afternoon while you women were at the springs.”
Abigail looked away again, avoiding those eyes that tunneled deep, past the surface.
Ingrid Schroeder was about twenty—a pretty girl with a mass of auburn hair and strong German features. Abigail wondered if Ingrid was the object of Hoke’s eye. She had seen them talking. It was an intimate thing: cutting a man’s hair.
The song ended and Hoke released her. When no one else asked Abigail to dance, he extended his hand again. “One more?”
“Love to. Oh, Mr. Hoke!”
“Just Hoke.”
Same low hand on her back . . . same pull of her other hand to his chest. She tried to keep from looking inappropriately pleased.
“Did you put those jonquils in my box?”
“Depends on whether you like ’em.”
“I like ’em.” She allowed herself a grin.
“Thought you might want some for where you’re going.”
Abigail was so touched by his words and actions that she didn’t trust herself to speak for a minute. “Thank you. That was very thoughtful of you.”
This song was a foot-stomper from east Tennessee, played by Nichodemus Jasper. He shocked the whole party with how fast his fingers flew across the small wooden box on his lap. James, who was back at his guitar, couldn’t keep pace with him.
Hoke twirled Abigail around, always
bringing her close again with his hand low on her back. She was drunk with how good his hand felt on her and didn’t trust herself to dance with him much longer. What would Irene say about her next?
When Nichodemus finished, the group cheered. He appeared to grow three inches taller. “I want to play one last song before we end, and I want Nora to sing it with me.”
“No, I can’t.” Nora was a timid bird with nervous mannerisms.
“Come on, Nora, sing this last one with me.”
“I’d rather not, Nichodemus.”
He insisted he had to have her voice to do the last song or it wouldn’t be right. With everyone encouraging her, Nora finally relented.
“This is her favorite song,” said Nichodemus behind his hand.
Nora swatted him.
Shy at first, she worked up her courage and began to sing . . . like Gabriel. It wasn’t an east Tennessee hill song like Abigail had expected. Instead it was a slave spiritual, one Mimi used to hum when she worked in the kitchen. Nora’s words brought Mimi back—Mimi, whose presence had been such a comfort!
I want Jesus to walk with me.
I want Jesus to walk with me.
All along life’s pilgrim journey,
Oh, I want Jesus to walk with me.
Hoke didn’t ask Abigail if she’d dance with him again—she would have told him no if he had. He simply pulled her close and moved her back and forth to the haunting strums of the dulcimer and Nora’s angelic voice.
In my trials, he’ll walk with me.
In my trials, he’ll walk with me.
All along life’s pilgrim journey,
Oh, I want Jesus to walk with me.
As her mind filled with thoughts of Mimi and Marston, Abigail squeezed her eyes closed, Nora’s voice wrapping around her like a blanket. Tears stung the corners of her eyes, dropping heavy onto the grass. Soon her cheek lay next to Hoke’s shoulder.
In my sorrows, he’ll walk with me.
In my sorrows, he’ll walk with me.
All along life’s pilgrim journey,
Oh, I want Jesus to walk with me.
Leaving Independence Page 14
