Leaving Independence

by Leanne W. Smith

  “Lift your arms out,” she instructed.

  Her fingers walked down his lifted arms as she measured from his shoulder to his wrist, first on one side, then the other.

  She wrote Hoke (just Hoke, he couldn’t help but notice) on the wood at the back of the wagon, then jotted letters and numbers below it.

  Her hands wrapped the tape around his bicep, forearm, and then wrist as she stood to one side of him and measured the circumference of each.

  It caught Hoke off guard when she reached around his broad chest and pulled the tape taut, measuring it at the widest point just under his armpits. He was still recovering from the brush of her breasts when she slid the tape down to his waist.

  Damn!

  Why hadn’t he asked for a shirt before?

  She lowered his arms and stepped behind him to measure his back from the neck to the top of his pants.

  “How long do you like them?” she asked.

  He took her hand and showed her halfway down his buttock. She pulled her hand away as if she’d been burned, turned to the wagon, and wrote down the measurement.

  She turned back toward him, looking down at the ground. “You don’t, by the way.”

  Her eyelashes were so long.

  “I don’t what?” Hoke could barely think straight with the nearness of her, the feel of her hands, those lashes . . .

  “You don’t smell like a dog.”

  She reached up.

  Without thinking, he pulled her toward him. It was as if they were back at the dance at Alcove Springs. Only this time after laying her hand over his heart, he cradled the back of her head and pulled her lips toward his, his other hand sliding down to that familiar dip in her back so he could move her hips closer.

  He hungered for every inch of her.

  A faint memory in the back of his mind whispered that this was wrong, but he pushed the thought away. She was responding . . . her lips, soft as running water in a brook; her mouth startled at first, but now open and hungry as his own; her warm hands running down his chest, around his sides, up his arched back and down again.

  The feel of her body pressed against his was more stirring than he had imagined, and he had imagined it plenty.

  He heard something drop . . . the tape measure maybe . . . and then someone cleared his throat.

  Abigail pulled back. Even in the dim lantern light Hoke could see her flush.

  Orin Peters glowered at Hoke, then turned to Abigail. “I wondered if you had finished with my shirt. I didn’t realize you were . . . busy.”

  Abigail touched her lips before answering. “I did finish it, Orin. I laid it down . . . somewhere.”

  Hoke turned to leave, but Abigail caught his arm.

  “I need your neck size.”

  Oh. Was that why she had reached up to him? Not because she wanted him? But only to measure his neck?

  Hoke stood rock still, staring a hole through Orin while Abigail reached up again and measured his neck with hands that faintly shook.

  Orin couldn’t hold his gaze.

  Abigail avoided his eyes, too. “I should have this finished in a couple of days.”

  “Thanks.”

  Hoke left, cursing Orin Peters and his own lack of self-control.

  “I think I laid your shirt by the rocking chair, Orin.” Abigail moved in that direction.

  Orin caught her sleeve. “I won’t tell if you’ll give me one.”

  Fear, embarrassment, and anger all rose like bile in Abigail’s throat. “Give you one what?”

  “Give me a kiss, like you were giving him.”

  The memory of another man demanding a kiss from her as a form of blackmail came rushing back to her.

  Abigail slapped him, the smack of it reverberating all the way back to her confused and pulsing heart.

  “Don’t ask me to mend any more shirts for you, Orin Peters.”

  She picked up the lantern and left him standing there.

  That had been three days before they reached Ash Hollow. Hoke was wearing his new shirt now as he eased another wagon down the steep descent. It was gold, like the gold that rimmed his eyes, the color of the grass on the prairie. Best shirt he’d ever had. Hadn’t taken her long to make it, either.

  Three days had passed since the kiss. They hadn’t spoken of it.

  He had found the shirt folded on a table by his wagon the night before. A perfect fit. When he buttoned it up this morning he’d remembered the feel of her hands pulling the tape across the broadest part of his chest. When he tucked the shirt in, he thought about her measuring from his neck to the middle of his backside.

  The shirt now stuck to his back with sweat as he held the rope to help lower the final wagon. They had been lucky to get everyone down the hill without any runaways, but the effort had come at a physical price. Some other travelers lowered their wagons with the help of logs, but logs could start to roll. Banged-up wagons were littered all over the hill as testimony to the dangers of this method. Manpower was the best approach, if you had manpower to do it, but Lord amighty! He’d feel it tomorrow.

  He was feeling it now.

  “I’ll be right down,” said James when they finished with the last wagon. “I see me a hunk of log over there I want.” He picked up an ax and set off after it.

  “What do you need a hunk of log for?”

  “I want to make something out of it.”

  Hoke walked to the back of their wagon and peeled the gold shirt off, splashing water over his chest and wetting a bandana to tie around his neck. He heard a sharp intake of breath as Abigail came around the corner.

  When he turned, she averted her glance and held out a fresh shirt.

  “I made you another one. I hope you like green.” Her words came out fast. “I had time to sew it on the lockstitch machine while we were waiting at the bottom of the hill. Give me that one and I’ll wash it for you.”

  He exchanged shirts with her, amused that she wouldn’t look at him, tempted to take her in his arms again, sweat or no sweat, but it was daylight still.

  First there had been the awkwardness over Jacob, and now there was a new awkwardness between them since she’d measured him for the shirt.

  It was his fault.

  He was embarrassed to have let his instincts get the best of him, but the embarrassment was trumped by his desire for her. Try as he might, he could not get the sight of her, the smell of her, and now the taste and feel of her, out of his head.

  “If I had a wife I’d ask her for a back rub.” Hoke watched her eyes, feeling only marginal guilt at her obvious discomfort.

  She refused to look at him. “There’s always Ingrid. Or Irene McConnelly. Harry Sims could perform the ceremony after supper.”

  Leaning against the back of his wagon, feeling worn out from the day’s hard work, he buttoned up the green shirt.

  “Ingrid’s just a kid.” And Irene McConnelly was poison. She’d give a man a back rub, all right, and land him in hot water. Hoke had gotten educated on her kind twenty years ago. In fact, Hoke would have bet money that Irene’s flirting was what landed Harry Sims and Michael Chessor in trouble with the soldiers at Kearney. Irene had fluttered around Doc Isaacs until she learned he didn’t have any money. Then she’d lost interest . . . fast.

  But maybe Hoke wasn’t much better himself, because now he had put a married woman in an awkward spot.

  “Here.” Abigail handed him another shirt. “I made this one for James. I guessed his measurements based on yours—longer in the sleeves and a little smaller in the waist. Tell him to let me know if it doesn’t fit and I’ll make adjustments. Is that one going to work for you?”

  Hoke inspected the sleeves.

  She was talking fast again, refusing to let her eyes land on him for long. “I made it a little looser in the shoulders so you could move your arms more freely, and I thought—I thought you might like green.”

  “It’s perfect. Thanks. And James will appreciate his. Can we pay you?”

  Why w
ouldn’t she look at him? He had his shirt buttoned now.

  “After all the two of you have done for us?” She turned to leave.

  “Listen, Abigail.”

  She stopped, her back to him.

  Hoke breathed deep, not used to making apologies. “I’m sorry if I . . . misread things the other night.”

  She, too, breathed deep, and tilted her head to the side, but didn’t turn around. “I’m a married woman, Mr. Mathews. I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. It’s just been a long time since . . .”

  He stepped toward her but she bolted.

  “James has a nasty cut on his arm,” Hoke called after her. “If you see the doc, will you send him over?”

  If Orin Peters wasn’t hovering around her, Doc Isaacs was.

  June 15, 1866

  Corrine has learnt to make butter by hanging a tightly lidded jar under the back of the wagon each morning, half filled with cream from the cow’s milk. The jar shakes back and forth all day and by evening, we have butter.

  Abigail laid her pen down. She didn’t want to talk to Mimi about butter; she wanted to talk to Mimi about her feelings for Hoke.

  If Mimi were here she would know what had happened just by looking at her. Abigail could hear her now. Lord, Miz Abigail, I can’t believe you gone and kissed another man while traveling out to Mr. Robert!

  Abigail had known Hoke had strong arms and shoulders, but until she measured him for the shirt, she hadn’t realized just what a well-built man he was. Robert had only been a boy when they married.

  Hoke was no boy.

  The only thing to do was stay busy. If she kept busy she might think about Hoke less. And busyness might keep her from running to Harry Sims and confessing everything, as if telling a preacher could absolve her of her sin.

  Her two wagons had been among the first lowered down that day. It was rare for her to have time to use the lockstitch machine in the daylight. The train only stopped on Sundays, and Sundays were supposed to be a day of rest, although she cheated and washed the laundry.

  So Abigail had stayed busy by sewing. And look where it had led her . . . right back to Hoke’s wagon and Hoke with his shirt off! She had actually started to tell him she’d thought green would look good with the gold of his eyes.

  Abigail was cloaked in self-reproach.

  Thank God it had only been Orin who’d come around the corner. What if it had been one of her children?

  If Orin told anyone, she could expose him for what he’d said to her, but the damage would still be done. She wondered how badly it would hurt Charlie, Corrine, Jacob, and Lina if Orin told them what he saw.

  The man known as Robert Baldwyn hadn’t always been patient. But survival had demanded he develop it.

  So he waited a month to send the letter, from the morning he met with the trapper. He remembered riding back up to the gate at Fort Hall later that day with an elk slung over his horse, meeting the same young sentry who’d been on guard duty when he left.

  “See?” He had smiled widely with his lips, but knew none of it reached his eyes. “No harm done.”

  Leaving the elk with the cook, he had washed up. In addition to patience, he had learned to be meticulous. He polished the hilt of his sword and the buttons of his jacket, took a stiff brush and buffed his boots, then cleaned a speck off the name he’d had embroidered on his breast pocket.

  Then he waited. Four weeks. It would be best if the letter didn’t reach her until she arrived at Laramie.

  As he touched the quill to his tongue now and prepared to dip it in the ink jar, he instinctively reached into the pocket of his jacket with his other hand for the picture of Abigail, then remembered he’d left it with the trapper.

  It didn’t matter. The beauty of her face would be forever seared in his mind. Shame, really, that she had to die.

  Sweeping the remorse from his head, he wrote: Welcome to the West, darling.

  When people found his letter to her after she was dead, he wanted it to look like he had been a dedicated husband.

  CHAPTER 19

  Wide fork of the Platte

  Early on a Friday, the wagon train came to the wide fork of the Platte at a spot within sight of Chimney Rock. The colonel decided to take a couple of days to catch up on wagon repairs and wait to cross the river Monday.

  “We’ll need to take the wheels off for this one and float the wagons over. The Platte’s got a swamp-like bottom.”

  He wanted two rafts built in case any of the wagons took on water, explaining, “Sometimes the workmen just slap the pitch on the wagon bottoms and they leak.” If one started to sink, they’d tie the rafts to either side of it to get it safely over.

  Reaching the fork of the river was cause for celebration. Friday afternoon some of the older children put together a picnic to eat on the riverbank. Abigail watched Charlie bring more wood to the fire.

  “You’re happy because Paul Sutler is going,” said Charlie to Corrine as she worked on a meat pie, humming a tune. He didn’t often tease his sisters, especially not sharp-tongued Corrine.

  Corrine raised her brows. “And is Emma Austelle going?”

  Charlie grinned. “Maybe.”

  Once Corrine had finished crimping the crust and slid her pie in the sheet-iron stove, she left with Lina to look for wildflowers.

  Charlie turned to Abigail. “Ma, if a girl sits close to you on the wagon seat and seems like she’s holding her hand out, would it be all right to hold it or should I ask first?” His face turned pink. “I feel funny asking you, but you are a girl. Or you were. I thought about asking Mr. Hoke. I knew he wouldn’t tease me for it like Mr. Parker might, but . . . I don’t know. It’s hard to ask him about it somehow.”

  Abigail looked at Charlie, wondering what he would think of her if he knew she had kissed Hoke Mathews. She had tried to shake the memory of it—of Hoke’s flaming eyes and the feel of his hand possessively moving her against him, then brushing over the curve of her body, of the hunger of his mouth and how he had tasted like the hickory sticks he always chewed. Hoke wouldn’t hesitate to take a girl’s hand if he wanted it.

  “You need a haircut,” whispered Abigail, pushing Charlie’s bangs away from his eyes. She wanted a good look at him as he was right now, standing on the threshold of adulthood. “If she’s holding her hand out there, don’t be afraid to take it.”

  He grinned. “Weren’t you my age when you married Pa? How did you know you loved him?”

  Abigail shook her head. Had she loved him? Yes . . . she had. Did she still?

  She wished she could remember the taste of Robert’s kisses.

  “I don’t know, Charlie. He got in my head and my heart and I wanted to be around him every minute.”

  “Listen, you won’t tell anyone I asked you about this, will you?”

  “Of course not!” She leaned in and whispered, “But let me know how it goes.”

  Just then Lina and Corrine returned with the wildflowers. Almost as soon as Abigail had gotten them arranged, Prissy Schroeder ran up and asked if she could have some to make a necklace.

  Abigail pulled out some Queen Anne’s lace and violets and handed them to her.

  After Prissy left, Corrine hissed, “Why are you always so nice to everybody? Lina just brought those to you. She didn’t pick them for Prissy!”

  “Corrine, it doesn’t cost a thing to be kind. Don’t you think people are more inclined to be nice to you if you’re nice to them?”

  Corrine frowned. “Not her.”

  Abigail longed to have heart-to-heart conversations with Corrine, but Corrine was Miss Independent about everything. She had started walking and talking earlier than any of the other children. Before she was a year old, she had teetered into the bedroom one morning with a big grin on her face, going to Robert’s side of the bed.

  “I did it!” It was her first full sentence.

  “What did you do, pumpkin?” Robert reached down to scoop her into the bed.

  She pointed
to her and Charlie’s room across the hall. “I did it!” she said again.

  “You climbed down? Is that it? And Charlie didn’t help you?”

  She nodded.

  Robert belly-laughed. “I’m going to have to rename you Monkey.”

  Robert had adored Corrine. And of all the children, she was the most like him.

  “What else do you want for your picnic?” Abigail asked her now.

  The scowl left Corrine’s face and she smiled, thinking.

  “You’re beautiful when you smile, Corrine.” Abigail started to add that she should do it more often when she realized Corrine had been smiling more. “Are you glad we came on this trip?”

  “I’m not sorry we came.” That was a pretty strong affirmation coming from Corrine, who reached for the flour and cleared a space on their worktable. “Do we still have those blackberries the boys found?”

  They did. Abigail had let the boys go hunting again once Hoke assured her there were no bison herds nearby. They hadn’t come back with any game, but they had with their shirts loaded—and stained—with blackberries.

  Corrine grinned. “I’m going to make blackberry biscuits.”

  “Want my help?”

  “No.”

  “Fine.”

  Corrine started cutting butter into the bowl of flour.

  “I’ll at least get you the milk.” Abigail grabbed the pail and set off to find the milk cow.

  Just before they’d hit the open plains, a bear had killed one of the Douglases’ sheep in the night. Wolves and coyotes sometimes stalked the train, too, so the colonel now kept the livestock a good distance away, posting additional guards to watch both them and the wagon train.

  Abigail was bent under the Jersey, squeezing the milk out in long, forceful spurts, when she looked up to see Orin Peters watching her.

  She nearly kicked over the bucket.

  “Orin!” He hadn’t come near her since the night she’d slapped him.

  “Some folks are getting a party together to ride out and get a closer look at Chimney Rock tomorrow, Mrs. Abigail. Do you want to go?”