Leaving Independence

by Leanne W. Smith

  Abigail looked around for her other children. Lina was with Mrs. Josephine listening to the Jaspers sing. And Corrine and Charlie were talking with Clyde and Emma Austelle.

  Doc pointed to the three boys under the wagon. “Earlier they were plotting a prank on the McConnelly sisters.”

  “I hope it wasn’t too bad.”

  “No worse than what they deserve.”

  Abigail lightly slapped his arm. “I still feel bad for what they went through.” Of course, neither Irene nor Diana had been by to express their concern about her getting shot. But that had not surprised her.

  “It didn’t make them any nicer,” said Doc Isaacs.

  As they passed the next wagon Abigail caught a glimpse of Hoke on the other side of camp, leaning against a wagon wheel and talking with James, who was sanding a block of wood. Hoke was chewing on a stick, watching her and Doc Isaacs.

  Abigail’s hand turned hot on Doc’s arm as she thought about the kiss Hoke had planted there a few days ago. He hadn’t been back to see her since.

  Sleep had begun to elude her. She didn’t know if it was the fear of getting closer to Fort Hall that was the cause, or just that she’d been in her bed too long. Twice she’d awakened and noticed light coming through the canvas of Hoke’s wagon. When she eased her linseed-oiled cover up, she could see his outline in the light of an oil lamp, reading what she suspected was her book of poetry.

  “Marc, what do you know about Hoke?”

  Doc gripped the hand she had laid in the crook of his arm a little tighter. “Not much really. I did hear a rumor about him in Independence, that he’d killed a man when he was young. Something to do with a woman of ill repute. A jury found him innocent, but he left town after the trial and stayed gone twenty years. I don’t tell you that to smear his name, I tell you that because I think it explains why he’s so guarded all the time. He seems like a good man. He’s certainly a capable man. I feel safer with him around.”

  Abigail was curious to know more details but knew she’d never ask for them. Once again she imagined what it would be like for Charlie or Jacob to be left alone, to have to grow up fast . . . to face hard things. “You think that’s why he’s blunt?”

  “He’s definitely authoritative.” Doc grinned. “But Hoke can be gentle with the children. They sure respect him.”

  Abigail was surprised Hoke had never married and had children of his own. It made her wonder about Marc Isaacs’s past. He was certainly going to make a good father.

  “Were you close to Caroline’s husband?”

  “He was my dearest friend.”

  “I didn’t realize that.”

  “We were roommates in medical school.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Dysentery. It was a real lesson in humility for a couple of young physicians. My loyalty to Caroline is doublefold. She’s my sister—my only sibling—our parents are both gone. And her child is the son of my closest friend. I promised William I’d help raise him.”

  Just then Jacob came running past them, calling to Hannah Sutler, “Dammit, Abigail! I told you to git to your wagon!” Abigail reached out and grabbed him, wincing from the sharp pain in her side.

  “Watch your language, young man!”

  Jacob stomped his foot. “Aw, Ma. We’re having the Indian attack.”

  “Well you can have it without using salty language, Jacob.”

  “But—”

  “No buts.’”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do I need to put some more lavender in your hair?” she asked, running her hand through his mousy locks. “Are the fleas bothering you?”

  Jacob rolled his eyes. “No, I’m fine. Can I play now?” He went back to Hannah. “Git to the wagon.” He rolled his eyes at his mother.

  Abigail looked at Doc Isaacs in apology.

  He laughed. “That reminds me, I meant to tell you about Jacob. Yesterday, he and the youngest Austelle boy were crawling, pulling themselves on their arms, making big waves in the grass without knowing it. Hoke and James saw them and decided to have a little fun. James said, just loud enough for them to hear, ‘Hoke, go get your gun, I see Indians crawlin’ up to the train.’ Before he said that, you could see the grass moving. But then it stopped.” Doc laughed. “In fact, it might have shaken a little in fear.”

  Abigail had no trouble picturing the scene.

  “Hoke said, ‘James, I don’t believe that’s Indians. That’s a crouching mountain lion is what that is. Why look, it’s not just one, but two of ’em! Don’t worry, I’ve got ’em in my gunsights.’ Then Hoke pointed his revolver in the air and clicked the hammer back.

  “Jacob and Cooper stood up and yelled, ‘Don’t shoot, Mr. Hoke! It’s not really mountain lions! It’s us!’ I thought I was going to split my side it was so funny. We sat around at supper last night and retold that several times.”

  “Jacob’s never been short on imagination.” She decided to change the subject. “How is Nelda Peters?”

  Doc’s face turned sad. “Better. Right after the baby came . . . you heard it was stillborn?”

  Abigail nodded.

  “She shouldn’t have delivered for several more weeks, but the baby had already died. I thought we were going to lose Nelda, too, she bled so much. Sorry.” He looked down. “That was more than you needed to know. The night after an Indian attack is not an easy time to give birth. She was scared to make a sound—scared she’d put us all in danger, I think. Her heart raced the whole time. And then she was worried the baby would cry and make noise, only he didn’t.”

  Doc shook his head. “She was going to name him Timmy, she said.”

  Abigail gripped his arm more tightly. “How is she handling it?”

  “She’s pretty heartbroken. I’ve got bags of laudanum, turpentine, castor oil, quinine, blue moss, calomel, Epsom salts, McLean’s pills . . . you name it . . . but I don’t have a thing for a broken heart. They didn’t teach us how to cure that.”

  “What’s the blue moss for?”

  “Works good on mountain fever, especially if you combine it with calomel and laudanum. Worked a charm on the Schroeders, but it hasn’t helped Baird Douglas’s fever.”

  Abigail searched back through her mind. “I don’t remember you using that on Lina.”

  “Well, I did.” He patted her hand. “You weren’t quite yourself when Lina was sick, so I’m not surprised you don’t remember.”

  Abigail smiled at him apologetically. “I need to visit Nelda.”

  “Wait and make sure you don’t get a fever.”

  “I’m not going to get a fever. And you’re wrong.”

  He stopped walking. “About what?”

  “You do have something it takes to mend a broken heart.”

  He looked at her quizzically.

  “Time and the sweet attentions of a good man can do a woman a world of good.”

  Abigail liked Doc and there was something about Nelda. She seemed right for him, and Caroline and Nelda were close.

  Doc’s mouth fell open. “I can’t believe you’re playing matchmaker after our conversation at Alcove Springs about me not needing to be in any rush to look for a wife.”

  Abigail lifted her shoulders, innocently. “I’m not suggesting you rush. I’m only suggesting that you would be good for Nelda. Whether Nelda would be good for you is for you to decide. Now give me a hug.”

  He held his arms out and she wrapped hers around him. “You’ve done so much for me, and I’m grateful. I can’t help wanting to see you happy.”

  Hoke swore under his breath when Abigail and Doc Isaacs’s laughter floated over to him.

  Doc’s attentions had picked up more than he felt necessary. Sure, Abigail had been shot, but so had Duncan Schroeder. Doc spent a lot more time with Abigail than he did with Duncan, and Duncan wasn’t out of the woods yet.

  He stalked over to her rocking chair and picked it up, setting it in the boys’ wagon, then watched as Marc hugged Abigail and helped her climb t
he steps Hoke had built for her.

  The man known as Robert Baldwyn made camp in the usual place. He waited three days, but the trapper never showed. Before going back to the fort he rode out to the cabin to check on Bonnie.

  “You seen your father?” he asked.

  “Not for a while. Why?”

  “No reason.”

  When he got back to the fort, Robert sharpened his sword.

  The Rocky Mountains are lovely, Mimi. The highest peaks are capped with white, and the bottoms are purple in the evenings against blood-orange sunsets. It must be the purity of the air that makes the tones so deep.

  Someone rapped hard on the side of her wagon. The train had stopped for the noonday meal and Abigail was resting. She pulled back the cloth. There stood Tam Woodford smiling broadly. “You can come to my weddin’ if you promise not to wear that blue dress!”

  Abigail scrambled to get down and hug her neck. “Congratulations, Tam! Why can’t I wear my blue dress?”

  Tam crinkled her nose. “’Cause I want Harry to look at me, that’s why.”

  “Is the dress sinful?”

  “No, it’s just gorgeous and has the prettiest detailing I ever saw.”

  “When’s the wedding?”

  “This Sunday.”

  “Do you want to wear it?”

  Tam looked at Abigail’s middle, then her own. “It ain’t gonna fit this waist.”

  “I could let it out. Or do you want me to make you a dress?”

  “Mrs. Abigail, you’re trying to recover!”

  “Sewing’s not hard.” Abigail’s mind starting working out the options. “I can add detailing to something you’ve already got, or I can start from scratch. Oh, please let me! It will give me something to do while I have to ride in the wagon. Which will it be?”

  They talked about what color would look best—Tam wanted to wear white, with a veil and lots of lace, real girly, which surprised Abigail. Tam had a tan dress and Abigail said they could add some white lace to it and put some thickness in the skirt so it would billow a bit more.

  For the next few days she and Tam measured and planned and basted.

  On Sunday, after Harry Sims had preached a short sermon, Colonel Dotson married Harry and Tam on a creek bank just west of the Continental Divide.

  Just before the wedding, Tam had stood behind the Baldwyns’ second wagon, looking radiant. “I hardly know myself and I sure don’t recognize this dress.”

  She turned as Abigail, Corrine, and Melinda all held up mirrors so she could see herself. Abigail thought she felt Hoke’s eyes watching her in the glass, but when she peered past the wagon she instead saw James Parker, who was looking at Corrine.

  When they reached Soda Springs, Colonel Dotson decided that the train would stay several days to let those who were recovering enjoy the pools that were said to have healing effects. Abigail lay in a warm pool each day in a lightweight dress, the water bubbling and fizzing as she lowered herself in. Lina climbed in with her one day. “It tickles!”

  “It feels like God is stitching me back up,” said Abigail. Her heart might soon be mended, too. In a matter of days she should know how things stood between her and Robert.

  Some of the pools had alkali in them. The men worked hard to keep the stock out of the poisoned pools, but it was harder to keep the small animals out. Rascal got sick after drinking some of the water.

  “Alkali is a nuisance!” declared Hoke.

  Charlie and Jacob held Rascal while Hoke shot fresh water down his throat with a bottle, to flush out the poison.

  Hoke rubbed his ears a long time afterward, watching Abigail from a distance. When she climbed out of the pool her wet clothes stuck to her skin, accentuating the shape of the woman who had now seeped into his bloodstream like a poison.

  “Hurts, don’t it?” he muttered to the dog. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

  Back on the plains, when they’d walked across a stretch of dry alkali, the men had cut leather pieces and covered all the stock’s feet to keep them from burning. Rascal had chewed his off twice and got sores on the pads of his feet, but it never made him sick like this.

  The Baldwyn children all fussed over him and worried he would die, but the fresh water did him good. He was up and running by the next day.

  Baird Douglas, whose fever had finally broken, especially benefited from soaking in the pools. Duncan Schroeder was still too weak to be lifted down to the pools, so several of the Schroeder women—including his wife, Katrina, and his mother, Mrs. Inez—gathered water by the bucketsful to pour over him as they prayed for his healing.

  It wasn’t enough. Duncan Schroeder died the last night they camped by the springs. The Schroeders were as somber as they’d ever been as Duncan was buried before the train moved out the following morning.

  CHAPTER 26

  Balls are loaded, caps are on

  He sat on his big red roan and waited with the men in his unit, watching Sergeant Smith approach with a tall, dark stranger on a fine-looking stallion. A black dog was at the horse’s heels, as if the man, horse, and dog all came as a set.

  “Cap’n Baldwyn!” called Sergeant Smith as he came within earshot. “Wagon train’s coming.” Smith nodded his head toward the man beside him. “This scout from the train says your wife and children are part of the company.”

  He steeled his jaw. So . . . the trapper had indeed failed. He’d really thought the old serpent could pull it off. Now what would he do? He wondered what had happened, and whether the trapper was dead.

  Checking his thoughts, he looked around at his men, then let his eyes roll over the scout, horse, and dog. They were all staring at him. The scout’s eyes, especially, bore into him hard.

  “Were you expecting your family?” asked Sergeant Smith.

  “I was not.”

  The scout’s fierce eyes narrowed. “You didn’t get word she was coming?”

  “I was not . . . expecting her this soon.” He smiled at the scout. The man didn’t smile back. “You’re sure it’s her?” Who was this hard, handsome scout scrutinizing him so closely? And what was it to him?

  “I’m sure it’s Abigail Baldwyn from Marston, Tennessee, lookin’ for her husband, Captain Robert Baldwyn of the 113th regiment servin’ at Fort Hall.” The dark stranger’s eyes continued to burrow into him. “That you?”

  He smiled widely this time . . . victoriously . . . and pointed to the name embroidered on his chest. “That’s me. Men, I need a moment. How far away is the train?”

  “About an hour out,” one of the soldiers answered.

  Hoke felt a sharp, instant dislike for Robert Baldwyn. Why? Was it simple jealousy? Because his heart was racing wild with the bitter sensation.

  He had wanted to believe this man did not exist. Even after Laramie, and after hearing Abigail talk about Robert, Hoke’s gut had refused to accept what logic had shouted. But here Robert was: alive and, from what Hoke’s gut was telling him, not the type of man to whom he could begrudgingly concede her.

  Was he being influenced by the comments made by the soldier at Laramie? Hoke prided himself on his ability to read other men accurately. He couldn’t afford to lose that skill—not out here in this land where a man’s wits and guts were his two most critical weapons.

  But, no. There was something amiss about this man. Whatever kind of man he had been before, the Robert Baldwyn who sat on this big red roan in front of him now was more than just arrogant.

  Hoke let his eyes run over Baldwyn again, from his overly shiny boots up to his neatly trimmed beard. His uniform was crisp . . . impeccable. The other men looked hot and dusty. Did he launder his clothes every day, as if expecting an audience with the president? A fancy sword hung at his side. Some men still used bayonets out here, but this was a big gold-handled rapier. It was something old Spanish fighters would have used—an impractical weapon in these parts and times.

  He searched the man’s face for any resemblance to Charlie, Corrine, Jacob, and Lina but
couldn’t find it. Maybe he just couldn’t be objective.

  Of course he couldn’t be objective.

  “She’ll probably head this way when she hears you’re this close,” he said. “There were a couple of others with me when we crossed paths with your sergeant. They rode back to the train.” As much as Hoke had wanted to see Abigail’s reaction when she heard her husband was close, he had wanted to see this man even more. He’d wanted to size him up before Abigail got to him.

  Baldwyn turned to Sergeant Smith. “Ride back to the train. Send Mrs. Baldwyn on ahead—just her. I’d like a little time with her.” He looked hard at Hoke. “Surely you can understand a man wanting to spend time . . . privately . . . with his wife?”

  Hoke shot daggers at him with his eyes.

  Baldwyn looked down at the ground with an air of drama. “I’m afraid I’m going to be emotional, men. I’d like just a moment to compose myself and get ready to receive my wife.” He looked back up at Hoke. “Is she still good-looking?”

  Hoke answered with another glare.

  “Of course she is,” Baldwyn answered himself. “Are you married—I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “Mathews.” And you better call me Mister.

  “Are you married, Mr. Mathews?”

  “No.” Hoke wheeled his horse around. He had to get out of here. He’d seen enough. He’d never be married. To hell with it! And to hell and double hell with Captain Robert C. Baldwyn.

  “I’ll let her know you’re waitin’ for her,” he spat as he kicked his heels to the stallion.

  Rascal shot after him, working hard to keep pace with the horse that carried the man who held his allegiance.

  The man known as Robert Baldwyn turned to Sergeant Smith. “Did that scout seem unhappy to you?”

  Smith didn’t answer. He knew Smith didn’t like him, but he didn’t care.

  “Go with him,” he ordered. “All of you. Go meet the train and send Mrs. Baldwyn on to me. Just her, Smith. Okay? I’d like a chance to talk to her alone before I see anyone else. Don’t let that scout come back with her. Tell him you’ll accompany Mrs. Baldwyn instead, but send her on and keep a fair distance. I fear it will be an emotional reunion and would rather not have an audience.”