Leaving Independence

by Leanne W. Smith

  Irene frowned. “You can’t be serious. Why would anybody want to go to California when Oregon City is the place to go? Don’t you want to see the ocean?”

  “We saw it in Texas,” said James. “It is somethin’ to see, but almighty sandy.”

  Irene turned to Hoke. “Oregon City is already a nice established town.”

  “Hoke and I don’t like established towns,” said James. “We prefer the open land.”

  “California’s not going to be open land, it’s going to be full of miners and prospectors and people like the Schroeders. Besides, I’m sure there’s all kinds of open land near Oregon City and all kinds of places for a ranch. Isn’t that what you said you were thinking about, Hoke? A horse and cattle ranch?”

  “Um-hum.” Hoke was careful not to look at Abigail. He’d worked hard to keep his feelings for her in check and didn’t want to give himself away, but he was dying to know what she thought about the idea of a horse and cattle ranch.

  Would she like to be a rancher’s wife?

  She and the children had lived in town back in Tennessee. She might rather set up a dress shop on the main street and live on the floor above. That was what Tim Peters and his clan were going to do—live upstairs from their general store. Hoke didn’t much relish the thought of living over a dress shop.

  Of course, if she married him, she wouldn’t need a dress shop. If she married him, he’d take care of her . . . if she married him.

  She ought to be an important man’s wife, Hoke told himself. The governor’s wife or somebody else’s. But hadn’t she responded to his kisses behind the wagon? Hadn’t she wanted to be in his arms?

  When they got back to the wagon train after he’d killed Wiles, Hoke felt like everyone sized him up differently than they had before. He recognized the old familiar shame cloud that hovered every time he’d ever taken a life. This incident hadn’t been like defending the train against Indians. This had been a soldier—the man who had claimed to be Abigail’s husband. If Hoke took right up courting her, wouldn’t that make him look guilty of something? At the very least, wouldn’t that make him look like a brute?

  He cared about the opinions of some of these folks, especially George and Christine Dotson. He didn’t want them to think he didn’t deserve Abigail. Hoke wanted their approval.

  “I can see you ranching,” said Doc Isaacs to Hoke. “You’ll be good at that.”

  “What would it take to talk you fellows into Oregon City?” asked Irene.

  “Oh, I feel certain we could be talked into it,” said James lightly. “What are you offerin’, Irene?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Mr. Parker, you are awful.”

  Abigail was gathering supper dishes, acting like she wasn’t listening.

  James asked, “What are you doin’, Mrs. Baldwyn?”

  “Collecting the supper dishes.”

  “No, I mean about the split.”

  Abigail kept her eyes on the stack of plates in her hands. “I’m not sure. The children want to stay with the main group, but we haven’t . . . said for sure. Are you finished with that plate?”

  Hoke was sitting next to James. He handed his plate over to her without looking up. She took it, not looking at him.

  Irene’s eyes followed Abigail as she finished collecting plates and took them to wash. Then Irene sat down on the other side of Hoke, craning her head, searching out his gaze until he looked at her. “What would it take to talk you into going to Oregon City?”

  Hoke chanced a quick glance at Abigail. He only tolerated Irene because he wasn’t ready for everyone to know his thoughts. His pride was at stake. When he did make his play for Abigail Baldwyn—which had to be soon, with both splits inching closer—if she refused him it would hurt like hell. He’d need a convenient fork in the road to travel down to lick his wounds.

  No one had wept for Hoke Mathews for twenty-five years. He had told himself that was what he preferred—that freedom was the better choice. But the freedom he really treasured was freedom from vulnerability. Long ago he’d learned that if he kept moving and working, it dulled the pain of loneliness. Never again, he’d vowed as a ten-year-old boy left alone in the world, would he love someone and take a chance on losing them. Never again would he allow himself to be laid open by love’s sharp-edged sword. But here he had gone and risked it.

  Hoke shook his head at Irene. “I don’t know. Maybe I will.”

  Irene smiled up at him as Hoke stood. “I’ve got guard duty.” He took off his hat. “Beggin’ your leave, Mrs. Stinson. Everyone. I enjoyed my supper, ladies. Thank you.”

  Abigail felt him leave but didn’t turn around.

  She was growing confused. Hadn’t she and Hoke shared something intimate? Hadn’t he come for her? Why, then, would he share his dreams of ranching with Irene and not her? Had he decided that taking on a wife and four children was more togetherness than he could tolerate?

  Only yesterday when she and Hoke had passed each other between the wagons like they’d done a hundred times, Hoke had stepped back to give her space . . . like he was afraid of brushing up against her.

  Maybe I will, he’d told Irene. Maybe I will.

  Abigail had trouble getting the words out of her head.

  My heart is changing, Mimi. I can feel the difference in my chest. I’m tender and new, like a seedling pushing up through the lingering leaves of winter. I cry easier and laugh louder.

  I’m trying to let go of the doubts, the fears, the worries, and the hurt, and to see the world through a different set of eyes—eyes that see with hope and peace and promise.

  Food supplies had grown low as a result of bypassing Fort Hall, but everyone still managed to contribute something to a final picnic before the split.

  “Mrs. Abigail, I meant to get you to show me how to crochet one of them hairnets,” said Bridgette Schroeder mournfully. “I just loved that one you wore at the dance in Laramie.”

  “Oh, I’m glad you said something. I have gifts for you.” Abigail hopped up and ran to her wagon. It had taken a few late nights, but she had crocheted hairnets for all the women splitting off and sewn pink bonnets for the Schroeder twins.

  When she crawled back down from the wagon, Hoke was walking by. He stepped over to help her down since her arms were full, putting his hands around her waist as she backed out of the wagon.

  “How’s that side feelin’?”

  The unexpected warmth of his hands sent hot shivers up her spine. “Better. Thank you.”

  He reached for her hand that lay on top of the items she held and turned it to look at her wrist. “Those cuts are healing, too.”

  She nodded, afraid to meet his eyes as his thumb ran over the outline of her scars. She held her breath, waiting for him to take her in his arms.

  He let go of her hand.

  She looked down and turned to leave, then stopped. “Hoke?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did you decide to stay with Dotson’s group?”

  “For now. You?”

  Why was he acting so distant? “Yes.”

  He smiled. “Good.”

  Abigail walked back to the picnic wondering why she couldn’t muster the courage to tell him how she felt. She had trouble offering her heart when he didn’t act hungry for it, that was why. Her heart was too bruised from five years of twisting.

  She handed hairnets and bonnets to the Schroeders and Nora Jasper. “I hope you like them.”

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have!” said Olga Schroeder.

  “These are beautiful,” added Katrina, looking at her twins. She was facing life without Duncan now.

  “Show me how to wear it,” begged Bridgette.

  This started a profusion of gift giving, hug swapping, tears, and promises to write among the women. The children went off to play a final round of hide-and-seek and the men stood by and watched the women, asking each other things like:

  “What do you think Peters’s final mile count is going to be?”

  “How much
did you pay for that team of mules at Laramie?”

  “Do you think Beckett’s wheels are going to hold out all the way to Oregon City? He’s got the sorriest wheels on that wagon I ever saw.”

  Hoke reached into the pocket of his shirt as he and James sat on their horses in the waning afternoon light. They were on guard duty. “My last two hickory sticks.” He offered one to James. “Looks like I’m going to have to find me a new kind of stem to chew . . . or take up smokin’ after all. I haven’t seen a hickory tree in weeks, have you?”

  James shook his head and pointed to a fir tree standing tall, stretching toward a bright moon overhead. “Tried those? That’s a strong wood. Be a good framing wood for a house, don’t you think?”

  Hoke nodded. “Yes, I do.”

  “You could lay out a big place with wood like that. Speaking of . . . when you planning to lay your feelings on Mrs. Baldwyn?”

  “What’s your hurry where that’s concerned?”

  “Well, I got to figure out what I’m doing, Hoke, and something tells me you’ll be framing a farmhouse soon.”

  “Not a farmhouse—a ranch house.”

  “Excuse me, then, a ranch house. God forbid you take up farming. Although if you settle down with Abigail Baldwyn, it looks like you’ll be plantin’ a garden, complete with flowers and cherry trees.”

  “Maybe I will. But that’s not farming.”

  “When you goin’ to ask her?”

  “When I’m ready.” Hoke scowled at him. “When I think she’s ready.”

  “She’s ready. Can’t you see that? You’re confusing the hell out of that woman.”

  “What makes you think? She tell you her feelings about me, is that it?”

  James huffed. “I got eyes, don’t I? I can see she’s crazy about you. I don’t know why, stubborn and set in your ways as you are, but you finally lucked out. It’s not like you to shirk a task.”

  Hoke scowled again. “I’m giving her time, James—time to grieve—she never had that. And time to decide what she wants.”

  “What about what you want?”

  “I want what she wants.”

  “What if she wants you to be a farmer?”

  They swapped grins.

  “We’d have to negotiate on that one,” said Hoke. “Why don’t you go on up to Oregon City with Irene, get her off my back? I don’t know why she’s taken a sudden shine to me when you’re the one all smooth with the ladies.”

  “Irene’s a looker. But she’s not Mrs. James Parker.”

  “Who is?”

  “Who knows?” James stroked his beard with his hand. “It’s a mystery yet to be revealed. Michael Chessor and I talked about going back down to Kansas for that herd you and I saw. I thought we could run ’em up here and sell ’em to a local rancher if I knew any. Ranchers in the area, that is.”

  “I’ll buy ’em from you. I’ll even put up part of the money on the front end. If I stay here. If I don’t stay in Oregon, I’ll go with you and we’ll find us another rancher to sell ’em to. I thought Chessor was going on to Oregon City chasing that youngest McConnelly.”

  “They had a fuss. The oldest Sutler boy may go with us, too, and Bart Peters is thinking about it if his dad’s willing to part with both of ’em.”

  “Both of ’em? Orin’s working the store, isn’t he?”

  James turned in his saddle to look at Hoke. “Orin’s going to California in the morning.”

  “Really? How’d I miss that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s been all the talk since Scott’s Bluff.”

  “He take up with Ingrid?”

  “No, Jocelyn. I swear, Hoke, where you been? Have you not heard about him and Jocelyn? How their hands touched when they were carving names at Chimney Rock? Have you not noticed he quit buzzing around Abigail and took up with the Schroeders?”

  James turned back to watching the stock and shook his head. “Orin’s one of those that flits from girl to girl.”

  Hoke threw him a sideways smirk. “You’re one to talk.”

  “I handle my charm responsibly.”

  “You sure about that? Don’t make a young girl like you if you’re just going to ride off and leave her.”

  James scowled a full minute, then sighed. “I aim to be back before she hits her prime, if you must know.”

  “You better not stay gone long, then. Is that who the bowl’s for?”

  James shook his head. “I hate it when you turn out smarter than I give you credit for.”

  “Don’t pout about it.”

  “I ain’t poutin’. And stop tryin’ to change the subject. We were talking about you, not me. You need to tell Mrs. Baldwyn how you feel about her so you can free both your minds.”

  “I don’t know what makes you think you’re an expert on women.”

  “Oh, I know women, Hoke! I’ve made quite a study of ’em. A man should never leave a woman wondering how he feels about her—that’s a sin in my book. Women are beautiful, complex creatures that need a lot of strokin’. And they’re worth it. You take care of her and she’ll take care of you. Now where have I heard that?”

  Hoke reached for his canteen, unscrewed the lid, and took a swig. Then he handed it out to James. “Coffee. You want some?”

  James took it and drank deep. Then he wiped a hand across his mouth and continued. “That’s why Mrs. Baldwyn’s so crazy about you. You water her plants.”

  He handed the canteen back to Hoke. “That was brilliant. You surprised me on that one. But you can’t just water the plants, Hoke. You got to talk to her, too. You got to tell her how you feel. I know that don’t come natural to you, that’s why I’m tellin’ you to do it. I figure I haven’t ridden with you all these years for nothin’. Loving women is the only thing I’m better at than you are, so I owe it to you to give you this advice. I won’t keep harpin’ about it, but I wanted to get it off my chest.”

  Hoke took another swig of coffee. “You feel better?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Just as long as you feel better, James.”

  They exchanged sideways smirks.

  Hoke knew James was right. He’d talk to her soon.

  CHAPTER 32

  The sudden flow of emotion

  As she rounded the corner with a hot pot of water, Abigail only caught the tail end of what Irene McConnelly was saying to a group of women. Audrey Beckett was there, along with Marnie Sutler, Nelda Peters, and Irene’s sister, Diana.

  “. . . can’t be a decent woman to have stayed out all night with Mr. Mathews like that, and to force him to kill that man who claimed to be her husband. I would hate to have that on my conscience.”

  Abigail looked down at the cookpot in her hands, wanting desperately to douse Irene with its greasy contents. That little loose-mouthed tart!

  The very idea! Abigail liked those other women sitting there. Were they all talking about her? How dare Irene smear her reputation by implying she had contrived to cause problems and put Hoke in an awkward position.

  “Makes me wonder if she planned with that man all along to run off together and somehow Mr. Mathews foiled it. Her husband was supposedly gone for years, and that youngest one is what—only three or four? She’s a lot more white-headed than the others, too. What if she’s not really the same man’s as those other—”

  Irene jumped up when she realized Abigail was standing just inches away from her with a steaming pot.

  The group was stunned into silence, the other women looking ashamed to have been caught listening to Irene’s gossip by the object of her slander.

  “You can say whatever you want to about me, Irene McConnelly . . . Stinson . . . whoever you are. I don’t know why you would. I don’t know how I ever offended you. But there is not one drop of truth in any low remark I’ve heard you say. So stop. And don’t ever talk about my children again—especially not a child who is nothing but a gift straight from God—a child whose heart and conception are as pure as the driven snow. Understand?”


  Irene just looked at her.

  Abigail set the pot down. “I asked you a question, Irene. I asked if you understood me.” She was near to shouting.

  Others in the camp crept over to investigate.

  “What’s all this?” asked old man McConnelly.

  “Your daughter has said mean-spirited things about an innocent child.” Abigail took a deep breath, trying to calm down.

  “I just think some of the facts in your stories don’t add up,” said Irene.

  “My stories?” The needle on Abigail’s ire shot up again. “You think I’m making up stories, Irene?”

  “I know about you and Hoke Mathews kissing behind the wagons, Mrs. Uppity!”

  Irene’s announcement didn’t embarrass Abigail, it only served to make her madder.

  “And I find it a little hard to believe your husband’s been dead so long and no one knew about it. I got informed right away when my husband was killed.” Irene looked around at the growing circle of onlookers. “Well, hasn’t anyone else wondered about it? How an entirely different man could be writing her letters and her not know it? And meanwhile she’s carrying on with other men?”

  Zzzzzzip went the arrow, straight to Abigail’s heart. Her cheeks burned hot with shame.

  Irene had flung the dagger directly on the nerve. How tender was the spot where Abigail asked herself those same questions . . . accusing, blaming, cursing her own blindness and stupidity.

  Yes, how could she not have known? She was surely the world’s biggest living fool. To have someone else ask the same questions—and Irene, of all people—brought her pride to a new low and her defenses to a new high.

  Abigail lunged, meaning to shut Irene’s mean mouth before her words ripped out what was left of Abigail’s heart. But Hoke was suddenly there, hooking his arm around her waist, pulling her away.

  She clawed at his hands, those hands she had so recently loved. “Leave me alone! Get back! Out of my way!”

  But he held her fast and refused to let her go.

  She wheeled on him. “Just who do you think you are?”

  “Abby,” he chided. “Cool down.”

  “Don’t patronize me! And don’t tell me what to do. What gives you the right?” She jerked an arm loose and punched him in the stomach. It was like hitting a boulder. But she’d had to hit something, and he was the obstacle in her way.