Leaving Independence

by Leanne W. Smith

  He shook his head. He wasn’t explaining this right.

  “I remember sittin’ on a hill one time in the snow. I was fifteen, and spied this family having dinner. It was night, but all lit up outside because of the moonlight bouncin’ off the white. The light from their window glowed for miles. Some of their neighbors had come over in a farm wagon to eat with ’em. They all looked so happy. I sat on that hill and cried—a fifteen-year-old boy. Cried so hard it made ice on my cheeks. I’d already been on my own five years. I’d even killed a man.” Hoke closed his eyes against the memory. “I’ve seen some awful things, Abigail. I’ve done some awful things. I don’t deserve you.”

  He released her hands and lay on his back beside her. It hurt to think how much he loved her . . . how much loving her made him afraid of ever losing her . . . or of ever doing wrong by her.

  Abigail sat up and leaned over him. She kissed his hands . . . his head . . . his eyes . . . his lips.

  “You deserve good things, Hoke Mathews. I’m sorry you’ve had to wait so long for them.”

  “That man I killed back in Independence . . . I thought I was doing the right thing. A woman had screamed for me to help her. Then later she threw herself on me and I realized what had happened. She wanted him dead and used me for it. I was ashamed to have been so gullible.”

  Understanding registered in her eyes. “That’s why I lost my temper with Irene. I was ashamed I’d been gullible with Hadley Wiles.”

  Hoke took her face in his hands. “When Wiles had you, I was so scared.”

  “Well you’ve got me now,” she whispered.

  Hoke flipped her over on her back and finally pulled her hips in as close as he damn well pleased.

  Some husbands, after marriage, turned less attentive in getting down dish crates or helping a woman step up on a wagon bed. But not Hoke. Hoke kept watering the flowers.

  Corrine was at the sawhorse table sprinkling flour on a board and getting ready to knead the dough when James spoke from behind her.

  “You ever make beaten biscuits?”

  “No. What are beaten biscuits?” She turned. He was leaning against the edge of the wagon and she could tell he was hiding something behind his back. After giving him a quizzical look, she turned back to her work.

  He strolled over to the table, his hands still behind him.

  “You beat the dough out real flat, then stack it up like a fan to bake it. Here, I’ll show you.” He set a big wooden bowl on the table.

  “Where’d you get the bowl?”

  “I made it.”

  She ran her hand over it admiringly. It was long and narrow and smooth as glass. “It’s nice. What wood is it?”

  “Oak. I picked it up back at Ash Hollow. It’s twenty-six inches by sixteen.”

  “So that’s what you’ve been working on.” She’d seen him shaving out a block of wood . . . whittling, chipping, sanding.

  “I made it for you.”

  She looked up at his face to see if he was teasing. But there was no smirk on his lips like there was normally—no jesting in his eyes.

  “You make good biscuits. My grandmaw had a bowl like this. I wanted you to have one.”

  Corrine didn’t know what to say. No man had ever made her a gift before. She caressed the bowl again and looked at him, short of words.

  He seemed pleased.

  “Thank you,” she said, finally. “You want to show me how to make those biscuits with it?”

  He grinned and took the dough in his hands.

  “You got to beat it real flat, like this. It’s an old slave technique.” He took a section of the dough and laid it in the bowl, beating the mixture with the strong, flat part of his palm until the whole inside was lined with a thin layer of it. He then took a tin scraper and cut the dough into strips.

  “If you use a sharp blade it’ll cut the wood,” he explained. “I used oak ’cause it’s hard, but it’ll get nicks eventually. I can sand it out again every year or so for you.”

  Every year or so? Was James Parker planning on sticking around, then?

  He took a strip of dough and folded it first one way, then the other, until he had a fat, square block. He handed it to her, to put in the pan. Then he layered another strip.

  When he handed her the last square, he said, “I’m twenty-six. Is that too old for you?”

  She tried to think of something clever to say but couldn’t. “Mr. Parker, you’re always teasing, and I don’t quite know how to take you sometimes.”

  Flustered, she reached for the empty bowl to clean it.

  He took her hands and turned her toward him. She met his eyes, trying to keep the color from rising in her cheeks.

  “I know,” he said. “I like cuttin’ up. But I’m not cuttin’ up now. When we get where we’re goin’, I plan to stay the winter. Come spring, I aim to ride back down this trail to Kansas for a herd of horses. It may take me another year to break ’em and get ’em back up here. But that’ll give me the money I need to build my own place.

  “In that year I’m gone, I expect word’s going to get out about the prettiest girl that ever came to Oregon. Young fools like Paul Sutler are goin’ to muster their courage and start swarmin’ like mayflies. ’Fore that happens, I wanted you to know how I felt.”

  “And how do you feel, Mr. Parker?” she asked, with a lift of her chin.

  He grinned. “I like the way you lift your chin. And I like the thought of eatin’ your biscuits when I’m old. So I aim to court you when I get back.”

  Corrine didn’t know what to say. Her heart was pounding at the thought of being courted by this tall, bearded man whose outlook was so naturally lighter than her own. But for some reason she was afraid for him to know it. “I may not cotton to the idea of being courted by a hairy-faced cutup who wears a gun on his hip.”

  James narrowed his eyes and nodded. “When I shave my beard, you’ll know it. And you’ll know why.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, little missy,” he said, putting his bearded face close to hers, “that I may just turn you over my shoulder and haul you off to the creek.”

  He winked and left her standing with her ears and cheeks burning.

  At Fort Boise, there was another letter from Mimi.

  August 1, 1866

  Dear Abigail,

  You will have got to Fort Hall and your answers by now. I know it is so because the Lord, He whispered it to me. I expect—and you tell me if I heard Him right—that you’ll be moving on to Oregon with the colonel and all the rest of them. And I expect you won’t be homesteading alone. I am so certain of this that I have sent my letter to Fort Boise. They can send it on back to Fort Hall if I got it wrong.

  I have some bad news. Your father passed away on Sunday, July 29. He wasn’t sick long—pneumonia down in his lungs. He went down fast and sent for me so he could ask about you. Said he’d had a dream. Robert was standing on the left side of Jesus and your mother was standing on the right. When he woke he sent for the local preacher and begged forgiveness. Said he felt as if he’d sent Robert to his death by being ornery with him. He was worried he might have sent you to yours, too, by not giving you money and stopping you from going to Independence. He asked about each of the children and the dog and I told him you were all fine—better than fine! I told him you were like yourself again—strong and brave and standing on your own solid feet.

  I said, “You know she’s got the best children in the world. I can say that because I helped raise them.” And he said I was right.

  Mr. Thad and Mrs. Sue Anne’s baby is growing. He has a head full of black hair—a first in the Walstone family.

  The church here is growing. It’s the singing that brings them in—that and Thomas’s preaching. He’s a good husband, Mrs. Abigail. A real good husband. I do hope you get to experience that again.

  Give all my babies a hug and a kiss—yourself, too. I miss you all so bad sometimes I ache, but the Lord tells me you’re in g
ood hands and all I can do is trust Him. Tell Corrine I want a painting of the family soon, so I can see how everyone has grown. Make sure the dog is in it.

  Mrs. Thomas Hargrove (Mimi)

  P.S. Lay you an unlit match on top of that sugar. A weevil doesn’t like the smell of sulfur.

  Abigail wiped tears from her face as she folded Mimi’s letter.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Hoke in alarm. Lina lay asleep on the bed between them, Hoke playing with her hair, which he found a miracle of softness.

  When Hoke had brought Abigail the letter after dinner, delivered from a soldier from Fort Boise, he’d found her with Lina curled on her lap. He then carried Lina to their wagon since Emma Austelle was spending the night with Corrine in the second wagon. Abigail had just settled in beside him and Lina to read the letter.

  “My father died.”

  “Oh, darlin’, I’m so sorry.” He reached over, careful not to squeeze Lina, and kissed his wife’s forehead, his thumb raking away her tears. “You want me to get the children?”

  “No, I’ll tell them tomorrow.” She blew out the candle and scooted Lina down so she could lay her head on Hoke’s chest.

  He held her for several minutes, running his fingers up and down the strong spine of her back. “Will you be all right if I leave?” he said after a while.

  “You promised you would never leave me, Hoke.”

  He grinned. “I only mean for a few hours, to help with guard duty. Colonel’s been nice to give me a break, but I need to get back to it. Beckett’s out there tonight and I don’t feel good about his ability to keep my girls safe. Besides, I’m going to get soft if I sleep in here much longer. I haven’t slept this much on a real bed since I was a kid.” He put his face in her hair.

  God amighty, he loved her hair! And her eyes . . . and her lips . . .

  Abigail looked up at him. “You call this a real bed? You’re not going to make me sleep on the floor when we have a house, are you?”

  “I guess not. But maybe we can make a little pallet out under the stars sometimes? Like on our weddin’ night?”

  Abigail smiled. “I will never grow tired of the fire that simmers in your eyes.”

  His eyes grew serious. “I’m sorry about your father.”

  “Me too. Will you come back before morning?”

  “You can count on it. If any other man tries to crawl in here besides me, shoot him.”

  She reached for one more kiss. “I love you.”

  It got him in a choke hold every time.

  September 5, 1866

  Dearest Mimi,

  Thank you for writing to me about Daddy. I knew the finality of our decision and that I would likely never see any of my family again this side of eternity, but it is still a jolt to hear about Daddy’s death.

  I have happy news to share and have waited to tell it all in one letter.

  First, I married Hoke Mathews. Guess what his real name is? David. His father gave him the nickname “Hoke” because they laid him under a chokeberry tree when they cleared their homestead in Kentucky. (Do you remember what a chokeberry bush looks like, Mimi? It has a lovely white bloom. The dark berries are bitter, but can be made into a sweet wine or jam when they’ve had a chance to ripen.) After his mother died, being called David made him sad. So he went by Hoke instead.

  I am struck by similarities to David and Abigail in the Bible. It’s as if Mother prophesied when she named me. Robert was not like Nabal, but Hadley certainly was . . . “churlish and evil in his doings.” And while I would not describe Hoke as ruddy, he is handsome and fearless like King David.

  Abigail rode her donkey out into the wilderness to meet him. We have that in common, too. In reading back over 1 Samuel 25 I have a new favorite passage, in verse 18: “Abigail made haste.” I told Hoke I was tired of waiting. That’s why I made haste to marry him when he asked me so soon after learning of Robert’s death. I hope you and my brothers will not think me rash. The children all gave their blessing and are proud, I believe, to have him in our family. He, too, is a good man, Mimi. You would like him very much.

  The second piece of good news is that we have at last arrived at our destination. Colonel Dotson has decided to stay and settle near a young town, just platted last year, called Baker City. Five years ago a man found gold on the Powder River in this area. So folks have been coming here ever since. The surrounding land is most beautiful and with those who have already come here, supplies are readily available. It is still young enough of a town to satisfy Colonel Dotson, and he is convinced it is an ideal location to attract the railroads. So send future correspondence to Mrs. David “Hoke” Mathews, Baker City, Oregon. Hoke is at the land office now with several of the other men to stake the claim for our acreage.

  Once we are settled, I will write longer letters to both you and Thad. I also need to let Mrs. Helton know we won’t be coming back to Independence.

  Until then, all my love,

  Abigail

  CHARACTER LIST

  COLONEL DOTSON’S WAGON TRAIN

  COMPANY A

  Gerald and Josephine Jenkins—Leader of Company A and Colonel Dotson’s longtime friend and his wife, sister of Christine Dotson, who leads the children in camp singing

  Alec, Baird, and Paddy Douglas—Brothers from Scotland who have sheep and drive wagons for Gerald Jenkins and Colonel Dotson; Alec plays the fiddle; Paddy is simple-minded

  George and Christine Dotson—Retired army colonel and leader of the wagon train and his wife, a mother figure to many on the train

  Tim, Orin, and Bart Peters—Widower planning to open a general store and his two grown sons

  Timmy and Nelda Peters—Tim’s oldest son and his wife, who is expecting

  The Kensington sisters—Older spinster sisters who plan to open a library

  COMPANY B

  Rudy and Olga Schroeder—Leader of Company B and oldest brother of the Schroeder clan and his wife

  Prissy Schroeder—Youngest of Rudy and Olga’s three children

  Inez Schroeder—Mother of Rudy, Faramond, Bridgette, and Duncan; matriarch of the Schroeder clan

  Bridgette Schroeder—Unmarried daughter of Inez

  Faramond and Molly Schroeder—Second of Inez’s sons and his wife; his name is pronounced “Fairman” by his family

  Ingrid and Jocelyn Schroeder—The oldest two daughters of Faramond and Molly

  Duncan and Katrina Schroeder—Inez’s youngest and quietest son and his wife; they have twin infant daughters

  COMPANY C

  Hoke Mathews—Leader of Company C and former US Marshal

  James Parker—Hoke’s fun-loving riding partner

  Abigail Baldwyn—Mother of four who is searching for information about her husband, army captain Robert Baldwyn

  Charlie Baldwyn—Abigail’s older son

  Corrine Baldwyn—Abigail’s older daughter

  Jacob Baldwyn—Abigail’s younger son

  Lina Baldwyn—Abigail’s younger daughter, her “miracle” child

  Charles and Melinda Austelle—The blacksmith and his wife

  Emma, Clyde, and Cooper—The Austelle children

  Marc Isaacs—Young doctor caring for his widowed sister and her son

  Caroline and Will Atwood—Doc Isaacs’s widowed sister and her infant son

  Sam and Audrey Beckett—Writer and his wife, who is expecting

  Tam Woodford—Mountain woman

  COMPANY D

  John and Marnie Sutler—Leader of Company D and his wife; they have six children

  Phillip, Paul (who cares for Corrine), Hannah, Lijah (Jacob’s friend), Reuben, and Deena—The Sutler children

  Mr. McConnelly—Man from Boston traveling with his two grown daughters

  Irene and Diana McConnelly—Mr. McConnelly’s disagreeable daughters

  Ty and Sue Vandergelden—A browbeaten husband and his contentious wife

  Ned Vandergelden—The unhappy child of Ty and Sue

  Nichodemus and Nora J
asper—Young, poor married couple; Nichodemus plays an Appalachian dulcimer and Nora sings like an angel

  Michael Chessor—Young adventurer

  Harry Sims—Preacher who proves himself a capable frontiersman

  MARSTON

  Mimi—Abigail’s former slave and her one, true friend

  Annie B and Arlon—Mimi’s sister and her husband, who works the land for Leo Walstone

  Leo Walstone—Abigail’s embittered father

  Thad Walstone—Abigail’s oldest brother, married to Sue Anne

  Nathan Walstone—Abigail’s youngest brother, who marries Nora Clark

  OTHER

  Bonnie—Indian woman

  Trapper—Man connected to a band of Piute Indians

  Cecil Ryman—Man looking to avenge the murder of his brother, Dan

  Hadley Wiles—Childhood acquaintance of Abigail

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It’s a sunny day in late summer. As I write in my journal I am so overwhelmed with gratitude that my heart expands like a balloon that’s been filled with a sudden burst of air.

  For thirty years I held the dream of writing a novel close to my chest, revealing it to few, thinking the task too hard and myself too incapable. Five years ago I dusted off one of my ideas and began working on it . . . trying one more time. Were it not for Matt Hearn following God’s leading to introduce me to Dana Chamblee Carpenter, my friend and writing critique partner, I might have lost heart again. But Dana kept me accountable, kept me working, and pushed me to attend the writer’s conference that led to me signing with my agent.