by Linda Ford
Back to her mother. The woman didn’t appear to have a generous bone in her body.
The look in Abby’s face revealed her regret. “I told Mother that good things should be shared.”
“What did she say?”
Abby’s expression closed off but he waited, hoping she’d answer. “Mother thought I should be more concerned with my own mother than a cranky widow.”
Ben sighed. Would he ever learn why Mrs. Bingham had such a strong hold over her daughter? Would Abby ever be free of whatever it was?
They returned to the campfire and Abby played her mandolin and sang then read. Miles and James wandered past and waved.
They fell into a routine in the following days. Rise at four, start the day’s travel at seven. Noon at a place Sam chose. In the evening, circle the wagons and take care of the animals.
After supper, he asked Abby to walk with him. Every time he expected her to refuse. He considered whether or not he tell her the real reason for their walks if he needed to persuade her...that she was his excuse for moseying around the wagons watching for suspicious behavior.
So far he’d never had to convince her to join him.
It had saved him from facing the truth—he looked forward to this time they spent together for reasons that had nothing to do with watching for a thief.
They talked as they walked. Mostly they talked about young Johnny who did his part to keep them entertained. Or they talked about the cow that had balked at having to spend another day walking. Or Abby would tell about the Jensen twins who spent a great deal of time with her during the day. It didn’t matter what they discussed. Ben enjoyed spending time with her, sharing a chuckle over events, learning to know her again.
In the back of his mind lay the warning that he must guard his heart. Surely he could do that yet enjoy some pleasant diversion.
At the moment, they traveled onward. He drove the oxen that led his wagon to the West. Abby walked far enough away to avoid the ever-present dust. The twins had been with her a few minutes ago, but had run ahead to join their mother.
Ben signaled to Emma to take over the wagon and when she did, he jumped down to join Abby.
“Hot today.” The sun showed them no mercy.
She nodded. “The dust is fearsome, too.”
He could think of nothing more to say although his mind was crowded with questions. None of which he felt free to ask at the moment.
Bushes filled a little hollow not far to their right. He pointed. “Let’s see if there are any berries.”
“Wouldn’t that be a nice treat?” She grabbed a basket from the back of the wagon and then they hurried toward the hollow and found scratchy raspberry bushes tangled in the silver willow bushes and set upon them eagerly. Others had found the same enjoyment along the draw, but Abby and Ben were alone in this particular patch.
He stayed at her side. “Look at this big one.” He showed her. “Open your mouth.” She did so and he popped it in, his fingers brushing her lips, sending sweet nectar straight to his heart.
She closed her eyes. “Umm. Good.”
He swallowed hard, his lungs clenching with expectation and a dozen unfulfilled wishes. With supreme effort he pulled his hand to his side and turned about lest she read the strength of his emotion in his eyes. He pushed aside the forbidden rush of pleasure, purposely replaced it with the reminder of how she’d dismissed him to marry Frank. His thoughts under control, he moved on.
They foraged deeper into the bush. The bushes caught at their clothes, the prickly raspberry canes scratched.
“Ben!”
He was several feet ahead of her and jerked about at the tension in her voice, every nerve on alert. A sweeping glance revealed no imminent danger.
“I’m caught and I don’t want to tear my dress.” She tugged at her skirt but it wouldn’t come loose and she couldn’t turn to free herself without getting scratched on the bushes.
“Hang on.” He pushed his way past her, giving the thorns little concern though they tore at his hands. He knelt behind her. “I’ll have you free in a minute.” He eased the fabric from the tangled branches. “There you go.”
She stepped to the nearby grass and turned. “Thank you.”
He pushed through the bushes and joined her. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Her gaze went to his hands and she gasped. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s only a few scratches.”
“A few? You look like you barely survived a fight with a wildcat.” She grabbed his hand, dug a hankie from the depths of her pocket and pressed it to his flesh.
He stared at her small, long, beautifully-shaped fingers on his hand. His mother had once remarked on a friend’s fingers. Called them musician’s hands. The description fit Abby perfectly.
She lifted the now soiled fabric and peered underneath. “It’s a nasty mess. I’m afraid Emma will have plenty to say when she sees this.” She blew on his scratches. “Does that feel better?”
Better? Yes if she meant did his heart race, did his lungs forget to work, did his brain simmer like a kettle about to boil?
When he didn’t answer, she lifted concerned eyes to him. Hazel, someone had said of their color. But hazel didn’t begin to describe the flecks of gold and brown that gave them a distinctive color.
“Does it still hurt?” She blew again.
He closed his eyes against the sweet torture.
She lifted the hankie and fanned it over his hand. “I expect Emma will have some ointment that will help. Do you want to go back now and see?”
“No.” The word scraped past his teeth. No. He didn’t want to end this afternoon.
She raised her eyebrows. “You seem rather certain.”
He’d never been more certain of anything in his entire life. Not his name. Not his age. Not where he was going. Nothing. “I want to find more berries.”
She grinned. “Me, too. They’re delicious.” Spying some plump red berries to her right, she moved away.
He was rooted to the spot. Berries? Who cared about berries? He wanted to catch her by the hands and swing her around in a do-si-do. Catch her around the waist and lift her clean off her feet.
She glanced over her shoulder and saw him lingering. She straightened and studied him long and hard. Her gaze probed his. Did she see all he felt? For he had no barriers in place at the moment.
“I thought you wanted to pick berries?”
No wonder she sounded confused. He hadn’t moved a muscle since she’d walked away.
“Yes, berries. I’m coming.” He forced his feet to move and plucked a ripe berry. Its sweetness jolted his brain into motion. Well, almost. He got as far as thinking this was a very pleasant way to spend an afternoon.
Abby straightened. “Listen. Did you hear that?”
His brain instantly forgot its fanciful dreams and focused. Wasn’t he supposed to be paying attention to their surroundings? What if a wild animal or a hostile band of wanderers stalked them?
Gobble, gobble, gobble.
Turkeys. He pressed his finger to his mouth to signal silence and eased his way through the bushes doing his best to be silent. He peered through the leaves. A big tom turkey. Wouldn’t that make a tasty meal? Moving slowly and quietly he edged closer. The bushes ended. The turkey was ten feet away gobbling and strutting.
Two leaps and he’d have the best dinner they’d had in many days. Ben tensed his muscles and sprang forward.
The turkey flapped away amid much gobbling protest.
Ben chased him, determined to have this meal.
He sprang forward, caught the turkey by one foot and hung on despite the battering of wings and the scratching of the free foot complete with a very sharp dewclaw.
“Ouch. Ouch.” He tried to subdue the bird, bu
t for an animal a fraction of Ben’s size the bird put up a valiant fight.
Over the ruckus of the angry turkey came Abby’s ringing laughter.
He cranked his head around.
She stood in the dappled shadows, a ray of sunshine pooling on the top of her head turned her hair into mirrored gold.
He stared and almost lost his hold on the turkey.
“Don’t let him get away,” Abby called.
“Never.” He renewed his efforts to get control of the bird and finally was able to succeed. He held the heavy creature up proudly. “Dinner.”
She grinned. “Fresh meat. I can hardly wait.”
He carried the bird as they made their way back to the wagons. They’d be a distance behind the Hewitt and Bingham wagons by now, but it wouldn’t take long to catch up at the slow pace of the oxen.
He led them at an angled direction that gave the shortest route to the wagons. The bush grew thicker.
“Do you know where we are?” Abby asked, trying unsuccessfully to disguise her worry.
I’m in the sweetest place I could imagine. Sharing a warm afternoon with a pretty girl. And I’m in no hurry to return to the wagons and harsh reality. He’d surely encounter pointed looks from Mrs. Bingham but he didn’t care. This moment was meant for enjoying.
“Are we lost?” Abby’s trembling voice scalded his selfish thoughts.
“No, we aren’t lost. Look at the sun.” He pointed. The sun was midway down the western sky. “We just have to follow the lowering sun.”
“Good to know. Except there are bushes in the way.”
“Come on. I’ll show you the way.” He led her through the thick growth carrying the heavy bird in one hand.
They broke into the open. The wagon train trundled along to their right and they hurried after it, though Ben felt nothing but reluctance at returning. If not for the responsibility of his sisters and his role as a committeeman he might consider asking Abby to stay right here with him. They could build a little cabin and live in bliss.
He knew such a dream was impossible, but he’d enjoyed ignoring reality for a few hours.
Chapter Fifteen
A few days later, Abby walked close enough to their wagon that Mother’s words rang in her ears. Every time she tried to move away, Mother ordered her back to listen to her complaints. They’d intensified with every mile of the journey though Abby wouldn’t have thought it possible.
“I wish we’d died in the river.” Mother had perched in the wagon as they crossed the Big Blue a few days ago. She’d squealed in fright as the wagon swayed in the water but the crossing had been relatively easy compared to crossing the Kansas River.
Abby shuddered at the memory of those cold, dark waters but she quickly dismissed the thought in favor of the warmer, sweeter memories of Ben holding her to warm her. To that she added a litany of memories—walking with him each evening, talking of things near and dear to her though she guarded her most precious secrets, and picking berries. She chuckled softly as she thought of him struggling with that big turkey. It had tasted so good.
“Are you laughing at me?” Mother asked.
“Of course not.”
Father half drowsed in the afternoon sun until the wagon jerked across another buffalo trail. They were in the Platte valley now. A wide desert of grass, patchworked with wildflowers of yellow, blue and red. The Platte River ran wide and straight, through sandy soil. Buffalo country. The big animals walked single-file to the river for water, creating paths as deep as ten inches. Every wagon wheel had to cross those paths. It was rough, about snapped a person’s neck out of joint.
“Mother, why don’t you walk? It’s much easier than riding on that hard bench.” Mother tried to keep a pillow beneath her. Father often chose to walk beside the oxen to avoid the constant jolting.
“Look at you.” Mother’s voice rang with disapproval. “Your skirts are dusty. Your boots are worn thin. I wish you would ride in the wagon.”
Abby had no intention of being shut up in the hot wagon. Her feet had hardened to the walking and she found she quite enjoyed it. She could talk to Emma or Rachel or Sally or Delores without Mother hearing every word. It was freeing. She ran ahead to join the other ladies, ignoring Mother’s call.
From where they walked, she saw Ben riding forward. My but he looked good sitting in his saddle. He turned checking on something slightly behind him.
Her heart leaped half way up her throat at how the light silhouetted his features. How strong and muscular he looked.
His attention slid down the line of wagons and he shifted to look at the group of ladies. His gaze burned into her mind, silently promising another evening of sweet, sweet communion.
She mistepped and had to catch herself. How could she enjoy his company so much when she knew how it would end? She’d never marry, not even to please her mother. Not even though her heart raced at the thought of another evening walk with Ben.
When she looked up again, he was riding away and she took several slow, steadying breaths.
She did her best to ignore Mother’s complaints as they drew into a circle and as she helped prepare the evening meal. The turkey meat was long gone. Sam Weston had sent some men out to hunt for buffalo. She hoped they would come back soon.
Father returned from caring for the oxen. “We’re in Pawnee country now. I hope they don’t bother us.”
Mother sat in her hard chair. Abby couldn’t help but think her bottom must be getting calloused from so much sitting.
Mother kept her hands in her lap. Tried to appear she didn’t care about the details of the camp but her white knuckles belied her concern. “I hope the sentries are armed to kill any savages that come near.”
Father gave her a considering look. “Sam says we will pass through peaceably. After all, this is their land.”
Mother pressed her lips together so tight a white line formed around them.
“I haven’t forgotten it was an Indian who pulled Donny from the Kansas River.” Abby spoke softly, musingly, but surely everyone—Mother included—should give credit where credit was due.
Mother didn’t reply but gave her an accusing glare.
Rachel returned with a basket full of buffalo chips.
Mother rose and marched to the wagon and sat on the hard bench, pointedly ignoring the fuel they’d been forced to use since they’d entered the Platte valley, but she’d stopped saying what she thought after Father had spoken to her.
Emma joined them. She crumpled to a heap in the grass and buried her head in her hands. Silent sobs shook her.
Rachel and Abby rushed to her side.
“What’s wrong?” Rachel asked.
“The Turnbow baby died. I didn’t realize he was so sick. I should have seen it.” Her voice cracked with her agony.
The Turnbow baby had come down with measles two days ago. “Oh, how awful.” Recognizing the weight of guilt in Emma’s voice, Abby’s guilt flared with fresh strength.
“I’m sorry about the baby,” Rachel said.
“I should have checked on him earlier.”
“Emma, you can’t blame yourself for disease and accidents. They happen. A person can only do so much. After that, it’s in God’s hands.” Rachel’s words rang through Abby’s heart but sometimes a person could blame themselves for an accident if they instigated a foolish action.
Emma dashed away her tears. “You’re right. It just seems so unfair. Why do some people live long after their bodies have worn out and yet healthy babies with the future before them die? I don’t understand.”
Rachel hugged her sister. “Sometimes we simply have to trust.”
“Trust what?” Ben’s sudden appearance sent a wave of awareness through Abby that made her face burn.
He squatted beside his sister and looked int
o Emma’s tear-streaked eyes. “Emma, are you hurt?”
She explained about the baby. “I said I find it hard to understand.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “‘I trust in your unfailing love.’ Psalm thirteen, verse five.” He met Abby’s eyes over Emma’s head and his gaze seemed to say, remember when we learned this verse?
How well she remembered. Pastor Macleod had suggested they break into pairs or teams to drill each other. She and Ben had slipped away to the corner of the churchyard. Right next to the cemetery. She remembered that detail so clearly because she could see Andy’s headstone from where they sat. Ben said he could see his mother’s. They’d reached for each other’s hands at that moment, finding comfort in acknowledging their sorrow. All he knew of Andy’s death was what everyone else knew—an unfortunate accident. Only she was aware of her responsibility.
If only she had told him about Andy then. But what good would it do except make it even harder to deal with her mother’s demands.
He turned his attention back to Emma. “It’s when we don’t understand, or when we feel helpless or even when we could blame ourselves that we choose to trust.”
“I know.” Emma pushed to her feet. “And I do. I will.” She brushed her skirts and smoothed her hair. “I promised to help prepare the baby for burial.” She marched away.
Rachel stared after her but Abby watched Ben. Slowly he brought his gaze to her. They shared sorrow and something more—something deeper than her conscious thoughts. A connection with strands of steel.
Wasn’t she getting fanciful?
The word of the death quickly spread and the travelers made their way to the Turnbow wagon.
“I’ll get my mandolin.” Abby retrieved it. “Are you coming, Mother?”
For a second, she thought her mother would refuse then she nodded. “I know what it’s like to lose a son.” Her eyes pierced Abby’s soul, reminding her of who was to blame for that loss.
As if Abby could ever forget.
When we could blame ourselves, we choose to trust. She wished she understood what Ben meant. Or rather, how he thought it was possible.
