Mrs. Helton brushed away the tears and smiled. “I don’t know what you’ll end up with, but don’t ever fault yourself for trying. And don’t let something like stolen coins stop you when you’ve still got the means to replace them.”
At the five o’clock meeting Hoke spotted Abigail on the opposite side of the circle of travelers, sitting quietly on a hay bale with her children.
So she hadn’t pulled out . . . not yet, anyway. Good for her . . . good for her.
Since delivering the last of his horses that afternoon, Hoke had been wondering what he’d gotten himself into. He and James had made good from the sales off the herd. There was land aplenty right here in Missouri, and the offer of a job from a man who was like a father to him. So why go on this trip?
His only answer was the memory of that regal yet exasperating woman rubbing the muzzle of his white filly. That was the moment he had decided to go, surprising himself.
Or maybe it was when she leaned her head back at the corral.
The thought that he might not have control of his own independent mind was infuriating. She was already a worry to him . . . her money stolen before she even left! It made sense she’d be a target, with her fancy clothes.
He intended to give her back the five gold pieces she’d overpaid him—they were jangling in his pocket now—he just wasn’t sure of the best way to go about it. He didn’t want to embarrass her in front of anyone. The way she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin showed she had pride.
He had no business worrying over a married woman, just like he had no business keeping the filly. No western man rode a white horse. It was too dangerous. But that filly had captured his heart somehow. She had fire and spirit! And he didn’t know when he’d seen a prettier horse. Keeping her was a foolish vanity and he knew it. He just hoped it didn’t prove to be his downfall.
Hoke’s gaze fanned out over the gathering circle again. Who from this group would get buried along the road? It was said that for every hundred people that started down the Oregon Trail, five wouldn’t live to see the end of it.
There were all kinds of folks here: educated and uneducated, wealthy and poor . . . and perhaps one who was a thief.
Abigail Baldwyn and her children stood out in this crowd. The mere suggestion of money and pedigree didn’t just make people a target for stealing, it made them a target for mean talk, too.
Irene McConnelly waved to him from across the circle. He tipped his hat and looked away.
Abigail looked around the circle of travelers, her eyes stopping on Hoke. He stood tall and brooding beside several other men. His arms were crossed and he was chewing on a stick again, talking to no one.
Even at this distance Abigail could tell that his eyes—his whole body—simmered. His gaze seemed locked on her, but then it darted away, seemingly catching every movement at the gathering. A tall, bearded man in suspenders and calf-length boots stood next to him, beside a low, flatbed wagon someone had pulled to the middle of the ring.
Colonel Dotson hopped on the wagon and cleared his throat. “Welcome, everyone! We’ve got twenty-seven families, forty-six wagons, and seventy-eight souls on this train.”
“And two thousand miles to get to know each other,” yelled a man from the back of the crowd. Several people whooped and clapped.
“That’s right.” Dotson laughed.
Abigail realized with a sinking feeling that she should have brought simpler dresses. Several curious stares, some hostile, kept aiming in her direction. She wondered if word had gotten out about her money being stolen. What if folks didn’t believe her? Few would feel sorry for the Baldwyns’ present circumstances when it would appear they’d had plenty in the past. Abigail leaned toward each of the children and told them not to mention their stolen money to anyone.
The blackest stares in the group were coming from a petite, dark-haired woman who sat several feet away. When Melinda Austelle came toward her, Abigail nodded at the woman. “Who is that?”
“Irene McConnelly. And to answer your question, yes. She always looks like she’s been suckin’ a pickle. Her and that other woman over there, Sue Vandergelden.”
“I was worried she thought I was overdressed.”
“She is probably jealous of your looks and your nice clothes. I really like your shirt, by the way. It’s got the prettiest sleeves.”
“Thank you.” Melinda’s kindness felt extra warm after the cold stares she’d received from Irene McConnelly. “I can show you how to make them.”
Abigail liked the loose fit of Garibaldi sleeves and usually paired a white shirt with a black Swiss waist or a striped vest with pockets to hold her thimbles. She wore a blue-and-green-striped vest now, and her deep-purple skirts billowed over high-quality boots. Abigail had thought her everyday clothes were dated, but compared to most of the other women here—including Melinda, who wore simple muslin dresses and bonnets with little trimming—she was the very picture of fashion itself.
She noticed that a small pink rose was embroidered in each corner of Melinda’s bonnet brim, though.
“That’s good stitching,” said Abigail. She disliked wearing bonnets herself—they blocked her view on the sides. She wore hats instead, with a string tied under her chin. She didn’t like parasols, either. A woman needed her hands free to work in the garden.
“Nothin’ like this, though.” Melinda inspected the collar of Lina’s cotton dress. “Aren’t you smart? Look at this embroidery, Emma! Is that not pretty? So detailed.”
“Your boys are handsome, too, in those vests and boots,” said Emma, Melinda’s daughter who was Corrine’s age.
Charlie looked at Emma, his face reddening.
Melinda introduced Emma to Corrine and told Charlie and Jacob, “You need to meet my boys, Clyde and Cooper.”
Dotson was speaking again. “We’ve divided into four companies. Company A will be led by Gerald Jenkins.” Jenkins stepped up on the wagon so everyone could see him.
He read the names of everyone in Company A, including three single men—brothers fresh from Scotland—who didn’t have rigs of their own but would drive supply wagons for Dotson. A family named Peters planned to open a general store. Two older spinster sisters wanted to open a library. Dotson was also part of Company A. Not leading a team himself kept him free to handle larger issues that might arise.
“Anyone in Company A with an issue should report it first to Gerald Jenkins, who’ll bring it to me as needed,” said Dotson. “If we have to put something to a vote, having a train leader and four company leaders gives us an uneven number.”
“What difference does that make?” Jacob whispered to Charlie.
“Think about it, Jake.”
“Oh. I get it.”
Company B’s leader was Rudolf Schroeder. Abigail recognized him as one of the burly men she had seen talking to Hoke at the horse corral. “The Schroeder family is the largest family we have on the trip,” explained Dotson. “They’re from Pennsylvania. How many of you in all, Rudy?”
“Twenty-one, including my mother, Inez, who just turned seventy.” Rudy Schroeder’s scratchy voice didn’t quite match his exterior. There was more cheering. Inez Schroeder, who wore small round glasses on the end of her nose, stood up and waved.
Several barefoot children ran by and Melinda leaned toward Abigail. “Those are the Schroeder children.”
“They won’t go barefoot on the trip, will they?”
“I won’t be surprised if they do. They’re wild as bucks.”
Abigail thought the children weren’t the only folks at the gathering who looked wild as bucks—in fact, several looked like the type to have taken her money. Some had simple farm wagons with homespun cloth coverings on top. Abigail had bought the best linseed-oiled coverings for her wagons that she could find. That was what Robert and her father would have done. She had spent nearly everything on supplies for this trip. She had even insisted on paying Hoke more than he had agreed to for his mules and horses.
; Abigail saw now how naïve she had been, and how naïve not to have hidden her money better. The possibility of theft had never occurred to her. She felt deeply aware of her dependence. She was dependent on Mrs. Helton, dependent on God’s grace . . . and ever more dependent on the husband she was traveling toward . . . the husband who had abandoned them.
“Company C will be led by Hoke Mathews. Hoke is a former scout for the cavalry and served as a US Marshal in Colorado Territory, along with James Parker, also in Company C.”
Hoke raised his arm but didn’t hop up on the wagon as the others had. James Parker was the tall, bearded gentleman standing next to Hoke, judging from the reaction of the other men, who suddenly sized the two up with visible appreciation.
Mathews . . . where had she heard that name before?
Jacob slapped Charlie’s arm. “I told you he looked like a sheriff!”
“He wasn’t a sheriff, Jake. He was a US Marshal.”
“That’s even tougher.”
Corrine elbowed Jacob. “Shush!”
Abigail frowned and the children quieted but continued to trade threatening stares. Lina crawled into Abigail’s lap.
“Other families in Company C are the Baldwyns, Austelles, Dr. Isaacs, Mrs. Atwood, the Becketts, and Tam Woodford.”
So . . . they were in Hoke’s company. Abigail was glad. Now she understood why Dotson and Jenkins had been so eager to have him join the trip. She, too, would sleep a little easier knowing his wagon was to be close to hers. Had her inclusion in his company been mere chance?
Melinda hugged her. “In the same company! And with a lawman for a leader. I’ve got to go find Mr. Austelle and see what he knows about those other families. By the way, that gentleman over there’s been smiling at you.”
Abigail turned in the direction of Melinda’s nod as the gentleman stepped forward. “Mr. Isaacs!”
“Mrs. Baldwyn, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” He grinned. “Most people call me Doc.”
“You’re the physician the colonel just mentioned?” Abigail set Lina down and stepped back from the ring of travelers to speak to him.
He nodded.
“And part of Dotson’s wagon train?”
“I am. And it sounds like we’re in the same company.”
Abigail was thrilled. Melinda Austelle was starting to feel like a friend, and now here was another familiar face . . . so unexpected. “Where’s your son?”
“He’s my nephew.” Doc Isaacs smiled warmly at her. “I’m not married. Will’s over there.” He pointed to a woman standing several feet away with the boy on her hip. “My sister, Caroline, is recently widowed.” Abigail could see the family resemblance. Doc Isaacs and his sister were both fair-headed and attractive. And Will, with his snowy white hair, was as angelic as Lina, Abigail’s youngest.
Irene McConnelly and another dark-haired woman with her both turned to stare at Abigail and Doc Isaacs from under pinched brows.
Doc winked at Abigail. “I think we’re being scolded.”
Colonel Dotson finished talking about Company D, whose leader was a large, affable man named John Sutler.
“We’ll rotate the lead group each week,” said the colonel. “If a wagon falls out of formation, let your company leader know. Fall back in as soon as you can. If there’s any sign of danger, get word to your leader. He’ll have someone mounted each day that can run up and down the train with word. If there’s trouble, we’ll circle up just like we do at night, in a double ring, putting the women and children inside.”
Dotson called Harry Sims, the preacher, to the front and asked him to say a few words. Harry Sims was barrel-chested and softer spoken than any preacher Abigail had ever heard.
Doc Isaacs excused himself to go back to his sister.
“What was his name?” whispered a woman standing behind Abigail.
“Marc Isaacs,” said Abigail. “He’s a physician.”
“No, the preacher.”
“Oh. Sims, I think.”
The woman was attractive, but—Abigail felt guilty for thinking it—masculine. Her dress sleeves were rolled up past her elbows, revealing the strongest forearms Abigail had ever seen on a woman.
“Huh.” The woman looked hard at Harry Sims as he read Psalm 23. “He don’t sound like no preacher I ever heard.” She thrust her hand at Abigail as soon as Sims finished. “Tam Woodford.”
“Abigail Baldwyn.”
“These all your kids?”
“Yes.”
“They’re a good-lookin’ bunch. No husband?”
“He’s in Idaho Territory, fighting the Indians,” said Jacob. “We’re going to meet him.”
“I reckon he’ll be glad to see you’uns. I don’t have a husband. Never had one.”
“You’re traveling by yourself?” asked Corrine.
“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Woodford could be waitin’ out there for me. Thought I better go find out, ’cause he ain’t back there in Independence.” She jerked her thumb toward town.
Lina smiled shyly at her as they said good night.
That night, Abigail had a tough time settling the children and doubted she’d sleep herself.
CHAPTER 8
Sleeping in a covered wagon
April 10, 1866
We begin, Mimi.
Charlie read that over 300,000 settlers have left from Independence, St. Joseph, and Council Bluffs. How many of them will be in Oregon? California? Salt Lake City? Montana? Or Idaho?
Abigail’s eyes opened. Where was she? On a strange bed with Lina nuzzled close. Corrine lay on the other side of Lina. Both were sleeping soundly.
Remember when our mothers let us sleep on the porch at night? How the dew seeped through the screen and we woke up under damp quilts with the taste of Tennessee dust in our noses? Sleeping in a covered wagon feels like sleeping on the screened porch again.
The quilts were heavy with damp and Abigail’s mouth tasted like new-wagon sawdust. Their bed, which lay on top of the burlap sacks that held their clothes, was so high she could reach out and touch the coarse canvas that flapped in the wind all night. It was surprising she had slept at all. Horses and cattle moved in the grass nearby, their earthy scent seeping through the cracks of the wagon’s planks.
She shivered. It was cold, but not freezing.
Abigail eased Lina’s arm off her stomach and scooted to the end of the bed. In the predawn light she couldn’t tell the time but thought she heard people moving around camp. Wagons were spread over several acres in no real order. Last night there had been introductions and laughter, dogs barking excitedly, children running, parents scolding, and continued packing in the wagons. Now all was silent but for a few soft stirrings.
This was it. Tuesday. They would set out at sunup.
The colonel and Christine had come to check on her last night after the meeting. No one else had reported missing money. They assured her that the money she had after the sale of her pendant should be enough to pay for incidentals along the way.
“We’re all in this together,” said Colonel Dotson. But Abigail was determined that her family not be a burden.
As she dressed and smoothed her hair, she wished for more light.
I’ve nailed a round mirror at a downward angle at the top of the wooden slats, securing it with string to keep it from moving as we jostle. Beneath that sits an upturned wooden crate with a blue tin washbowl and pitcher. It is a poor substitute for the sideboard dresser with its beveled mirror and porcelain wash set I had in Marston, but I am resolved not to feel sorry for myself.
Raising the back flap, Abigail eased out into the moist predawn air. Her long skirts made it hard to see where to step. She envied Lina and Corrine their shorter dresses but didn’t know how they were going to fare climbing in and out either, especially short-legged Lina, who would have a far hop to the ground.
A couple of fires burned in the distance, but she could see little else. Feeling her way to the nearest wagon, she climbed up to check on the boys. Rascal’s
head popped up. Charlie and Jacob had lifted him in during the night to quiet his whining.
Charlie whispered, “That you, Ma? Time to get up?”
She had asked the boys to sleep in the wagon this first night just to ease her mind. The feeling of having been watched in town, then having her money stolen, had made her uneasy. Hopefully the feeling would go away once they got on the trail.
“It’s still dark,” she whispered. “Get a little more sleep if you can. I’m going to start breakfast.”
As she stepped off in the dark, Abigail slapped into something hard—a body!
“You all right, ma’am?” She recognized the deep voice as an iron-strong arm reached out to steady her.
“Yes. Sorry. I can’t see a thing.”
“Why don’t we fix that?”
He moved off before she could thank him. She heard twigs breaking and the striking of a match. Soon a small fire crackled, the light dancing patterns on his face and hands. Abigail liked the hot smell of the wood burning—it helped cover the stench of manure that hung over the camp, trapped in the mist of the coming morning.
She felt for the dish crate she had prepared the night before and pulled it from the boys’ wagon, nearly dropping it.
“Need help with that?” Hoke was at her elbow.
“No, I’ve got it. Thank you.” She didn’t want him burdened by her lack of a husband. Was that why they put her in his company? “You don’t have to look out for us, Mr. Hoke. We’ll get the hang of things.”
“Just Hoke. You’re going to have a sore back if you pull that off there every morning. Here.” He took the crate from her hands and set it by the fire. “Mind if I put a pot of coffee on and share this fire with you?” He smelled like the dawn—like sod and the horses—like the wooden sticks now popping in the flames.
Leaving Independence Page 7