Romance in Time: An Oregon Trail Time Travel Romance

by Susan Leigh Carlton

  * * *

  The next week…

  The meeting with an advisor at the University of Wyoming convinced Abby that pursuing a Master’s Degree in Civil Engineering would be beneficial to her career.

  She called home that evening. Her father answered, and after the hello and how are you’s, she told him her plans.

  “So you’re afraid to tackle law?” her father asked, laughing.

  “Not afraid, compassionate. If I did, it would be criminal law and I know how much it would hurt your fragile ego if I beat you. And I would.”

  “In your dreams, Abby. In your dreams. Are you getting along with your grandmother?”

  “She’s great. Going back to school was her idea. I met with an advisor at the college today. I think I would at least like to start here, so I need to get a transcript.”

  “I’ll order one for you tomorrow and FedEx it to you.”

  “Thanks, Dad. Love you.”

  “Love you too. Here’s your mother.”

  The conversation with her mother was much longer. Her concern for her daughter’s frame of mind showed in the tone of her voice. “Do you think you need to see a doctor?”

  “No, ma’am. I’ve had several long talks with Grandma and it has helped. I’ve gone from being depressed to being mad. Grandma said he should be horsewhipped.

  “Coming here was the right idea. We talked about trying to hide, but for now, I don’t want to face the possibility of bumping into him. Dad could wind up prosecuting me for what I might do.”

  “I’m glad you’re feeling better. Brett’s called several times, but I believe I’ve disabused him of any reconciliation.”

  “That will never happen. Gram told me it probably wasn’t the first time he’s done something like this.”

  “You know I love you, but the practical side of me makes me ask this. Do you need to be tested?”

  “Absolutely not. That is one thing I’m sure I don’t need. He tried, but I never gave in.”

  “Good for you. How long do you think you’ll stay there?”

  “Probably just the one semester. I guess it depends on how it goes. Don’t worry about me, Mom. I’m good. I’ll talk to you this weekend. I miss y’all.”

  “We miss you too. Tell Mother hello for me and I’ll talk to her this weekend.”

  * * *

  “Grandma, where did you meet Grandpa?”

  “Right here in Laramie. We had just moved here from Nebraska, and he was the best looking boy in school.”

  “You were born here, weren’t you Grandpa?”

  “Right in this house, so was my father, and his father going back for five generations. Some parts of the original house are still in place. The first Barnes came to Laramie in 1862, and claimed the land as a homestead.

  “There used to be an old trunk somewhere around here with a lot of the old papers and I don’t know what all in it. I came across it years ago, but it was all junk to me. It’s a wonder I didn’t throw it away.

  “You know, now that I think about it, it’s probably in the old barn. If you go in there, be careful. We haven’t used it in a long time and I’ve been planning to have it torn down and replaced with a larger metal building. In the winter, it’s too cold to work in there, and I’ve already moved the stock to the new, heated barn. If the trunk’s still there, you’re welcome to go through it. That old barn is over a hundred years old, and it wouldn’t surprise me if the trunk isn’t older than that.”

  “I’d like to see it. It would be interesting to learn something about what they went through just to get here,” Abby said.

  “In high school, we had to write an essay and I chose our family history as my subject, so I did quite a bit of reading about it in the library,” he told her.

  “Could they read and write?” she asked.

  “I saw the homestead application signed by Josiah Barnes. It wasn’t an ‘X’, it was written in longhand.”

  “It sounds as if it would be an interesting project. It would give me something to do until the fall semester.”

  “Take the car anytime you need it,” her grandmother said.

  “Thanks, Grandma.”

  Chapter three

  A Trip

  She turned the switch on the side of the light fixture hanging from the ceiling. The trunk sat in a corner of the tack room, with a thick covering of dust. A worn saddle, its leather dry and cracked was on top. She pushed the saddle to the dirt floor. A wooden work bench, as dusty as the trunk, was along one wall. Pieces of harness were piled on top. She pushed them to one end of the bench.

  Several swipes of the feather duster across the top of the trunk, filled the air with dust motes, illuminated by the sun light filtering through cracks in the log walls.

  The first layers in the trunk consisted of ledgers and journals of purchases, along with breeding records. She put them in chronological order and stacked them on the bench.

  She continued her digging. She opened old Bible. The pages were brittle, but there were births and dates recording The writing became spidery and more difficult to read in the latest entries. Then they stopped. I guess this lady passed and no one took over. This really old. I need to check with the library and find out how these old books should be handled. Near the bottom she found diaries kept by some of the Barnes women, dating back to one kept by Sophronia Barnes in 1862.

  Her search continued until she reached the bottom of the trunk. The top of the workbench was covered by the spread out collection.

  “That trunk is a treasure chest,” she told her grandmother. “I found a diary going back to 1862. Before I handle them, I’m going to call the library at OSU and ask what precautions I should take. I looked at the first few pages of some of them, but they are fragile, and I don’t want to mess them up.”

  “The gloves like nurses use should be all you’d need, I would think.”

  “I’m going to call. I don’t want to take any chances. These are part of our family history.”

  Later…

  She told her grandmother about her conversation. “The head librarian was very interested in what I have. She told me thinking has changed in the past few years and gloves are out. No ink writing instruments of any kind. And they need to be kept in a clean, dry place, so that pretty much eliminates the tack room.”

  “Why don’t you use the bedroom at the end of the hall? It’s larger and you could use the bed to lay them out. We’ll move a table in there to give you work space.”

  “Grandma, I want to show you what I found. Take a look at this. In 1867, Sophie wrote in her diary, ‘Josiah and Thomas took a herd to Fort Laramie and to pick up supplies. Lonely around here.’”

  “Then some time later, she writes ‘My men got home again today. Abigail, the girl from Fort Laramie that Thomas has been going on about for three months came back with them. She seems nice and is very pretty. It’s going to be good to have someone to talk to besides myself.’”

  “Then, ‘Our Sunday to have the preacher. Thomas and Abigail will be wed. I never thought it would happen.’ I wonder if that’s where my name, Abigail came from?”

  “It may have been. We’ve had a few Abigail’s before you,” her grandmother said.

  “I didn’t know that. I guess I just never thought about it.

  * * *

  Abby called the university library and arranged a meeting with the person responsible for old books. She put the box with several of the old diaries in the rear of her newly purchased red Subaru Forester, and drove to the library of the University of Wyoming.

  The librarian led her to a room with a long table and four chairs. “Let’s spread these out so we can have a look.”

  “This is the oldest. It’s the wife of the emigrant and begins in 1862.”

  The lady began pulling on a pair of cotton gloves. “Excuse me,” Abby said, “but I spoke with the head of the collections department at Ohio State University about the care of old books. I was specifically told not to use gloves. She
told me the thinking has changed because of the reduction of touch sensitivity. The most important thing is clean hands, and a light touch.”

  “I didn’t know that,” the lady admitted.

  After they washed their hands, they returned to Sophronia’s diary and the first entry.

  The writing was in pencil and faded almost to the point of illegibility.

  “Ten wagons left Zanesville first light Saturday, April 5th 1862. Josiah and Thomas walked. I walked part of the day. Mary and Cal Edwards rode along 4 miles. A last goodbye to old friends. Made 15 miles and camped.”

  “Tuesday 21 miles. Camped on Wiggins Creek. Two more wagons joined the company. Cool tonight.”

  The third entry was badly faded, and barely readable. They had made camp on the edge of Columbus, about fifty-five miles from their starting point.

  “We have a few diaries in our collection, but they’re not this old,” the librarian told her. These are real treasures. Did you find anything else of significance?”

  “I got sidetracked when I found these. There are some journals and ledgers and breeding records, but I haven’t looked at them yet.”

  “Are you considering donating these to the university?”

  “They belong to my grandfather. He own the Bar-B Ranch. I’ll mention this to him. Josiah Barnes was my sixth great grandfather. Since they will be mine someday, I want to retain ownership.”

  “Are you from here?”

  “No, I’m from Zanesville, Ohio, near Columbus. I’m thinking about enrolling here for my MS degree.”

  “Then let me be the first to welcome you to Wyoming U.”

  “Thank you. I think I’m going to spend the summer tracing what I can about Josiah and Sophronia.”

  The librarian wrote a name and phone number on a Post-it note. “This is Doctor Henry Jordan. He is the department head. His field of interest is Wyoming History and the Oregon Trail. Give him a call. I’m sure he would be interested in these and your family. Thank you for contacting us. Seeing these makes it a special day for me.”

  “You’re quite welcome, it has been my pleasure and I will give Doctor Jordan a call.”

  * * *

  “I would like very much to see your diaries,” Doctor Jordan said. “I’ll give you my schedule and you can pick a time when I’m not in the lecture hall.”

  Two days later…

  “There are thousands of western fans all over the world,” he said. “I suppose it has a lot to do with the romanticism of movies. It wasn’t as much fun as the movies play it up to be.”

  Abby spent two hours with Doctor Jordan. “My ancestors came out on the Oregon Trail during the gold rush and stayed,” he told her. “I wish they had kept a journal of the trip. They came from Pennsylvania. Probably right by your home in Ohio. Did your people came from here?”

  “Yes, sir. Five generations were born in the house Grandpa lives in. They got here from Ohio in 1862. I found these in an old trunk in the tack room.”

  “What time span do they cover?”

  “From 1862 until 1878, although the later ones don’t have nearly as many entries as the early ones. I haven’t been through all of them yet, but I suspect that after they arrived here, she probably didn’t have as much to write about and slacked off on the frequency.”

  “If these notes were transcribed and put together in a book, I believe my publisher would be interested. If you think you might be interested, let me know and I’ll look into it. Along that line, I have two requests to make. Would you mind if I called your grandfather? The second is a favor. I wonder if you would consider lending these to me for a few days, I’d love to go through them. My doctoral thesis was on the Oregon Trail. It would have been a boon to have something like this when I was working on it.”

  “I should be calling you doctor instead of professor,” Abby said.

  A delighted grin spread across his face. “Doctor sounds pretentious. Professor gives the impression I might know some things.”

  “Doctor Jordan, you may borrow these and as I go through the others, I will give you access to them as well.”

  “You have made my day, Miss Sanders.”

  “Abby or Abigail, please.”

  “Abigail. A name that was popular even back then.”

  “Have a nice day, Professor.”

  “And you as well.”

  Chapter four

  A New Place

  The deafening crack of thunder startled her; followed by a spectacular flash of sparks and flame as the bolt of lightning split a tall Ponderosa pine down the middle leaving both halves smoking; and their branches consumed in flames. Momentarily blinded, Abby swerved and lost control of her Subaru. Even though she was buckled in, she felt the sensation of flying through the air. She could see the ground beneath her, so she knew she was not in a car. She flew through a wall of blackness and found herself in the middle of nowhere.

  No highway, no buildings, just the two men on horseback. And what seemed like an endless stream of wagons, some pulled by oxen, others by horses. Most of the animals were controlled by men who walked along side. Some wagons had women on the seat, while others had women walking alongside. They all looked weary, not a smile on any of them. Small children peeked out of the arched coverings at the rear of the wagons. The dust kicked up by the hundreds of hooves and wheels hung over the wagons like a low hanging tan cloud.

  The man in the brown duster, who looked to be about forty-five, was astride a dun colored horse, asked, “Miss, what are you doing outchere all by yourself? If one of the Lakota raiding parties had found you instead of us, there ain’t no telling what they’da done. Did you get lost from one of the trains on up ahead of us? I ain’t seen you on ours before.”

  “No,” Abby replied. “I wasn’t on a wagon. I don’t know how I got here.”

  “You don’t know or you don’t remember?” the previously silent man said, pulling the reins of his large roan horse, causing it to back up. He was wearing jeans, a denim shirt, and a wide brimmed hat. He had a stubble on his chin with dark curly hair touching his collar.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Lightning struck a tree; I lost control and here I am.”

  “Your horse throwed you?” the first man asked.

  “I didn’t have a horse, and I don’t know how I got here.”

  “Well, you didn’t just fall out of the sky,” the older man said.

  “I don’t think I did either, but I don’t have an explanation,” Abby replied.

  “Jack, I think she’s likely been in the sun too long,” the older man said.

  “What’s your name, ma’am?” Jack asked.

  “Abigail Sanders.”

  “I’m Caleb Watson, the wagon master. This here’s Jack Calhoun. He’ll take you back to the preacher’s wagon; we’ve got to keep moving if we’re going to make it to the next water before dark.” He waved his arm in a circle over his head, signaling the wagons to begin rolling.

  “Sir… Mr. Watson, I was going home to my grandfather’s ranch outside Laramie. How can I get there?”

  “I don’t rightly know. We must be fifty or sixty miles from Fort Laramie. We can’t turn around and go back. That’d be three days or more, and we can’t spare the time.”

  “Not Fort Laramie, Just Laramie. I had been to the fort and was going back home.”

  Jack helped her onto the horse behind him. “Hold on, Miss Sanders, I don’t know how far back the preacher’s wagon is. You’ll like them. They’re nice people.”

  * * *

  “Preacher, could I have a word with you?” He dismounted, leaving a not too steady Abby holding on to the saddle. They moved out of earshot. “We found her alone in the middle of the road. She doesn’t know how he got here, but she said she was going to her grandpa’s ranch. I think she’s been in the sun too long and has gotten addled. We can’t turn around and go back to Fort Laramie, so Caleb wants to know if you can look after her until we meet someone going the other way.”

  “Ma
ude and I will see to her. Did she have anything with her? Them’s strange looking clothes.”

  “No, sir, she didn’t.”

  He and the preacher went back to the horse where he lifted her from the horse’s back and put her feet on the ground. “Preacher, this here’s Miss Abigail Sanders. Miss Sanders, this is Preacher Hawkins and his wife, Maude. They’ll look after you until we can find someone to return you to Fort Laramie.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Calhoun. How long will it be before we’ll come across someone going the other way?”

  “No way of knowing that. Most of the wagons are going the same way we are. We meet freight wagons, once in a while, and some settlers that’s given up and going back. Caleb won’t let you go if he doesn’t think it’s safe. I’ll leave you to the good preacher and his wife now.” He touched his fingers to the dusty, sweat-stained brim of his hat, wheeled his horse around and went back toward the front of the train.

  “No wonder you’re confused,” the preacher’s wife, Maude, said. “Wandering around without a bonnet will addle anyone’s brain.”

  “Mrs. Hawkins, I’m not confused. My name is Abigail Sanders. I was born in Zanesville, Ohio, and was visiting my grandparents, Martha and Jim Barnes on a ranch near Laramie.”

  “Land sakes, Fort Laramie is a long way to travel just for a visit. It took us nigh onto three months to come that far.”

  Abby decided it was best not to mention she flew to Laramie. It would make her sound more addled, as they put it.

  “Hon, where are your regular clothes?” You shouldn’t be out dressed like that, indicating the green slacks and pale green blouse Abby was wearing.

  “I left them at the ranch. I expected to be home tonight.”