Leaving Independence (13 page)

Both suited her nicely.

She looked the way he imagined all Southern ladies looked—genteel women in cotton frocks, with wide-brimmed straw hats, gathering flowers from a field.

Each afternoon she wore the straw hat as she and Mrs. Austelle gathered flowers for the porcelain pitcher on Abigail’s makeshift supper table. Girls from all over the camp would come by asking if they could have the flowers to make necklaces or bracelets, which they’d wear until they wilted.

He loved having her wagon so near his own. It allowed him to steal glances at her as she pulled her hat off in the afternoons.

He had expected her to be spoiled and take his offers of help readily, but she hadn’t. In fact, she never complained or asked for anything. So far as he could tell, she only allowed herself one luxury—a small basin of water that she used to wash the back of her neck and her feet before she got supper ready. So he’d started bringing her water when they made camp in the afternoons.

He’d reach up and water her plants, leaving enough in the bucket for her feet, then set the bucket down at the back of her wagon without saying a word. This had been happening for several days.

Abigail yanked at the fabric of the rocking chair seat she was working on. “I feel guilty that you are working harder than you would have to if you didn’t have a woman with four children and no husband in your company.” She seemed flustered.

It pleased him. “I was told you did have a husband.”

“You know what I mean. He’s not here.”

“That is a curiosity to me.”

She turned to look him in the eye then. “And to me, Mr. Hoke.”

“Just Hoke.”

“What kind of name is that anyway?”

“It’s my name!”

She lifted her chin. “Is it your Christian name or your surname? Because Colonel Dotson called you Hoke Mathews. Is Hoke really your Christian name?”

He gave her a sideways smirk. “Why do you care?”

“I want to know how to address you properly.”

“I keep tellin’ you and you keep ignorin’ me.”

“Just Hoke.”

“That’s right.”

She shook her head. “I’m trying to set an example for my children. They are to call you
Mr.
Hoke, unless they should be calling you Mr. Mathews.”

“Are you avoidin’ my question?” he said, avoiding her question.

“What question was that?”

“About your husband.”

“You didn’t ask me about my husband, you only said it was a curiosity to you that he wasn’t here. To which I replied—”

“The question was implied.”

“And the question is?”

“Are you always this difficult to have a conversation with?” he bellowed.

She tied a final knot in the rocker seat, jerking it harder than he suspected she had to, and turned to face him. He could feel his eyes blazing and knew all of his emotions lay on the surface, but he couldn’t seem to tamp them down.

“No. I don’t consider myself difficult at all. And I don’t know how I manage to make you angry. You aren’t short-tempered with anyone else. Why are you short-tempered with me? It must be because I’m a burden to you. I’ve not asked for your help. If you resent giving it, then don’t!”

Hoke
was
angry, but not with her
. . .
with himself. Now that she had said the words out loud, he could see how she might interpret his irritation that way. He needed to keep a better handle on his emotions.

Frankly, he didn’t know why she affected him the way she did. It made no sense. She was a married woman with four children! But he had trouble imagining the husband—had trouble believing he really existed. It would not be the first time a woman had purported to have a husband when she didn’t, just to keep other men at bay. Why had she cursed Robert Baldwyn when Lina was ill? And what did she mean by saying to Charlie that she had driven him off?

If this woman really did have a husband, Hoke had no business looking at her feet and the cute way she kept burrowing her toes into the grass.

“Mrs. Baldwyn, I’m sorry you feel that way. I assure you, you are not a burden to me or to anyone else in this group. Tell you what
. . .
tomorrow I’ll try to turn over a new leaf. How about I let you ride that white filly as a peace offering?” He stood and offered his hand.

“All right,” she said hesitantly, standing up to shake hands with him.

Instead, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he picked up the rocker and took it to her wagon without asking if she needed or wanted his help with it.

He could feel her puzzled expression through the back of his shirt.

CHAPTER 12

Where the world dripped with hope

Cecil Ryman never made it to Idaho Territory. He never even made it to Fort Kearney, north of Kansas.

After he spoke to Abigail Baldwyn, Cecil Ryman traveled due west, thinking to shave some time off his journey before turning north to get on the Oregon. But a lone man gets lonely weaving through unfamiliar land, so when Cecil Ryman spied a faint light at dusk one evening, he turned his horse to meet it.

Because he wasn’t a bad man, he called out as he neared. “How-do, there!”

There was no reply, but Cecil Ryman didn’t let that stop him. He nosed his horse on in, drawn to it by the hope of food and company. He got all the way to the camp—to the fire—and saw no one about.

Thinking the builder of the fire couldn’t be far, Cecil sat on a rock and warmed his hands while waiting for the stranger to return.

And the stranger presently did.

A trapper, deciding that Cecil was harmless, emerged from the trees. One minute Cecil Ryman was sitting alone on his rock, and the next minute a trapper was squatting at the fire across from him.

Cecil jumped like he’d been shot.

“Lord, have mercy!” A nervous laugh escaped him. “If you’d a been a snake, I’d been bit ’fore I knew you was there!”

The trapper only looked at him.

“You travelin’ alone?” asked Cecil.

“Are
you
travelin’ alone?” asked the trapper.

Cecil was quick to nod. “You sound Irish. My name’s Cecil Ryman. I’m headed to a fort in Idaho Territory. Man up there killed my brother and I got to make it right.” Cecil reached in his pocket for the folded paper, even though the fire was small and didn’t offer enough light to read by.

“This story gives the details but it don’t name his killer. A man travelin’ through Arkansas about a year ago, though, he seen it. Said it was a man named Baldwyn. Carries him a fancy sword and run it through my brother Dan’s heart. The man didn’t know why—said they apparently was friends and had served in the war together—but Baldwyn cut him, then stood and watched him bleed out. Baldwyn didn’t think he was seen, but he was, by this man.”

“Interestin’,” said the trapper. “And you’re not afraid to face him?”

“Well, truth be told, I hate to do it. I come across Baldwyn’s wife back in Independence and I made apologies. But like I told her, I swore on Dan’s grave I’d make it right and I mean to keep my word. I never killed no one before, but I’ve never had to. Not even in the war. I’s a cook.”

The trapper reached down and pulled a knife from its scabbard in his boot. He selected a long blade of grass from the ground and set it over the knife’s edge. It sliced cleanly.

“Baldwyn has a wife, you say?”

Cecil frowned. “Yeah
. . .
pretty yellow-haired lady. I feel bad this is going to put her in a spot—her travelin’ out to meet him and all. They got nice-lookin’ children, too. I never had no children myself. Dan left two boys. That’s why I got to go ahead and make it right. If I don’t, those boys’ll feel the need to when they get older.”

Moments later Cecil Ryman lay dying by the fire. He bled out, just like his brother, Dan, wondering what he’d said to the trapper to set him off and make him want to slit his throat like that.

May 2, 1866

. . . I realize in reading back over my letter, Mimi, that I failed to finish telling you about Mr. Hoke, the gentleman who leads Company C. He is alternatingly wonderful and disagreeable. He bosses the children, and sometimes bosses me. Then he’ll go and do a thing so thoughtful it will leave me speechless.

The next morning, true to his word, Hoke brought his white horse, saddled and ready to ride, to the back of Abigail’s wagon.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting,” she said, coming around the corner. “I got behind, but everyone should be settled now.”

He grinned with that sideways smirk he had. “I heard Rascal cornered Paddy Douglas’s coon.”

“We don’t need anybody else mad at us because of Rascal.”

“He’s just being a dog.”

“Since he’s partly your dog, could you try keeping him in line? And of all the animals in camp—Paddy Douglas’s coon! Paddy would be crushed if anything happened to him.”

Paddy Douglas’s sweet simple-minded nature has won the heart of everyone in camp. When Michael Chessor found a baby coon the first week of travel, Paddy’s brother, Baird, said, “Give that coon to Paddy. He’s a great one with critters.” And sure enough, Paddy had it tamed in no time. His stature with every child in camp increased after that. They seek him out now every evening to pet the coon he keeps inside his shirt on a sling that his brothers, Alec and Baird, have rigged for him.

“What’ll Mrs. Austelle do without you today?” asked Hoke, coming around the horse toward her.

“She’s helping Caroline Atwood with baby Will. Oh!”

Instead of making a cup for her foot like her brothers always did, Hoke had put his hands on either side of her waist and said, “Jump.” She barely had time to comply before he lifted her up like she weighed no more than a horse saddle. Surprised, she swung a leg over.

“I wasn’t ready for that.” Color crept into her cheeks. Abigail pulled at her sleeves, hoping he wouldn’t notice that the lace of her blouse was starting to fray. Her dark-green skirt was about twelve inches shorter than she normally wore her skirts and split, then sewn up the middle like wide-legged pants. Brown riding boots covered her calves.

“I thought Southern ladies rode sidesaddle.” He grinned again, adjusting her stirrups, then patting at the filly’s stomach with the back of his hand to make her exhale before he cinched the belt tight.

Abigail stroked the horse’s velvet neck, relishing the feel of Hoke’s shoulder brushing against her leg. “Some do, but I grew up with brothers. They made fun of me if I rode sidesaddle. So my mother made me split riding skirts. That way I could keep up with them.”

The filly danced and pranced, causing Abigail to smile as she worked the reins to get the feel of her.

Hoke mounted the stallion. “Looks like she wants to run.”

“Should I let her?”

“Why not?”

Abigail let the white have her head, racing her out far ahead of the first wagons. Dotson and Jenkins, who were riding in the lead, waved as they passed.

It had been a long time since she’d ridden like this back in Tennessee. But out here, where the world dripped with hope, the urge to fly over the land was irresistible.

“Now you’ve done it!” she shouted as he came along beside her on the stallion. “I was liking my gray horse.”

This white Appaloosa was something special, though. Abigail suddenly felt younger than she’d felt in years. Her hat flew back, caught by the string at her neck, and her hair started falling out of its tight bun, but she didn’t care.

How long had it been since she’d
really
ridden a horse?

Not since she lost the baby.

She remembered how she had loved riding as a child. But then thoughts of racing Seth over her father’s land, Mimi wiping blood from between her legs, and Robert angrily shoveling dirt behind the springhouse all ran through her mind.

Tears sprang to her eyes as the filly slowed. She ached to be young again and free of the memories that weighed on her.

Hoke’s stallion slowed in front of her and she swiped at her eyes, embarrassed. He pulled up beside her and they slowed to a trot.

They rode in silence for what seemed a long time. It might have been awkward with anyone else, but Hoke was the sort of person with whom you could ride in silence. If he’d started talking and acting moody like he’d done the night before, her tears would probably have dried quickly. But his more jovial spirit this morning and now his thoughtful silence only made them worse. She couldn’t seem to stop. There was no question now that he had noticed, but he had the decency not to comment.

Hoke wanted so much to know what was troubling her and whether he could fix it. Fixing things was what he did. He could repair or build most anything that needed to be repaired or built. But unlocking the mysteries of a woman’s heart
. . .
he had never learned to do that.

“See that track?” he said finally, pointing to marks that crossed the trail in front of them. They were far ahead of the train.

She nodded.

The land was growing flat. Out here a person could see for miles on a low rise like the one they were on now. Each tree and bush they passed was budding with its own shade of green. Wild yellow flowers dotted the landscape in random clumps.

“Elk.” Hoke nodded down at the tracks. “Herd of elk came through here. About four days ago.”

Abigail swiped at her nose. “How can you tell it was four days ago?”

“The debris left in the tracks, and the dullness of the edges. You learn to tell if you study them long enough. An elk has a cloven hoof just like a deer, only bigger, thicker. A deer’s are a little more spread out and sharper at the top.” There were even fine differences in the track of a buck versus a doe—a doe’s toes were more pointed. Hoke didn’t like to track a doe this time of year when she might be pregnant with a fawn.

Abigail pointed to the nearest clump of flowers. “Did you know that jonquils are part of the narcissus family?”

Hoke grinned. “No, I didn’t know that.” He thought for a minute. “Is that the guy that became so enamored with himself that he drowned in a pool?”

“According to Greek mythology, yes. He was purportedly very handsome.” She swiped at her nose again and grinned, and then her smile faded. “Yellow jonquils lined my front walk at home.”

She squeezed her eyes closed, but one more tear slid from between her lids. He wished he knew what was making her sad.

She brushed it away and turned to face him.

“Have you always lived in the West?” she asked.

“No. I was born in Kentucky.”

The horses had fallen into a nice rhythm, stepping slow and steady, their strong shoulders rolling Hoke and Abigail in a side-by-side motion.

She’d bravely fought whatever had made her sad, so he decided he’d bravely share, too. “My folks came to Missouri when I was eight. They both died before I was ten. A lot of folks got cholera in those days from diseased people coming off the boats.”

“That’s terrible! Who raised you?”

“Raised myself. Ed Branson and his wife, Ruby, were awfully good to me.”

Abigail’s breath caught. “Ruby Branson
. . .
and Rachel Mathews. You were the man we saw at the cemetery that day!”

He’d seen her there, had known it was her from the way she walked. “It’s where my folks are buried. Anyway, I traveled to Texas when I was fifteen; been somewhere between Texas and Missouri ever since.”

Hoke didn’t look to see her reaction but felt her eyes travel the length of him.

“I can’t bear to think of Jacob having to raise himself, or Charlie going all the way to Texas alone. Did you not go to school?”

“Not formally. Mrs. Ruby made sure I knew how to read and write. I never saw a woman who loved to read more.” Abigail read to her children every night. Hoke could hear them through the canvas.

Her eyes were studying him again. He liked the feel of her eyes on him.

“You’ve no other family?”

Hoke looked at her then, relieved to see she’d stopped crying. That had been his goal. Her eyes were bluer when wet. And the tip of her nose had turned pink.

He wasn’t used to talking about himself. Even James knew little of his past. But for some reason he wanted to tell her. He wanted her to know—not so she could feel sorry for him, but so she could know him. Understand him. Forgive him for faults he knew he had, like clamming up and holding his cards too close to his chest.

“No family that I’m aware of. I’m sure I’ve got relatives somewhere, but as a ten-year-old I didn’t pay close attention. I faintly remember some talk of it, but they weren’t folks I recalled well enough to seek out when I found myself alone.”

Hoke had been alone for years but for the occasional riding partner, like James. He was tired of being alone. Freedom was important to a man. At least, he had told himself it was important. He never thought he could travel with a group like this and not go mad from being tied to the responsibility of it. But it wasn’t bad.