Leaving Independence (23 page)

Colonel Dotson soon cut in to dance with Irene. She watched Hoke move away with a sharp crease in her forehead.

Hoke asked Christine Dotson to dance next, then Josephine, Melinda, Caroline Atwood, who looked extra pretty in a yellow gingham frock, and finally Ingrid Schroeder. He moved with little feeling. His heart belonged to the woman in blue . . . and she could never be his.

He watched her dance with several of the soldiers . . . like a rich sapphire floating in a sea of tarnished brass. What could he ever have offered her? He was an orphan who came from nothing and had amounted to little more than nothing.

The soldiers had their own musicians, which freed up James, Alec, and Nichodemus to enjoy the dance. As soon as Corrine had entered the room, James had waltzed over, taken her arm, and led her to the dance floor. Corrine wore a floor-length dress for the first time and had put up her hair, aging five years in an hour.

Her cheeks flushed and she said, “Are you asking me to dance, Mr. Parker?”

“Nope.” He put his arm around her waist.

“Isn’t this dancing?”

“It is. But I didn’t ask.”

She stopped and stood still. “A gentleman ought to ask.”

“Miss Baldwyn? May I have the pleasure?” When she started to dance again he said, “I didn’t ask because I didn’t want to give you a chance to say no. Now, if you’re holdin’ a dance card, I imagine it’s goin’ to fill up once I let you go. You just make sure you leave the last spot open for me.” He winked. “I want to be the first and last man you dance with tonight.”

Corrine didn’t say she would or she wouldn’t, but a soft blush stole into her cheeks.

The evening was nearing its end when Alec Douglas asked if he could play one more.

“I feel so inspired by that blue dress Mrs. Abigail is wearin’ that I wanted to play one o’ the Douglas clan’s favorite Scottish ballads, ‘Blue Bell of Scotland.’ It was our mother’s favorite. It’s Paddy’s favorite, too. Right, Paddy?”

Paddy nodded shyly and looked down at Carson, the raccoon riding as usual in the sling inside Paddy’s vest.

“Baird, ye have to sing it with me,” said Alec. “Big an’ loud now.”

Ah! where and ah! where is your highland laddie gone?

Ah! where and ah! where is your highland laddie gone?

He’s gone across the ocean in search of wealth to roam

and ’tis oh! in my heart I wish him safe at home.

He’s gone across the ocean in search of wealth to roam

and ’tis oh! in my heart I wish him safe at home.

Abigail had never heard the song before. She was struck by how parts of it were a reflection of her own story. How many times had her heart wished for Robert to be safely home?

Oh! where and oh! where does your highland laddie dwell?

Oh! where and oh! where does your highland laddie dwell?

Why had Robert chosen to dwell in Idaho Territory when his family waited for him in Tennessee?

His bonnet’s of the faxon green, his waistcoat’s of the plad,

Robert had always looked good in green. Was that why she’d made Hoke a green shirt? Had she wondered if he’d look as good as Robert in it?

Suppose and suppose your highland lad should die?

Suppose and suppose your highland lad should die?

The bagpipe should play over him I’d sit me down and cry

And ’tis oh! in my heart I hope he may not die.

The bagpipe should play over him I’d sit me down and cry

And ’tis oh! in my heart I hope he may not die.

Abigail had been convinced that Robert had died. She’d grieved. Then the news had come that he was alive. She should have been happy. Was she happy? How could she be when she didn’t know if he loved her . . . or wanted her . . . anymore?

By the song’s end nearly everyone was staring at Abigail. She looked so self-conscious and miserable that Hoke’s heart went out to her. He decided he would ask her to dance, after all, just to get her moving out of the eye of the room. But as he started across the floor a soldier cut him off. “I heard that pretty lady in the blue dress was Cap’n Baldwyn’s wife. Is that true?”

Hoke stopped. “Why? Do you know him?”

“Yeah. I’ve had dealings with him.”

“What kind of dealings?”

“Not overly pleasant ones. He came here to restock on guns not long ago, but we were low ourselves. He wasn’t none too happy about it. I can’t believe he’s got an upscale wife like that.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t get me wrong, he’s kind of a dandy, but men don’t hold him in very high regard.”

“Why? What sort of man is he?”

“Struts like a banty rooster. Carries a fancy hilt sword. Acts like he’s better than anybody else.”

“Does he have reason to be arrogant?”

The soldier raked back over Abigail with his eyes. “I didn’t think he did, but . . . maybe I’d be arrogant, too, if I had that to come home to.”

But the man didn’t go home to her, thought Hoke.

Seeing the way this man looked at Abigail and thinking of the bad spot Baldwyn had put her in lit Hoke’s ire so bad it was all he could do not to grab the lusty-eyed soldier by the neck and pin him to the wall.

He inwardly swore, then turned and left the room.

As he left he heard someone propose they all sing “My Country, ’Tis of Thee,” as the Fourth of July was only days away.

Rascal, who was lying near the porch steps, jumped up as Hoke came out the door. Nick and Nora were outside, selling whiskey to the soldiers. When Hoke stormed by, they tried to hide what they were doing, knowing the colonel wouldn’t approve and thinking Hoke wouldn’t, either. But in his current mood he was glad to happen on them.

He took a bottle from Nick’s hand as he passed, then walked out of hearing distance, away from the lights, and stared off into the darkness. Rascal sat at his feet, watching him expectantly.

When Rascal’s head swung back toward the mess hall, Hoke whipped around, the Colt in his hand. He saw Abigail walking away carrying a sleeping Lina, the child’s head on her shoulder.

Had Abigail been coming out to see him? Why had she stopped? Should he go after her? Why would he? What did he have to say?
I hear your husband is alive and that he’s a disrespected blaggard.

Hoke holstered the gun and took another swig.

CHAPTER 21

Bugs crawling in the sugar sack

When Abigail got back to her wagon, she laid Lina down and peeled off the blue dress. She had worn it because she’d wanted
him
to see her in it.

Last time he had danced only with her; this time he’d danced with everyone
but
her.

Abigail hadn’t seen when Hoke left the dance, but she had felt it. A cold breeze had swept in and swirled around her . . . the fool in the blue dress.

The Douglas boys hadn’t meant to wound her by drawing attention to her—they didn’t know the state of her heart. Mimi’s letter had caused it to swell. Then the sight of Hoke dancing with Irene, and later, an awkward conversation with Lieutenant Coatman, had jerked her heart first one way then another. Now it was sore and raw.

What did she care if Hoke danced with Irene? And what did she care if he drank whiskey in the moonlight? What was any of that to her?

And so what if Lieutenant Coatman had given her a strange look when he said as she was leaving the dance with Lina, “I’ve met your husband.”

She had stopped, surprised. “You have? How is he?”

“Opinionated. And stubborn.”

While those were qualities she remembered, Abigail had expected Coatman to say something nice. She waited for him to laugh and follow up with a compliment—perhaps about Robert’s attention to detail, his sense of fairness, his strong intelligence and competence. But that was all Coatman had to say before he smiled wanly and left the dining hall, renewing Abigail’s fears that Robert had changed.

Still . . . Robert was her husband. Mimi had said that if ever there was a woman who could help a man find himself again, it was Abigail. So if an opinionated, stubborn husband was her cross to bear, she would bear it. And she would face the task with all the grace she could muster. After all, she owed it to her children to put their family back together.

Hoke could dance with Irene, kiss
her
behind the wagons, and drink whiskey by the barrel. None of that was anything to her.

Or was it?

Dotson had announced the night before that they would leave after breakfast. The camp flurried that morning as folks made final trades with the soldiers, packed their gear, and got the teams ready. A sergeant walked another letter over to the Baldwyn wagons. Its postmark read
Franklin
.

Abigail had been certain they would hear from Robert while they were at Laramie. “There’s nothing from Fort Hall?” she asked the sergeant.

“No, ma’am.”

She mustered a smile. “Thank you.” It wasn’t the soldier’s fault Robert hadn’t written.

Charlie, who was walking by, stopped, seeing the letter in her hand. “Is that from Pa?”

“No. I think it’s from Thad. It’s his handwriting.” She opened the letter.

May 29, 1866

Dear Sis,

I send this letter on behalf of Father and all the family. We miss you and the children and pray you are well. With Arlon’s help, we cleared a hundred acres and planted tobacco. It’s coming in nicely. Sue Anne and I had our new baby. We named him Seth Robert.

Abigail and Charlie exchanged a smile.

Nathan married Nora Clark. That will not be a surprise as they courted so long.

You may be interested to know that the girl who disappeared from Marston a few years ago was found. Everyone thought she was killed, like her mother and sisters were, while her father and brothers were off fighting. But she’s alive and has been reunited with what’s left of her family. She can’t be much older than Corrine.

“Louella Dale,” said Charlie.

“She was seventeen when she disappeared, wasn’t she?”

“That would make her nineteen now. She had a twin brother.”

“How wonderful that she’s alive and has been reunited with her family!” Maybe it was a sign . . . maybe this was how God whispered in Mimi’s ear.

I don’t know any other tales. Franklin continues to reconstruct. We looked at horses the army was selling back, but they were all worn out and shell-shocked. Arlon’s mules are the best working stock we’ve got. Mimi said you bought mules for your wagons.

Father is declining in health and mind. I’m sorry he was difficult last time you were here. He’d be sorry, too, if he could think straight. I hate to know you’re so far away, but we pray for you. Send us word when you get where you’re going.

Thad Walstone

Charlie put his arm around her. “Not much farther now, Ma.”

Abigail hugged him. “How are things with Emma Austelle?”

“Good.” He grinned.

“You going to be all right to stay in Idaho Territory while she travels on to Oregon?”

Charlie nodded, but the look on his face let her know he had wrestled with it. “I think so.”

He left to hitch the teams.

Abigail had just swung a leg over the dun’s saddle when the sergeant came running back to her and handed her another letter.

“I just found this one, Mrs. Baldwyn. It was so small I overlooked it at first.”

Her heart missed a beat. It was from Robert. “Thank you.”

He tipped his hat. “I hope you have a safe, pleasant journey to Fort Hall.”

Abigail wondered if she should call Charlie back, and all the children, before opening it. Company C was second in formation today. She looked over and saw that Charlie was lifting Lina into their first wagon. Corrine and Jacob were already on the seat of their second one, waiting to move into line.

Nervous about what it might say, she tore open the letter.

Welcome to the West, darling. It thrills me to know you are coming. We can have a happy life here, you and me.

It was brief, but reassuring. Abigail smiled and put the letter in her skirt pocket. Yes . . . this had to be what it felt like to have God whisper in your ear. But it bothered her that he still didn’t mention the children or offer an explanation about Cecil Ryman’s claims.

The trapper had made a quiet camp within sight of Laramie. A large but lean man, he moved as light as the Indians he’d lived with for the majority of his life. He had no trouble spotting Abigail Baldwyn or her children.

Her blue dress had been especially nice.

He had watched the wagon train arrive at Laramie, watched them circle up, watched them have their dance. He had crept through the untended wagons, feeding raw meat to the dogs to keep them quiet—had seen the gold and supplies, the whiskey stores, and the numerous rifles stored in the wagons throughout the camp.

He took nothing and left no prints with the soles of his moccasins. But he had identified which wagons he wanted, and he knew what all the Baldwyns looked like—the cute kid she carried sleeping in her arms, the pretty girl with the long ponytail, the boys who slept beneath the wagon.

It was sweet when they gathered around to read the letter from home.

To kill them there would have been easy, but he would wait until they were away from the fort, in the spot Robert Baldwyn had mentioned. He wanted the gold. And he knew a band of Piutes that would love that whiskey and appreciate those rifles.

July 2, 1866

I can hardly believe you are married, Mimi. May God bless your future and your marriage as richly as you deserve.

Thad wrote. He says Louella Dale from Treetop Ridge was reunited with her family. What a happy ending! It gives me hope. Robert wrote, too, and appears pleased to know we are coming.

In spite of these good omens, it makes me melancholy to count the grave markers left along this trail. Since Ash Hollow the numbers have increased.

Yesterday we heard about a man who stood on his wagon to look for Indians and lost his balance, shooting himself in the head as he fell. It seems it’s accidents and illness that take the better part of the lives lost out here, not Indians and nature.

Abigail wondered why she felt so jumpy.

Hoke also seemed on edge. He said little to her and little to anyone else. She thought back to his comment about feeling tempted to ride off from the group and wondered if there had, after all, been some truth to it.

Irene McConnelly had ridden with him the day they left Laramie—not on the white filly, but her own horse. And Abigail spied them that evening talking by the campfire. Ingrid had given him another haircut, too—and after Hoke had made that comment to Abigail about how
she
was good with scissors!

Abigail fumed at herself for keeping track of all his movements. Hadn’t she vowed to stop thinking about him? Wasn’t she traveling toward a husband who was thrilled she was coming?

Her temper grew short.

The second day after leaving Laramie, when she found dirt clumps scattered across the floor in the second wagon, she pulled everything out, swept and scrubbed, then packed it all back in. Later, when she found bugs crawling in the sugar sack she threw it against the wagon wheel.

“Mother!” Corrine picked up the bag and tried to keep any more from spilling out of a hole now torn in the side. “We need this sugar. It’s our last bag!”

“I’m sick of finding bugs in it!”

Melinda walked over. “Bring it over here, Corrine, and we’ll sift through it good and get ’em out. I’ve saved an old bag we can refill it in.”

Abigail put her hand to her forehead. “I’m sorry.”

She walked to a nearby creek and sat down on the bank. Melinda joined her there as the sun bent down and kissed the horizon.

“I’m sick of that dirty floor,” mumbled Abigail.

“And I’m sick of livin’ so close to livestock.”

“And I’m sick of my lumpy mattress.”

“And I’m sick of the sun scorchin’ my skin through this muslin. And havin’ to ask other women to hold their skirts out and hide me when I need to tinkle. And wakin’ up ever’ mornin’ to the Schroeders’ roosters callin’. I’m not havin’ me any roosters when we build our place.”

“I’m sick of not having any privacy.” A smile curled the corners of Abigail’s lips. “A woman can’t even have a fit in private around here.”

Melinda put an arm around her shoulders. “But you know what I’m not sick of? Look yonder at that sunset. I ain’t got sick of that yet, have you?”