Leaving Independence (27 page)

“A lot of bullets fly in skirmishes like we had yesterday. I’ve been part of more than I care to count. But not many find their mark so well. In fact, a lot that do find their mark are pure accidents, like the bullet you took might have been.”

Hoke scowled and shook his head. “The more I think about it, the more I think old man McConnelly might have shot you by accident. The Indians had rifles. A rifle shot would have—”

“Oh, no! He might have hurt someone.”

Hoke scowled harder. “What do you call this?” He pointed to her side.

“I mean, what if someone else had been hurt?”

He leaned in. “What,
you
don’t matter?”

“No, I mean . . . I’m just glad it was me if it had to be someone. And it’s not bad. Well, it’s sore, to be sure, but I’m not in danger of dying, according to Marc.”

Hoke pulled back. “Marc, is it?”

Abigail had said the word innocently enough but was pleased at Hoke’s reaction. He was jealous. She felt wicked for loving the fact that he was jealous and the way his forehead crinkled when he was irritated.

He
had
to still care for her then, even if he had snubbed her at the Fort Laramie dance.

A thousand times she had relived the kiss they’d shared when she’d measured him for the shirt. She could still feel his strong arms around her from yesterday, too, when he’d held her and told her that everything was all right, just before she lost consciousness.

Her face flushed at the memory.

Hoke noticed the flush in Abigail’s cheeks and wondered if he’d hit a nerve by mentioning the doc. Trying to restrain his irritation, he said, “At any rate, I’m glad you’re a dead shot. Oh, and here’s your gun back.”

He reached to the back of his waistband and pulled out her Colt, running his hand over the barrel. “I cleaned it and reloaded it for you. You don’t have to keep it on an empty chamber. It’s got a safety peg right here it’ll sit on between rotations.”

Her eyes looked surprised. “How did you know I kept it on an empty chamber?”

Hoke bet Marc Isaacs wouldn’t have known that fact. “You only fired twice, and there were three bullets in the chamber.”

“I feel better if it’s sitting on an empty one.”

“Well, I’m just tellin’ you because you might need that sixth bullet sometime. That safety peg’ll keep the hammer from hittin’ the percussion cap even if it falls.”

“That’s just what . . . I thought it would be safer with children around.”

Hoke slid his hand over the barrel again. He loved the smooth, solid feel of it. “It was better on some of the older guns, but on this Navy revolver you’re fine to load every chamber. You’ve got six in there now. Normally a .36 wouldn’t take such a big chunk out of a man, but it sure took a plug out of that fella who was behind me.”

She winced. “Please don’t describe it that way. You say it like it’s a good thing, but it’s awful. I killed a person. I was having a hard enough time without you saying I might have killed two.”

No one but Hoke, Colonel Dotson, Jenkins, and Charlie knew that one of the men she’d killed had her picture in his leather pouch. Hoke wondered how that news would have made her feel. He didn’t like the feel of it at all himself.

He nodded. “I know. Believe me, I know. And I’m not tryin’ to make light of it, but if it had to be me or him, I’m glad he’s dead and I’m not. Where do you keep this?”

She pointed to the cherry box.

He moved the wash tin and opened the lid. After laying the gun back in its case he noticed a stack of books inside. “Mind if I look at these?”

“No, go ahead.”

They were good books—Charles Dickens and William Wordsworth. He would have expected no less.

“You’re welcome to borrow any of those.”

“I’d like that. I haven’t read this one.” He pulled out Wordsworth’s
Poems, in Two Volumes
.

“You’ve read Dickens?”

Why did she say that like she was surprised? Bet she wouldn’t be surprised if
Marc
had read them.

“I have. Just because I didn’t go to school very long doesn’t mean I don’t read. ‘
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times
,’” he quoted, “‘
it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness . . . it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair
’—I think that’s the beginning of this one, anyway. I like Dickens.”

Hoke had carried
A Tale of Two Cities
in his saddlebag a long time before trading it for his fold-up pocketknife. He lost count of how many times he’d read it, especially that passage at the beginning. Just like his old Bible. The Bible was the only thing he had that had once been his father’s, so it was still in his saddlebag. He read it cover to cover as a kid, then cover to cover again, several times over, trying to figure out why his father had put such stock in it—and trying to figure out why God would allow any boy to end up alone in the world.

Reading that Bible made him less angry when he saw that God suffered, too.

“Dickens wrote that about England,” Hoke said. “But it sounds like things out here, don’t it?”

Abigail smiled and shook her head. “You never cease to amaze me. Why don’t you take the poetry book since you’ve not read it? It’s mine to lend. The two Dickens books belonged to Robert.”

He noticed she’d said
belonged
. Sometimes she referred to Robert in the past tense, and sometimes in the present. Should he tell her what the soldier at Laramie had said about her husband? No, he decided. It would seem mean-spirited if he did.

“Thank you.” He kept the book out and closed the top of the cherry box. “I’ll take good care of it and get it back to you.”

“Be sure to read the one about the daffodils . . . ‘I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud.’ That one and ‘Resolution and Independence’ are my favorite two.”

He nodded, holding the book in his hand and staring at her so hard she began to squirm.

She lowered her lashes. “Were you going to say something before?”

“What?”

“Before. You and I started talking at the same time. Were you going to say something else?”

Just that I wish your husband weren’t alive and that I’m in love with you. You’re driving me crazy and distracting me with your yellow patchwork quilt and your cherry box and your bare feet and your golden hair and your blue eyes and the way you smell like lavender.

“No,” Hoke said. “Just, thank you for shooting that Indian. Oh . . . and I wanted to tell you that Charlie did good yesterday and this morning. He’s a good one. They’re all good . . . good children.” He wished they were his.

Hoke put his hands on his knees; he’d stayed too long.

“Thank you again, Hoke.”

Just Hoke.
It was sweet music to his ears. She put her hand on his as he stood up.

He brought it to his lips and kissed it softly. “You have lovely hands, Abby.” Then he took his hat and the book and left.

Abigail lay still for a long time and thought about him, her hand hot from the kiss, her heart beating so hard it made the bullet wound in her side throb.

CHAPTER 25

Blood-orange sunsets

July 13, 1866

I remembered your remedy for fleas, Mimi. Lavender! How could I have forgotten? Now if only I knew a remedy for weevils in the sugar sack.

A steady stream of visitors helped Abigail keep her mind off Hoke. Paddy Douglas brought Carson to visit. One of the coon’s legs was wrapped on a splint.

“He got dropped and stepped on during the attack,” explained Paddy. “But Doc Isaacs reset it and it’s healing nicely. Since you’re both laid up, I thought you might enjoy each other’s company.”

Abigail laid a hand on Alec Douglas’s arm, grateful he had come with Paddy to see her. When Paddy talked, his round eyes darted and pitched, like the tempo of his words, and hardly ever rested on the person he was talking to. He talked more than he used to, ever since he beat the colonel when they raced at the fork of the Platte River.

“I was one of the colonel’s best runners when we had the attack,” he reminded Abigail. “I brought bullets just like the colonel said. I didn’t drop a one.”

“He’s taught Carson a new trick,” Alec told Abigail. “Show her, Paddy.”

Paddy grinned and held out a bag. “Give Mrs. Baldwyn her present, Carson.” Carson reached in and pulled out a small bundle of flowers, tied with a string.

“Oh!” Abigail clapped. “How sweet! Thank you, Carson. And thank you, Paddy.” She reached to hug them and winced, wondering if her side would ever stop feeling like it was on fire. “How is Baird doing today?”

“Some better,” said Alec. Baird had taken a spear in his shoulder during the Indian attack. He’d been fine at first but then started a fever. “Doc thinks he’ll pull through. He’s still runnin’ fever, tho’.”

“Doc says fever is not all bad,” said Paddy.

“That’s right, Paddy. Doc says it’s a lad’s way o’ fightin’ infection.”

“But it don’t feel good,” continued Paddy.

“No, he don’t feel his proper self yet. We’re happy to know you’re feelin’ better, Mrs. Abigail.”

“Can I mend anything for him, for any of you?”

“Oh, no, ma’am. We’ve had so many offers from the lady folk, we don’t want for nothin’. In fact, Paddy and I are gonna get fat if folks don’t stop bein’ so good to us.”

“We’ve had two cobblers already.” Paddy held up two fingers. “And Carson has had three ears of corn.” He added another finger.

Alec grinned at Abigail. “He can count to ten, can’t you, Paddy? We never got past ten ’cause that’s all the fingers he’s got.”

Alec and Paddy Douglas weren’t her only visitors. So many people brought Abigail flowers while she recovered that she started weaving them together and made a covering as wide as her bed. She kept adding to it, like she was weaving a quilt, letting the flowers dry and working the tapestry on a light cloth that she rolled it up in each night.

Some of the Schroeders even visited. Mrs. Inez brought two loaves of bread and Rudy and his wife, Olga, sent a cured ham and a dozen eggs.

“I take it they’ve forgiven you at long last for Rascal eating their chicken,” said Melinda when she stopped by. “Now we know what it takes to get back in their good graces. Gettin’ shot savin’ one of their young’uns. You should’ve got shot sooner!”

“Melinda,” scolded Abigail, holding her hand to her bandages. “You’re making my side hurt!”

Melinda smiled mischievously. “Mr. Austelle told the colonel he figured out why the Schroeders don’t shoot well. The only meat they ever eat is pork, and it’s not hard to take aim on a domesticated pig.”

After spending five days in the wagon, Abigail got Charlie to help her down to join the others for supper. Doc Isaacs rushed over and told her she shouldn’t be getting out this soon, but she insisted, so he got her rocker and set it close to the fire.

Abigail smiled proudly at Corrine. She had taken over the cooking without complaint. Lina brought her mother a plate. Caroline Atwood came to sit with her until Will grew fussy and had to be put to bed. Doc Isaacs walked back over to her and said, “Feel like stretching your legs a little?”

“I’d love to.”

She took the arm he offered and they strolled slowly around the outer circle of wagons. Alec got out his fiddle and Nichodemus and Nora were soon singing. The older children danced and played in groups while the mothers started getting younger children to bed. Abigail could see Jacob with Cooper and Lijah under the Austelles’ wagon, making plans to reenact the Indian attack. Lijah had bounced back the quickest—children were always the ones who did.

“You’re to be commended for saving his arm,” said Abigail.

“The arrow missed the bone, so I can’t claim to have worked any miracle.”

“I get to be Hoke,” they heard Jacob say. “You be Colonel Dotson, Cooper. Lijah, after you get shot with the arrow, you can be Harry Sims. We need more people. Go see if your sister Hannah wants to play.”

Abigail looked around for her other children. Lina was with Mrs. Josephine listening to the Jaspers sing. And Corrine and Charlie were talking with Clyde and Emma Austelle.

Doc pointed to the three boys under the wagon. “Earlier they were plotting a prank on the McConnelly sisters.”

“I hope it wasn’t too bad.”

“No worse than what they deserve.”

Abigail lightly slapped his arm. “I still feel bad for what they went through.” Of course, neither Irene nor Diana had been by to express their concern about her getting shot. But that had not surprised her.

“It didn’t make them any nicer,” said Doc Isaacs.

As they passed the next wagon Abigail caught a glimpse of Hoke on the other side of camp, leaning against a wagon wheel and talking with James, who was sanding a block of wood. Hoke was chewing on a stick, watching her and Doc Isaacs.

Abigail’s hand turned hot on Doc’s arm as she thought about the kiss Hoke had planted there a few days ago. He hadn’t been back to see her since.

Sleep had begun to elude her. She didn’t know if it was the fear of getting closer to Fort Hall that was the cause, or just that she’d been in her bed too long. Twice she’d awakened and noticed light coming through the canvas of Hoke’s wagon. When she eased her linseed-oiled cover up, she could see his outline in the light of an oil lamp, reading what she suspected was her book of poetry.

“Marc, what do you know about Hoke?”

Doc gripped the hand she had laid in the crook of his arm a little tighter. “Not much really. I did hear a rumor about him in Independence, that he’d killed a man when he was young. Something to do with a woman of ill repute. A jury found him innocent, but he left town after the trial and stayed gone twenty years. I don’t tell you that to smear his name, I tell you that because I think it explains why he’s so guarded all the time. He seems like a good man. He’s certainly a capable man. I feel safer with him around.”

Abigail was curious to know more details but knew she’d never ask for them. Once again she imagined what it would be like for Charlie or Jacob to be left alone, to have to grow up fast . . . to face hard things. “You think that’s why he’s blunt?”

“He’s definitely authoritative.” Doc grinned. “But Hoke can be gentle with the children. They sure respect him.”

Abigail was surprised Hoke had never married and had children of his own. It made her wonder about Marc Isaacs’s past. He was certainly going to make a good father.

“Were you close to Caroline’s husband?”

“He was my dearest friend.”

“I didn’t realize that.”

“We were roommates in medical school.”

“How did he die?”

“Dysentery. It was a real lesson in humility for a couple of young physicians. My loyalty to Caroline is doublefold. She’s my sister—my only sibling—our parents are both gone. And her child is the son of my closest friend. I promised William I’d help raise him.”

Just then Jacob came running past them, calling to Hannah Sutler, “Dammit, Abigail! I told you to git to your wagon!” Abigail reached out and grabbed him, wincing from the sharp pain in her side.

“Watch your language, young man!”

Jacob stomped his foot. “Aw, Ma. We’re having the Indian attack.”

“Well you can have it without using salty language, Jacob.”

“But—”

“No
but
s.’”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Do I need to put some more lavender in your hair?” she asked, running her hand through his mousy locks. “Are the fleas bothering you?”

Jacob rolled his eyes. “No, I’m fine. Can I play now?” He went back to Hannah. “Git to the wagon.” He rolled his eyes at his mother.

Abigail looked at Doc Isaacs in apology.

He laughed. “That reminds me, I meant to tell you about Jacob. Yesterday, he and the youngest Austelle boy were crawling, pulling themselves on their arms, making big waves in the grass without knowing it. Hoke and James saw them and decided to have a little fun. James said, just loud enough for them to hear, ‘Hoke, go get your gun, I see Indians crawlin’ up to the train.’ Before he said that, you could see the grass moving. But then it stopped.” Doc laughed. “In fact, it might have shaken a little in fear.”

Abigail had no trouble picturing the scene.

“Hoke said, ‘James, I don’t believe that’s Indians. That’s a crouching mountain lion is what that is. Why look, it’s not just one, but two of ’em! Don’t worry, I’ve got ’em in my gunsights.’ Then Hoke pointed his revolver in the air and clicked the hammer back.

“Jacob and Cooper stood up and yelled, ‘Don’t shoot, Mr. Hoke! It’s not really mountain lions! It’s us!’ I thought I was going to split my side it was so funny. We sat around at supper last night and retold that several times.”

“Jacob’s never been short on imagination.” She decided to change the subject. “How is Nelda Peters?”

Doc’s face turned sad. “Better. Right after the baby came . . . you heard it was stillborn?”

Abigail nodded.

“She shouldn’t have delivered for several more weeks, but the baby had already died. I thought we were going to lose Nelda, too, she bled so much. Sorry.” He looked down. “That was more than you needed to know. The night after an Indian attack is not an easy time to give birth. She was scared to make a sound—scared she’d put us all in danger, I think. Her heart raced the whole time. And then she was worried the baby would cry and make noise, only he didn’t.”

Doc shook his head. “She was going to name him Timmy, she said.”

Abigail gripped his arm more tightly. “How is she handling it?”

“She’s pretty heartbroken. I’ve got bags of laudanum, turpentine, castor oil, quinine, blue moss, calomel, Epsom salts, McLean’s pills . . . you name it . . . but I don’t have a thing for a broken heart. They didn’t teach us how to cure that.”

“What’s the blue moss for?”

“Works good on mountain fever, especially if you combine it with calomel and laudanum. Worked a charm on the Schroeders, but it hasn’t helped Baird Douglas’s fever.”

Abigail searched back through her mind. “I don’t remember you using that on Lina.”

“Well, I did.” He patted her hand. “You weren’t quite yourself when Lina was sick, so I’m not surprised you don’t remember.”

Abigail smiled at him apologetically. “I need to visit Nelda.”

“Wait and make sure you don’t get a fever.”

“I’m not going to get a fever. And you’re wrong.”

He stopped walking. “About what?”

“You do have something it takes to mend a broken heart.”

He looked at her quizzically.

“Time and the sweet attentions of a good man can do a woman a world of good.”

Abigail liked Doc and there was something about Nelda. She seemed right for him, and Caroline and Nelda were close.

Doc’s mouth fell open. “I can’t believe you’re playing matchmaker after our conversation at Alcove Springs about me not needing to be in any rush to look for a wife.”

Abigail lifted her shoulders, innocently. “I’m not suggesting you rush. I’m only suggesting that you would be good for Nelda. Whether Nelda would be good for
you
is for you to decide. Now give me a hug.”

He held his arms out and she wrapped hers around him. “You’ve done so much for me, and I’m grateful. I can’t help wanting to see you happy.”

Hoke swore under his breath when Abigail and Doc Isaacs’s laughter floated over to him.

Doc’s attentions had picked up more than he felt necessary. Sure, Abigail had been shot, but so had Duncan Schroeder. Doc spent a lot more time with Abigail than he did with Duncan, and Duncan wasn’t out of the woods yet.

He stalked over to her rocking chair and picked it up, setting it in the boys’ wagon, then watched as
Marc
hugged Abigail and helped her climb the steps Hoke had built for her.