Leaving Independence (35 page)

“Well . . . it’s nice to see they got that worked out,” said the colonel.

Hoke and Abigail finally hit a shallow spot in the creek and came up for air. He pushed the wet hair off her face.

She pulled back and let her arms float in the water. “I tried not to need you, Hoke. I wanted to pull my own weight.”

“You have pulled your own weight, but what’s wrong with lettin’ somebody else make your life a little easier?”

Abigail looked down. “It’s bad if you leave me one day.”

God amighty, she had long lashes!
Those blue eyes were going to be his. “Hey, look at me.”

Hoke lifted her chin and forced her eyes to meet his. “I will never leave you—at least not of my own accord. That’s my promise to you, and I don’t break my promises.” Then he added low, “Robert didn’t leave you of his own accord, either.”

Her face threatened to crumple, but he wasn’t having any more of it.

Standing up, he pulled her from the water. “Marry me now. Not because you need me, just because you want me.”

“Now? With my hair looking like this?”

“I like it that way. Come on.” He stepped out on the bank taking it in strides, water sloshing in his boots, pulling her behind him, back to where his gun lay.

He picked it up and stuffed it in its holster, then turned up the bank back toward camp, never letting go of her hand.

“Hoke, wait a minute!”

He stopped and turned. “You’re not backing out?”

“Don’t you think we should give it a day or two?”

He took her in his arms again, kissing her slower this time, exploring not only her lips but also the curve of her neck and the space behind her left ear. “No,” he breathed huskily. “You said you were tired of waitin’.”

She pushed on his chest. “It seems so impulsive. I hate for people to think I’m being rash.”

He cradled her head in his hands. “If you knew how much willpower I’ve had to call on while you chased your fake husband all the way out here, you wouldn’t think this was impulsive.” He pulled her along several more steps, then stopped and turned again. “Do you have any idea how crazy you’ve made me?”

He kissed her again. Good Lord, it felt good!

“Charlie!” yelled Hoke when they got back to the wagons. “Come here, and bring Jacob.” He pulled Abigail over to where Corrine was getting supper.

“Where’d you go?” asked Corrine. “And why are y’all all wet?”

“We’re having a family meeting,” said Hoke. “Go get Lina.”

Corrine looked at her mother, then at Hoke, then back to her mother. They were all wet, holding hands, with silly grins on their faces. And her mother looked . . . sheepish.

She went to find Lina.

In a minute all four children were there, along with several others: Colonel Dotson and Mrs. Chris, Melinda, James, Doc Isaacs, and Tam.

“Charlie, Corrine, Jacob, Lina . . . I aim to marry your mother,” announced Hoke, holding Abigail’s hand tightly to his chest. “Any objections?”

Lina put both hands over her mouth. The children looked at each other, then back to Hoke and Abigail. They shook their heads. No objections.

“All right, then. Tam, where’s Harry?”

“Do you mean to marry her this instant?” Tam looked at James, who was watching Corrine’s reaction. Corrine stole one quick look at James before looking away.

“Yes, I do.” Hoke clutched Abigail’s hand to his chest as if he’d never let it go. “I mean to marry her this instant.”

The sound of a metal pot hitting the iron of a wagon wheel made them all turn and look. Irene McConnelly eyed them darkly from across camp, the pot rolling to a stop at her feet.

The group ignored her and turned back to Hoke and Abigail.

Tam nudged Abigail. “Well, say something!”

Abigail had fallen silent under the vehemence of Hoke’s feelings. His whole body stirred and his eyes swirled like lava. Abigail, by contrast, was the picture of peace . . . perfect peace.

“I love him,” she said simply.

Hoke was quick to shut his eyes, but everyone could see the sudden flow of emotion that rushed to them, so powerful was the effect of Abigail’s words on him.

When he could talk again, he growled, “Where’s Harry?”

CHAPTER 33

A most vehement flame

Harry was located and Abigail, insisting that she’d at least like to be dry and wearing her best, held Hoke off long enough to don the blue dress. She also hinted that he might like to shave. Since the gold shirt was wet, he wore his green one.

As they stood before Harry—with Charlie and Jacob standing up for Hoke and Corrine and Lina standing up for Abigail, a profusion of wildflowers in their hands—Abigail whispered in Hoke’s ear, “Are you still charging me for the white horse?”

He gave her a sideways smirk. “We’ll work somethin’ out.”

“Set me as a seal upon thine heart,”
read Harry,
“as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death . . . the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame.”

Hoke’s announcement that he wanted to marry their mother hadn’t completely taken Charlie by surprise, but it had Jacob. Later, when they were lying on their bedrolls looking up at the stars, Jacob sat up and turned to his older brother. “Hoke’s our new father, Charlie!”

Charlie laughed. “Yeah, I guess so.” He looked up at the wagon where his mother and Hoke would stay together in a day or two. It was their first night as a married couple, though, and Hoke had made a little camp off-site for just the two of them. He said he didn’t want to be under the ears and noses of the wagon train—not yet.

Charlie thought about Emma and wondered what it felt like to be married. He hadn’t kissed her again since that time playing hide-and-seek, but he thought about it all the time.

“It’s weird,” said Jacob looking out in the direction of Hoke’s camp.

Charlie glanced that way, too, then back up at the stars. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel that weird to me.”

“It changes Mama’s name, don’t it? What about us, does it change our name?”

“No. I’m keeping Pa’s name.” Charlie respected Hoke, but his father’s name was all he had of Robert Baldwyn—that and his memories.

“Yeah, me too.”

Charlie knew he still hung the moon for his little brother, and he didn’t take it lightly.

“But Mr. Hoke is pretty spectacular, as men go,” continued Jacob. “He’s so . . . tough. You think he’s tougher than Mr. Sutler?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Tougher than Mr. Sims?”

Charlie grinned over at him. “Yes, Jake. I think he’s tougher than all of ’em, except maybe Colonel Dotson, but the colonel’s getting old. Did you see Hoke that day the Indians attacked? And he killed a man to save our mother. I reckon he’s earned the right to marry her.”

“You don’t think he’ll whip us, do you?”

“Naw. You kidding? I don’t think he’ll act a lot different than he’s been actin’.”

“Yeah. He already acted like our pa, didn’t he? He took us huntin’.”

“Yes, he did.” Charlie grinned over at Jacob again. “I’d think twice before making him mad, though.”

Jacob nodded. “Yeah, I ’spect we better.”

Corrine and Lina had a different conversation in the wagon.

“Corrine,” whispered Lina in her ear. “Mr. Hoke is our father.”

Corrine rolled onto her side so Lina could scoot in closer. Lina had grown used to sleeping in the crook of her mother’s arm on this trip. Corrine wondered how that was going to work now that Hoke was part of the family.

“Stepfather,” she corrected. “Strange, isn’t it?”

Lina laid her small hand on Corrine’s arm. “No. I asked Jesus to make Mr. Hoke my father.”

“You did? When?”

“Remember when the Indians came? And Mama got a bullet in her side? Right after that.”

Corrine studied the top of her younger sister’s head in the moonlight that streamed in through the opening of the canvas. “How did you know our real father wasn’t coming back?”

“Jesus told me. Pa’s with Him.”

It took Corrine off guard. “In heaven? Did you dream that, Lina?”

Lina looked up at her and blinked. “I guess it was a dream.” She inched her head under Corrine’s chin. “I love Mr. Hoke. He took me to Mama. I knew she liked him.”

Corrine stroked Lina’s hair absently. “I guess I did, too. She’s always been different around him, like she was trying to act like she didn’t like him.” It was the same way Corrine acted around Mr. Parker. She didn’t want anybody to know she liked Mr. Parker—especially not Mr. Parker.

“You don’t mind, do you, Corrine? You’re not mad at Mama, are you?”

“I haven’t decided yet. She could have waited longer than five seconds after finding out Pa was dead.”

Lina reached up and patted her cheek. “Don’t be mad. I hate it when y’all argue.”

“It’s just weird, that’s all.”

“You’ll be married one day, Corrine.”

“No, I don’t think I will.” Paul Sutler was boring and James Parker was probably only teasing with her. She wasn’t having any of it.

Hoke made them a crude shelter in the side of a hill walled by a thick stand of cedars. The fire had burned low. They lay on a bed of pine needles covered by blankets. Hoke was propped on one elbow playing with the end of a lock of Abigail’s straw-colored tresses. “There are things I want you to know . . . but I’m not used to tellin’ ’em.”

She traced his jawline with the back of her hand. “We’ve got time. You can tell me when you’re ready.”

He caught her hand. “I hope you’re going to listen to me from now on. ’Cause twice you’ve scared me senseless.”

“I’m sorry.” She reached up with her other hand and ran her fingers through his black mane the way he always did. “I’ll be cutting your hair from now on.”

He took both her hands in his so she’d look him in the eye. “I’m bein’ serious. I didn’t think I could feel this way. I didn’t expect to ever love anyone or have them love me.”

“Hoke, you’re bound to have broken hearts all the way to Texas and back. You’re too sure of yourself for me to believe you’ve had no experience with women.”

He shook his head. He wasn’t explaining this right.

“I remember sittin’ on a hill one time in the snow. I was fifteen, and spied this family having dinner. It was night, but all lit up outside because of the moonlight bouncin’ off the white. The light from their window glowed for miles. Some of their neighbors had come over in a farm wagon to eat with ’em. They all looked so happy. I sat on that hill and cried—a fifteen-year-old boy. Cried so hard it made ice on my cheeks. I’d already been on my own five years. I’d even killed a man.” Hoke closed his eyes against the memory. “I’ve seen some awful things, Abigail. I’ve done some awful things. I don’t deserve you.”

He released her hands and lay on his back beside her. It hurt to think how much he loved her . . . how much loving her made him afraid of ever losing her . . . or of ever doing wrong by her.

Abigail sat up and leaned over him. She kissed his hands . . . his head . . . his eyes . . . his lips.

“You deserve good things, Hoke Mathews. I’m sorry you’ve had to wait so long for them.”

“That man I killed back in Independence . . . I thought I was doing the right thing. A woman had screamed for me to help her. Then later she threw herself on me and I realized what had happened. She wanted him dead and used me for it. I was ashamed to have been so gullible.”

Understanding registered in her eyes. “That’s why I lost my temper with Irene. I was ashamed I’d been gullible with Hadley Wiles.”

Hoke took her face in his hands. “When Wiles had you, I was so scared.”

“Well you’ve got me now,” she whispered.

Hoke flipped her over on her back and finally pulled her hips in as close as he damn well pleased.

Some husbands, after marriage, turned less attentive in getting down dish crates or helping a woman step up on a wagon bed. But not Hoke. Hoke kept watering the flowers.

Corrine was at the sawhorse table sprinkling flour on a board and getting ready to knead the dough when James spoke from behind her.

“You ever make beaten biscuits?”

“No. What are beaten biscuits?” She turned. He was leaning against the edge of the wagon and she could tell he was hiding something behind his back. After giving him a quizzical look, she turned back to her work.

He strolled over to the table, his hands still behind him.

“You beat the dough out real flat, then stack it up like a fan to bake it. Here, I’ll show you.” He set a big wooden bowl on the table.

“Where’d you get the bowl?”

“I made it.”

She ran her hand over it admiringly. It was long and narrow and smooth as glass. “It’s nice. What wood is it?”

“Oak. I picked it up back at Ash Hollow. It’s twenty-six inches by sixteen.”

“So that’s what you’ve been working on.” She’d seen him shaving out a block of wood . . . whittling, chipping, sanding.

“I made it for you.”

She looked up at his face to see if he was teasing. But there was no smirk on his lips like there was normally—no jesting in his eyes.

“You make good biscuits. My grandmaw had a bowl like this. I wanted you to have one.”

Corrine didn’t know what to say. No man had ever made her a gift before. She caressed the bowl again and looked at him, short of words.

He seemed pleased.

“Thank you,” she said, finally. “You want to show me how to make those biscuits with it?”

He grinned and took the dough in his hands.

“You got to beat it real flat, like this. It’s an old slave technique.” He took a section of the dough and laid it in the bowl, beating the mixture with the strong, flat part of his palm until the whole inside was lined with a thin layer of it. He then took a tin scraper and cut the dough into strips.