Leaving Independence (5 page)

Hoke didn’t know what to make of it. She was confounding him, and he didn’t like to be confounded. Where was her husband anyway? Abigail Baldwyn had mentioned children but no husband. He suddenly wanted to know but wasn’t about to ask.

“I’ll pick you out twelve of my best.” He again turned to leave but felt her hand on his arm.

“I’d like to pick them. Horses are one of the few things I feel like I know, Mr. . . .”

“Hoke. Just Hoke. No
Mr.
required.” Hoke looked down at her slender fingers on his arm, hot to his skin through the fabric, then down to her boots and back up her travel outfit. “Western horses aren’t like show horses from the South.”

By the look on her face he was sure he’d nicked a nerve, and he wasn’t sorry about it, either.

She lifted her chin. “The characteristics of a good horse have nothing to do with the location of its birth, Mr. Hoke. I appreciate your willingness to sell me twelve good horses if you have them—maybe more if I really need six on each team. I would simply like to approve the selection.”

Hoke stared at her. Well, of course she could approve the selection! Didn’t a buyer always? But he didn’t like anybody insinuating he might sell ’em low quality. Why were women always making him feel like a fool? He needed to get away from her, and fast.

“Fair enough.” He tipped his hat again and walked away.

Even with his back turned, Hoke could feel her frown.

He heard Dotson say, “Don’t worry about Hoke. He’ll get you the finest horses to be found in Independence. Come in here to Granberry’s and tell us what’s calling you west.”

Hoke stewed all the way back to the livery stable, cursing under his breath for the luck of running into Dotson. After all, he hadn’t planned on a trip up the Oregon. And now, in the space of thirty minutes, it had overtaken his mind—that and the smell of lavender.

Damn.

CHAPTER 4

Hot and darting

When Abigail stepped out of Granberry’s she turned her head briefly in the direction Hoke had gone. Colonel Dotson said that was the way to the livery stable where Hoke had his horses.

“Man who owns that livery knew him when Hoke was a kid. Thinks a lot of him.” That was all the information the colonel had offered.

Fighting the temptation to lift her chin again, Abigail turned the opposite direction and started walking. The letter . . . the banker . . . Mimi . . . and that last image of her father putting Rascal in her arms all crossed her mind before she realized a man standing on the boardwalk across the street was staring at her.

She recognized him.

A shiver ran up her spine as she remembered Mrs. Helton’s warning: “. . . you’ll want your door locked. You never know about folks around here.”

The question Mrs. Helton had asked her after dinner the first night—
Why are you here?
—hadn’t stopped running through Abigail’s mind. She wondered again at the answer to that question as she continued to put one foot in front of the other down the boardwalk.

A store clerk ran past her with an empty bucket, bringing Abigail back to the moment. She saw him dip it in a water trough down the street, and then she spied the flames that had sent him running for it.

Stepping briskly through the open door, she picked up a blanket that had been on display at the end of the counter. By the time the clerk ran back in with the dripping bucket, she had already beaten the fire out.

After running her hand over the wool to check for damage, she handed it back to him. “Good as new. See for yourself.”

The surprised man just blinked at her. “Thanks,” he mumbled as she walked out.

Why had she introduced herself as Abigail Baldwyn to the three men when she approached them? She should have said Mrs. Robert Baldwyn. It must have been Hoke’s eyes—his eyes had nearly burned her skin. They were as hot and darting as the fire she’d just stamped out. They licked up every detail.

Abigail had no reason to lift her chin at him, but he had stepped on her pride. It was surprising she had any left after the last two months . . . and the five years that preceded them.

She turned down a side street and didn’t notice the man who’d been watching her earlier until he stepped from behind an empty rig and blocked her path.

He swept off his hat and bowed. “Howdy-do, ma’am. Haven’t seen you since I hauled your pretty little family over to Mrs. Dandy’s. What brings you out today . . . ?” He craned his neck to look behind her, then grinned. “Alone.”

Dread gripped Abigail’s heart at the luck of running into Percy again.

Alone.

“I owe you a debt, Mr. Branson,” Hoke said to the livery owner. They were mixing feed to give to the rest of Hoke and James’s horses.

“You don’t owe me a thing, son. All I did was put you to work when I found you sleeping in my stalls.”

Hoke pointed to the mixture of apples, oats, honey, and hay. “You fed me.” Fed him more than food, too. Mr. Branson had seen to it that Hoke got an education—on horses and on life. Hoke turned and pulled a worn copy of
Oliver Twist
from one of his saddlebags hanging on a post nearby. “I traded for this in Denver. It’s about an orphan.” He handed it to Branson. “He had it rougher than me.”

Branson smiled. “He must have had it rough, then.” He pointed the book at the nearest corral. “That white filly sure is a beauty. Will you sell her?”

Hoke took his time in answering.

What brings you to Independence, Hoke?
Jenkins had asked. The question wouldn’t leave his mind.

Independence had gotten him in a choke hold from that first dream, two months ago. He had never expected to see Branson again, but here he was, standing with the man who had been so good to him when Hoke had needed it most.

“I’m thinkin’ I’ll keep the filly.”

“Surprises me, if you stay on the move.”

“I’m thinkin’ about startin’ a horse—”

A woman’s scream pierced the air.

As Hoke rounded the corner he saw a young woman throw a change purse to the ground. “You mean to tell me that’s all we have left?” An older gentleman he recognized as the man from Boston winced as if the woman had struck him.

“Irene. Lower your voice.”

A younger version of the irate woman stood off to the side. Both females were dark-haired and pretty . . . if an angry-looking woman could be called pretty.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” spat Irene. “You’re the one who’s gotten us into this mess.”

The younger woman nudged her. “Irene, people think we’re being attacked, for God’s sake.” She turned to Hoke, who was holstering his gun. “We’re fine. Just got some bad news, is all.”

Irene noticed Hoke for the first time. “Were you coming to my rescue?”

Hoke nodded toward the man. “McConnelly, isn’t it? Everything all right here?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, remind me of your—”

“Hoke.”

“Of course, Hoke. Let me introduce my daughters, Irene and Diana McConnelly.”

Hoke introduced Branson. When Diana took Irene to the side to scold her for making a scene, McConnelly winked at Hoke and Branson. “Irene is a little high-strung.”

Hoke tipped his hat and bid the McConnellys good day.

When they were nearly back to the livery Branson said, “I’d be willing to let you run my livery, Hoke. Could even make you a partner.”

Hoke’s throat tightened at the offer. “That’s mighty generous.”

“You’re the closest thing we ever had to a son. It hurt me and Ruby when you left.”

Hoke’s throat squeezed tighter still. “I hope you got my letter. I tried to explain things in it.”

“We got it. And we read it. But nobody ever faulted you for what happened. That woman went on to prove what kind she was. It was just a bad stroke of luck you were caught up in it. I blame myself for you being alone on the road that night.”

Hoke turned to look him in the eye—this man who’d been a surrogate father to him. Twenty years he’d avoided this conversation. He’d missed his chance to say these things to Mrs. Ruby. He would say them to Branson, man to man, like Branson deserved.

“Don’t ever blame yourself for not doing enough for me. I’d have turned out rotten as that man I killed if it hadn’t been for you.” He lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry I hurt Mrs. Ruby. I just didn’t want to bring shame on you, not after you’d been so good to me.”

Branson laid his hand on Hoke’s shoulder. “Ruby died nothing but proud of you, Hoke. She just missed you, is all. We both did.” He smiled. “It’s good to have you here now. Think about my offer.”

The sound of boots on gravel floated to Abigail from the adjoining street. She looked at Percy. “I’m not alone.” Craning her eyes past a clapboard building, she called, “Sweetheart!”

A man with a small boy on his hip came into view. She waved him over.

“Sweetheart, come meet Percy. He’s the gentleman who brought us to Mrs. Helton’s the other day.” The man looked confused, but came toward her. “I didn’t mean to run off and leave you.” She turned back to Percy. “May I introduce my cousin, Mr. Percy?”

The gentleman, who Abigail had recognized could easily pass as a family member with his sandy hair and blue eyes, handed her the boy and extended his hand to Percy. “Marc Isaacs.”

Frowning, Percy shook hands with him. “Pleasure.” He tipped his hat to Abigail and boarded his rig. “Afternoon, ma’am.” Then he yawed his team and drove away.

Abigail let out her breath and was so relieved she kissed the little boy on the cheek.

The man grinned. “You’re a kissing cousin.”

Abigail laughed and handed the boy back to him. “Thank you for coming to my rescue. He was making me nervous.”

“May I walk you to your destination?” Mirth danced in Marc Isaacs’s eyes. “In case there are any more men who make you nervous between here and there?”

“I’m only going to that boardinghouse.” She pointed in the direction of Mrs. Helton’s, then extended her hand. “Thank you, Marc Isaacs.”

“Pleasure.” He mimicked Percy, holding on to her hand. “Miss? Or Mrs.?”

“Mrs.” He let her hand go. “Baldwyn.”

“Ah.”

Abigail smiled as she walked on, thinking how much Marc Isaacs reminded her of her brother Seth.

An April sunbeam snaked through the branches of an oak tree in Mrs. Helton’s front yard as Abigail approached it. She stretched out her hand to catch its light.

It was the first good omen she’d had in months.

CHAPTER 5

The twelve best horses

April 6, 1866

Dearest Mimi,

We arrived safely in Independence three days ago and already have much to tell.

First, it’s clear I should have married a riverboat captain. The wife of ours was a lovely creature who sent us to Mrs. Helton’s boardinghouse. Mrs. Helton, in turn, sent me to George Dotson, a retired Union colonel she claims is the finest man traveling the Oregon “this season or any other.”

I shudder to think how I would have floundered—both here and all my life—without the wisdom and generosity of other women, you foremost among them.

Daddy will have gotten my letter by now. Look after him for me, as much as you can tolerate.

Now that Abigail had settled on Colonel Dotson’s train, there was no time to waste as they finished preparations. The children were full of questions—all but Corrine. “I wish I’d stayed with Thad and Sue Anne.”

“Oh, you don’t mean that, Corrine.” Charlie was wrestling Rascal on the floor. “You would have ended up playing nursemaid.”

Abigail’s older brother and his wife had a new baby, born after the war.

Abigail folded her letter to Mimi. “Corrine, you’ll have a much better trip if you decide now to embrace this experience.”

“The colonel served the Union?” asked Charlie.

“Yes.”

“So did he—”

“No. He didn’t know your father.” It was the first question Abigail had asked Dotson when they went inside Granberry’s.

“Corrine.” Lina took her older sister by the hand. “Aren’t you excited about living in a covered wagon and seeing the mountains? What if we see a moose?” She giggled. “I bet they are this big.” Climbing on a chair, Lina reached her hands as high as they would go.

“And buffalo!” said Jacob. “They’re the biggest of all and I’m going to shoot me one with Pa’s rifle.”

“No shooting while we’re gone.” Abigail put on her hat. “Lina, step down, sweetheart.”

Charlie hopped up and swung Lina off the chair.

“Charlie and I are going to the post office, then to buy the wagons and horses.” Abigail handed Corrine a list. “You’re in charge, Corrine. Check over this supply list and see if I’ve left anything out. Jacob, take Rascal out every hour, on the hour.” She handed him her watch chain.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I mean it, Jacob. Don’t forget.”

Jacob looked at his brother and sisters defensively. “I won’t forget.”

“You’ll clean it up this time, if you do,” mumbled Corrine.

Charlie and Abigail went to the wagon maker’s first.

“You don’t want Conestogas,” he said. “They’re too bulky and hard to turn. And they’ll kill your animals before you get there ’cause the load’s too heavy for ’em all that distance.”

This threw off Abigail’s careful planning. She’d been counting on more space. But on the wagon maker’s suggestion, she bought two lighter spring wagons instead—schooners, he called them—with smaller wheels in front for better turning.

“I’d advise you to get oxen or mules, too. Colonel Dotson said you were thinking about horses, but horses don’t do well for the long haul.”

“So everybody tells me.” She was going to look like a fool when she went to see Hoke saying she had changed her mind about the horses.

As Abigail hoisted herself up and looked inside what was to be their home for the next several months, a shiver ran up her spine.

Someone was watching them.

She peered up and down the street but didn’t see anyone. Was she just feeling paranoid after that run-in with Percy yesterday?

“This isn’t a lot of room,” said Charlie, scrunching in beside her. The schooners were only half as long as Conestogas and only four feet wide. She and Charlie couldn’t even stand up straight inside. “Two of these wagons put together is less space than we have in Mrs. Helton’s room.”

With their trunks, that room was overflowing. They exchanged looks. The Baldwyns would need to prune through their belongings again.

Abigail snapped her fingers as they left the wagon maker’s. “We can use burlap sacks and attach them to the inside walls. Corrine and I can make cloth sacks for our clothes, too. Let’s run over to the mercantile and see if they’ll buy our heavy trunks.”

The owner agreed to give her several bolts of fabric and trim in exchange for the trunks. As they were leaving the mercantile, Abigail once again would have sworn someone was watching her.

From the doorway she looked up and down the street but again saw no one.

As she turned to say good-bye to the owner she spotted a high-backed rocking chair with a torn seat sitting in the corner of the store.

“That’s not new; it was actually my mother’s,” explained the owner.

“I’ll take it if you’ll sell it.” Lina still liked to be rocked.

The owner said he could whitewash it, so Abigail arranged to pick it up on Monday, making a mental note to get enough twine when she came back to repair the seat.

Next she bought two feather beds, and bedrolls for the boys to sleep in under the wagon. Jacob had proclaimed, “Me and Charlie can’t sleep in the wagon, Ma. Men sleep on the ground.” She’d resisted the temptation to remind him that he was nine.

Instead of buying a table and chairs, she had a carpenter fashion sawhorses—tall ones for a table and shorter ones for benches. Then she went back to the wagon maker to have him add iron rings under both wagons to which she could tie ropes and slide long wood planks through. She would use them for tabletops.

When they passed Granberry’s Café Abigail noticed a small garden in the back. On a whim, she went in and asked Mrs. Granberry about her vegetables. Then she hurried back to the wagon maker a third time to see if he could build side boxes on her wagons.

“What for?” he asked.

“An experiment.”

“I need to know what they’re goin’ to hold so I know how strong to anchor ’em.”

“Strong enough to hold about ten inches of dirt.” People sometimes used wooden boxes for growing things. Even Thomas Jefferson had used container boxes in his massive gardens in Virginia. Why not a floating vegetable garden for her?

When Abigail and Charlie left the wagon maker’s this time, they turned west toward the livery stables.

Hoke was talking to two burly, bearded men when he saw Abigail and a boy approach. His gaze fastened on her from under the brim of his once-black hat, but he made no move to greet her.

When a dog ran out from the stable growling at the boy, Hoke instinctively started toward them but before he could take two steps the woman deflected it with the side of her foot, redirecting the cur like a rolling tumbleweed.

The dog ran on several yards before stopping to look back, as if he couldn’t remember his original purpose.

Hoke smiled down at his boots as Abigail pointed the boy toward the nearby corral. When the men left, he joined them at the fence. He chewed on the soft end of a hickory stick, liking the taste of it in his mouth. “You picked out the best twelve yet?”

“Mr. Hoke, this is my son Charlie.”

“Pleased to meet you, Charlie. And you can drop the
Mr.
Just call me Hoke.”

“
Mr.
Hoke,” said Abigail to Charlie. “I’m raising a gentleman, Mr. Hoke. It’s his habit to address superiors this way.”

This woman had a way of saying things to which Hoke could not think of a tart response. He wasn’t glib like James, but neither was he usually tongue-tied. Feeling far from Charlie’s superior, he extended his hand. The boy took it heartily.

Charlie was tall and stately like his mother but with darker blond curls. Same blue eyes . . . different nose and chin.

“Sir,” said Charlie, “you’ve got some fine-looking horses there.” He pointed at the corral. “How many you got altogether?”

“Why, you lookin’ to buy the whole bunch?”

Charlie laughed. “Oh, no, sir. I was just curious.”

Hoke liked him. Seemed like a good-natured kid. Couldn’t really help who his mother was. He turned his back on Abigail and concentrated on Charlie.

“Which twelve would you pick?”

Charlie pointed out a sorrel, two chestnuts, a quarter horse, and a large black mare. “I like that spotted one, too, but I’m not as familiar with that kind of horse.”

“Those are mustangs—better for speed than pulling. Wild herds in the West attract all kinds. Some of these, like that quarter horse, were once tame and had been ridden, then got loose and joined this group. Others were born in the wild. I think the sorrel wandered up from Mexico. It had a piece of bridle on it with some fancy jangles like Mexicans use. A few of these had war brands. When soldiers and Indian war parties clash, horses without their mounts run off. Sometimes wagon trains are attacked and horses cut loose.”

Charlie looked at his mother. “Now that’s a happy thought.”

“The ones with brands are more compliant,” continued Hoke, turning so he could see Abigail again. “The wild ones are temperamental at first, but they calm down. If you’re putting together a team, you want to consider gender. Geldings and mares work best together. Stallions cause problems. Personally, I prefer to ride a stallion, but he’s willful. He’d fight with any other stallion if he were on a team with it and that’s a waste of precious energy when you’re looking at a two-thousand-mile trek.”

Abigail looked uncomfortable. Hoke wondered if he’d nicked another nerve by turning his back on her.

Abigail’s collar grew warm as she listened to Hoke talk to Charlie about the horses. Her comment the previous day about wanting to approve the selection seemed silly now. Hoke’s intuition had been right—her father raised mostly fine breeds, along with a few plow horses, nearly all of which had been confiscated first by the Confederacy, then the Union. These were western horses and Abigail knew nothing about them.

Hoke looked at Charlie. “Your six are fine selections from what I have here, but I’ve already put the best ones in a separate corral for you. Cleared the brands, rubbed ’em down, even worked ’em together in teams.”

He was looking squarely at Abigail now. “Like I said yesterday, you really need six on each wagon if you’re going to drive the twelve-foots, and I understand that’s what you bought.”

She had only purchased those wagons a few hours ago! “How did you know that?” Was Hoke the one who’d been watching them earlier? No . . . she was certain she would have noticed if it had been him.

“There are few secrets out here, Mrs. Baldwyn.”

His voice was as deep as a rumbling waterfall. He needed a shave . . . a whole bath, really. He smelled like horse sweat—horse sweat with a hint of pine needles and chipped cedar.

Yesterday she had thought his eyes were dark, but today she could see that a gold rim circled each iris. And what eyes! They were unsettling. Not unsettling in the way Percy had made her feel yesterday. This man didn’t make her skin crawl, but his eyes did make her feel sensitive . . . alert . . . because he was so alert.

His eyes ate everything.

What did he mean by “few secrets”? Had he talked with Colonel Dotson? Did he know why she was making this journey?

Abigail forced herself to meet Hoke’s eyes. It wasn’t easy to hold a steady gaze with him. “Do you think I’m making a mistake with horses?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“’Cause horses sweat. They’ll dehydrate before you get to Nebraska.”

Abigail looked away. She’d just been thinking he smelled like horse sweat. Had he yanked that thought from her head?

Horses were loyal. That was what she loved about them. Abigail had thought they would be the better investment for the long term.

“What do you recommend instead?”

“For you, mules.”

“Why for me?”

“They’re the most like horses, but stubborn. I’ve got a feeling you can handle stubborn.”

She opened her mouth to reply, then shut it.

Hoke turned to Charlie. “You ever work mules?”

“Yes, sir. A couple times at my granddad’s plantation.”

Hoke looked back at Abigail with his eyebrows raised. “Plantation?”

“I grew up on a plantation,” explained Abigail, feeling defeated because of his “show horse” comment the day before, “and our help used mules to plant corn and tobacco.”