Книга - Wagon Train Reunion

Wagon Train Reunion
Linda Ford


Second-Chance CourtshipAbigail Black had no choice but to break Ben Hewitt's heart years ago. Her parents had picked another, wealthier groom. Now widowed and destitute, she's desperate to leave her old life behind. The wagon-train journey to Oregon is full of dangers, but she'll face anything–even Ben–for a fresh start.Ben knows better than to trust Abby again. Between her family's snobbery and his family's protectiveness, avoiding her should be easy. Yet he's still moved by Abby's sweetness and beauty…along with a sadness and strength he never noticed in her before. Forgiving past wrongs would be a struggle–but the hardest struggle would be letting Abby go once more.Journey West: Romance and adventure await three siblings on the Oregon Trail







Second-Chance Courtship

Abigail Black had no choice but to break Ben Hewitt’s heart years ago. Her parents had picked another, wealthier groom. Now widowed and destitute, she’s desperate to leave her old life behind. The wagon-train journey to Oregon is full of dangers, but she’ll face anything—even Ben—for a fresh start.

Ben knows better than to trust Abby again. Between her family’s snobbery and his family’s protectiveness, avoiding her should be easy. Yet he’s still moved by Abby’s sweetness and beauty…along with a sadness and strength he never noticed in her before. Forgiving past wrongs would be a struggle—but the hardest struggle would be letting Abby go once more.

Journey West: Romance and adventure await three siblings on the Oregon Trail


“I will learn to do this,” Abby said through gritted teeth.

Ben thought of all the things he’d observed her do—how she helped her father with the oxen, how she’d learned to use the reflector oven, how she walked many miles every day. “I think you’ll do just about anything you set your mind to.”

She slowly brought her attention to him. “Yes?”

“I enjoy hearing you sing.” His tongue grew heavy. “I appreciate the way you help Emma with the sick ones.” So many things sprang to his mind. How patient she was with her demanding mother—

A mother who exerted such tight control over Abby. That was her problem, and he did not intend to let it become his.

“Thank you.” She seemed uncertain as to how to respond.

He had run out of things to say. Or at least, things he thought he could safely say. “Well, then, good night.”

He strode back to the Hewitt wagon as if a wild animal was on his tail. He still had to endure miles and months of traveling in Abby’s company. But after six years he should be good at ignoring his feelings for her.

There was no future possible between himself and Abby.

* * *

Journey West: Romance and adventure await three siblings on the Oregon Trail

Wagon Train Reunion—

Linda Ford, April 2015

Wagon Train Sweetheart—

Lacy Williams, May 2015

Wagon Train Proposal—

Renee Ryan, June 2015


LINDA FORD lives on a ranch in Alberta, Canada, near enough to the Rocky Mountains that she can enjoy them on a daily basis. She and her husband raised fourteen children—four homemade, ten adopted. She currently shares her home and life with her husband, a grown son, a live-in paraplegic client and a continual (and welcome) stream of kids, kids-in-law, grandkids, and assorted friends and relatives.


Wagon Train Reunion

Linda Ford






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.

—Isaiah 43:2


I personally know many who have suffered losses and events that have left them hurting, broken and filled with doubt and guilt. You know who you are. Through the love of God may you find healing and wholeness. This story is dedicated to you.


Special thanks and acknowledgment to Linda Ford for her contribution to the Journey West miniseries.


Contents

Cover (#u782b0c65-80f9-5778-807f-d41edb76bb21)

Back Cover Text (#uebca70ba-6631-5db1-af80-e24ddd846b6f)

Introduction (#u772d83f5-0a4b-5acf-9df2-e699a436c2b5)

About the Author (#u02708fc3-2dce-5643-8643-252650d5aee6)

Title Page (#u9f7277fc-c6fd-52ac-889a-04170476a022)

Bible Verse (#u8510ace3-eb64-5a81-84ec-664b00dc0705)

Dedication (#u9340b0e1-1cef-5ced-927b-456045d9e2de)

Acknowledgment (#u2331c33f-6ab9-5af1-9824-abdc24e58a44)

Chapter One (#ulink_b3fb7935-250a-59f6-8439-79db476a5a3c)

Chapter Two (#ulink_c2c07eff-ea89-5f1d-9132-173d778728b8)

Chapter Three (#ulink_a39d68cb-e3b9-509b-861c-2b2481941f31)

Chapter Four (#ulink_5819cd0c-6218-5b25-88dd-bb7bb0218435)

Chapter Five (#ulink_057ba26a-f8aa-5027-8fde-4098ac132168)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#ulink_5d49213a-9f55-59e2-bee8-61a559bda3dd)

Independence, Missouri May 1843

Benjamin Hewitt stared. It wasn’t possible.

He blinked to clear his vision. If the man struggling with his oxen didn’t look like Abigail’s father, he didn’t know a cow from a chicken. But it couldn’t be Mr. Bingham. He would never subject himself and his wife to the trials of this journey. Why Mrs. Bingham would look mighty strange fluttering a lace hankie and expecting someone to serve her tea in a covered wagon.

The man must have given the wrong command because the oxen jerked hard to the right, yanking the wagon after them. The rear wheel broke free and wobbled across the ground, coming to rest against another wagon. The first wagon leaned drunkenly on one corner. A chest toppled out the back, followed by a wooden table. When it hit the ground the legs snapped and flew in four different directions. A woman followed amid a cascade of smaller items, shrieking, her arms flailing. Ben chuckled. She looked like a chicken trying to fly and she landed with a startled squawk on pillows and bedding.

Ben’s amusement ended abruptly. He liked the idea of moving West but there had been times he felt as out of control as that woman.

“Mother, are you injured?” A young woman ran toward her mother. Making the comparison sparked by the wagon driver worse, she even sounded just like Abigail. At least as near as he could recall. He’d succeeded in putting that young woman from his mind many years ago.

She glanced about. “Father, are you safe?”

The sun glowed in her blond hair and he knew, though he couldn’t see her face, that it was Abigail. What was she doing here? She’d not find a fine, big house nor fancy dishes and certainly no servants on this trip.

The bitterness he’d once felt at being rejected because he couldn’t provide those things had dissipated, leaving only regret and caution.

She helped her mother to her feet and dusted her skirts off. All the while, the woman—Mrs. Bingham, to be sure—complained, her voice grating with displeasure that made Ben’s nerves twitch. He knew that sound all too well. Could recall in sharp detail when the woman had told him he was not a suitable suitor for her daughter. Abigail had told him, with the same harsh dismissive tone, she would no longer see him, after a year and eight months of seeing each other regularly and talking of a shared future.

It all seemed so long ago. He’d been a different person six years back. Only twenty years old, he’d considered himself mature and ready to start life with a wife and home of his own. He had been full of trust and optimism.

Thanks to Abigail, he’d learned not to trust everything a woman said. Nor believe how they acted. Maybe he should thank her for that. Except he no longer cared enough to want to engage her in conversation.

Binghams or not, a wheel needed to be put on. Ben joined the men hurrying to assist the unfortunate fellow.

“Hello.” He greeted Mr. Bingham and the man shook his hand. “Ladies.” He tipped his hat to them.

“Hello, Ben.” Abigail Bingham stood at her mother’s side. No, not Bingham. She was Abigail Black now.

Ben darted a glance around. Where was Frank Black? No doubt off spouting his opinions to one and all about everything and nothing. Ben never could see why Abigail would marry the man, though he knew well the reasons. Ben’s family had lost their money in the Panic of 1837. Frank Black had not.

He turned his attention to getting the wheel in place. Several men groaned as they tried to lift the heavily-laden wagon.

“Over here.” Ben waved to get the attention of half a dozen more and they lifted the wagon enough for the wheel to be put on again.

“The bolts need to be good and tight.” He’d been elected as one of the nine committeemen and his task was to inspect every wagon in this section of the assembled group to make sure it was ready for the journey.

Mr. Bingham applied a wrench to the bolts. “I thought they were tight.”

“Let me.” Ben held out his hand and Mr. Bingham gave him the wrench. Ben turned each bolt a half turn. “Surprised to see you headed for Oregon.”

“The economy here isn’t what it used to be. I hear it’s booming in Oregon. The land of opportunity, I’m told.”

“Uh-huh.” He checked the other wheels. To his right, Abigail and her mother gathered together their scattered belongings.

“Mother, the table is ruined. Leave it behind.”

“My own mother gave me that table. What would she think of this?” Mrs. Bingham clutched a splintered leg. “I’m grateful she hasn’t lived to see this day.” She tossed aside the leg and stared at the wagon. “How can your father expect us to live in this cramped space? This trip will be the death of me.”

“Mother, don’t say that. Besides, think of the opportunities in Oregon. A new society will need women with high standards to guide it.”

Mrs. Bingham sniffed. “That’s so I suppose.” Her voice rose a degree. “But why must we crowd into one wagon?”

Mrs. Bingham and her daughter had not changed. They still measured every situation as a means to further their place in society.

He thought a person should be measured by their worth. This trip from Independence, Missouri to Oregon would be four to six months long over mostly unmapped territory. It would test all of them. Reveal their worth. Perhaps change many. Or it might destroy people unprepared for the challenges of the trail. People like the Binghams. Checking the wagons was one way Ben could ensure everyone made the trip safely.

He turned to Abigail. “Why don’t I look at your wagon next?”

Her mouth dropped open.

Mrs. Bingham’s lips pursed tight.

“She’s traveling with us.” Mr. Bingham spoke softly at Ben’s side. “I guess you didn’t hear that Frank died six months ago.”

Frank dead? She was a widow? The words blared through Ben’s head but he couldn’t take them in.

“I’m sorry.” He managed to get the words out, then hurried to the next wagon. His heart went out to her. He knew what it was like to lose people you were close to. But apart from that, her situation didn’t mean a thing to him.

The noise of the gathered crowd assaulted his eardrums. Tin plates rattled as the women washed dishes. Babies wailed. How were the little ones going to endure the trip? Hopefully the moving wagons would lull them to sleep.

Five excited young fellas were shooting their pistols into the air and shouting—young men, thirteen to fifteen likely, on the cusp of adulthood.

“Oregon here we come.”

“I’m gonna get me a buffalo.”

“I’m gonna fight a bear.”

Someone should warn them they should save their bullets for bears and buffalos. But he understood the excitement that almost crazed them.

A child screamed.

“You shot my baby,” a woman screeched.

Ben straightened to see a little one in his mother’s arms, a dark-haired little boy of about a year, if he didn’t miss his guess. Blood stained both their clothes.

Women picked up their skirts and ran toward the pair. Abigail was among the first to reach them and knelt at the woman’s side. “Let me see him.”

She eased the woman’s fingers from her son’s side and lifted the little shirt. She glanced toward Ben.

Across the space her gaze found his. “It’s just a graze but he needs it tended to.” She obviously meant for him to take care of the problem. Did she see him as a man she could order around? He should inform her that he was one of the committeemen and as such, had some authority. He didn’t intend to jump at her command.

But her opinion didn’t matter because a child was injured and he knew who could help.

Ben grabbed the nearest man. “Go back to the wagon at the corner. Ask for Emma Hewitt. Tell her to bring her medical supplies.”

The man took off like a shot.

Ben pushed through the crowd of women to Abigail’s side. He spied a clean diaper and grabbed it. “Press this to the wound until my sister arrives.”

He looked around for the youths who were responsible.

They saw him and began to slink away.

“Hold up there.” He strode toward them.

Forced to face him, all but one of them put on defiant faces. “We ain’t done nothin’ wrong,” one said.

“You could have killed a child and you don’t think there’s any reason to be apologizing?”

“I’m sorry, mister,” said the only repentant one.

“Glad to hear it, though it’s not me you should be apologizing to.”

The boy took a step toward the bleeding child.

Ben caught his shoulder. “Hold on a minute. What’s your name?”

“Jed. Jed Henshaw.”

Ben would be remembering Jed. A lad willing to admit his wrongs could prove to be an asset in the months ahead. He held out his hand. “I’ll take those firearms before someone else is hurt.”

Jed immediately dropped his gun into Ben’s hand.

“My pa ain’t gonna be very happy with me.” He hung his head.

The four others grunted and shuffled their feet but did not offer up their guns. The biggest, loudest, most belligerent of them spoke. “You ain’t gonna take my gun.”

For answer, Ben reached out and wrenched it from his hand. He reached for the others and they were released grudgingly.

“Here now, what do you think you’re doing?” A big man edged between Ben and the boys. “You ain’t gonna take my son’s gun.”

A crowd of men pressed close arguing about whether or not the boys should be allowed to retain their firearms.

“A baby was shot,” Ben pointed out, but others said each male old enough to carry a gun should do so in case of some kind of attack. Ben pushed aside the big man crowding him and realized he was every bit as big. The man moved despite his attempt to stay planted. He addressed the boys. “I’d like your names.” Only Jed had told Ben his name.

Three gave theirs, but the fourth only scowled.

“You don’t need to tell him,” the man at Ben’s side shouted.

Ben cringed as the noise swelled. “There’ll be a meeting of the committeemen at noon. Attend it and make your case. We’ll all abide by the ruling as to whether or not you get your guns back.”

Jed left the raucous crowd and broke through the cluster of women around the injured baby.

“Ma’am.” He addressed the woman holding her baby. “I am truly sorry for behaving so foolishly. I hope your little boy will be okay.”

Half the murmurs were accepting, half condemning.

At that moment, Emma rushed up with Rachel at her side. They made their way through the ladies and Emma dropped her bag and knelt to examine the injured child.

“It’s only a flesh wound. It needs to be kept clean and covered.” She sat back and glanced around. She saw Abigail at her side and gaped.

“Hello, Emma, Rachel.” Abigail nodded toward the sisters.

“You’re traveling with us?” Rachel asked. She stared at Abby. “Why on earth are you on this wagon train? Doesn’t your husband’s business keep you in the manner you prefer?”

“My husband is dead.” Abigail kept her voice low but even so the women watched and listened curiously. “I am traveling with my parents.” She nodded toward them. Her mother sat in a high-backed chair perched on the ground beside their wagon, her back rigid, disapproval written in every line of her face. Mr. Bingham stood at his oxen, looking like he was having second thoughts about this journey.

Emma hid her surprise better, focusing on the injured baby. She leaned back on her heels as if thinking what to do. If it had been a man injured, she might have cleansed the wound with alcohol, but knowing how much it hurt, he understood she was considering other possibilities.

Finally she turned to Rachel. “Would you bring me some warm water and a clean cloth?”

Rachel hurried to the nearest fire where a kettle of water stood and poured a little into a bowl. She glanced about for a cloth.

One of the women reached into her wagon and pulled out a square of pure white. “For the little one yet to come.” She patted her stomach.

Rachel hustled the items over to Emma who carefully sponged the area then wrapped a dressing over the wound. “Keep it clean.” She would be worried about infection. Emma grasped the mother’s hands. “I’d like to pray for the baby. What’s his name?”

The baby stuck his thumb in his mouth and clung to his mother.

“His name is Johnny. I’m Sally Littleton. And I thank you.” She squeezed Emma’s hands. Then they bowed their heads.

The women circling them also bowed their heads and Ben and the men removed their hats.

“Our Father in heaven, thank you for sparing Johnny’s life. And grant our deepest desire that he recover from this wound with no ill effects. Amen.” Emma opened her eyes and patted little Johnny’s back. She straightened.

All this time, Abby sat beside Mrs. Littleton, one arm wrapped about the woman’s shoulders, comforting her.

A man rushed up. “I heard my son was shot.” He threw his hat on the ground and knelt before his wife. He ran his hands over the baby. “Is he...is he?”

Mrs. Littleton pressed her palms to her husband’s cheeks. “It was only a flesh wound. Miss Hewitt tended it.”

“Thank you. Thank you.” He shook hands with everyone around him and introductions were made. “Thank God. Johnny is all we have left. Our other three died of swamp fever last year.”

Ben’s throat tightened. So many bore the pain of loss yet faced the great adventure full of hopes and dreams. Ben and his sisters, Emma and Rachel, shared the excitement. They’d eagerly sold the ranch and most of their possessions, bought three teams of oxen, outfitted their wagon with enough supplies to carry them across the continent to Oregon where they’d join their brother, Grayson. Grayson had gone out two years ago to escape the memory of his young wife’s death in childbirth. He wrote often, urging his siblings to join him and for Ben to consider working at his store. After the death of their father late last year, they made plans to do so. Ben would do his best to see that everyone else on the train made the trip safely, as well.

As he continued inspecting the wagons in the section he’d been assigned, he overheard bits and pieces of conversation.

New beginning. Fresh start. Opportunity. The final word rang throughout most of the conversations. It was the promise that filled them all with hope and determination. For a new beginning almost a thousand people were prepared to face the dangers this journey held.

Soon he was again engulfed by the noise of the camp as he went from wagon to wagon. Men yelled at oxen. Women shouted at children who raced about excitedly. Metal rang on metal as wagon wheels were prepared for the journey. Over it all hung the smell of hundreds of animals.

The poor oxen had to endure inexperienced men ordering them every which way without any real idea of how to direct the animals. Ben had taken the time to instruct both his sisters on how to drive their oxen. He planned to drive most of the time, though being one of the committeemen might necessitate he ride his horse along the wagon train to help convey instructions down the line.

He assessed those he was destined to travel with. An assorted lot to be sure. Many wore the clothes and had the markings of farmers. Others, like Mr. Bingham, appeared to be businessmen hoping for better times. There were small groups traveling together but most of the emigrants were meeting each other for the first time. There’d be plenty of friction as strangers were forced to learn to work together.

It was almost noon before he finished and returned to the wagon where his sisters waited with the meal ready.

Rachel looked ready to burst as he washed his hands and filled his plate. “I’ll ask the blessing,” he said, ignoring her impatience, and bowed his head. His amen was barely out before she spoke.

“I can’t believe the Binghams are on this wagon train. How are you going to avoid running into her?”

He pretended not to understand what she meant even though he knew she referred to the relationship he and Abby had enjoyed back then. “There’s a lot of people traveling together. We don’t have to keep company with any we don’t choose to.” He said it as if that solved the entire problem of encountering Abby and he intended it should.

Rachel sighed. “I just don’t want to see your heart broken again.”

“It’s not going to happen.” Never again would he give Abigail the right to hurt him. He would do his best to keep a wide distance between himself and Abigail. Two thousand miles over several months lay ahead of them. But all he had to do was avoid her one day at a time.

Surely that wasn’t impossible.

* * *

“Please stay with me,” Mrs. Littleton said to Abby as her husband left to attend to other business. “I’m afraid to be alone at the moment.”

“Of course.” Abby sat beside her on a quilt. The blond-haired woman’s blue eyes were friendly and welcoming. Her dress was well-worn but clean.

“You have a sweet baby. How old is he?”

“He’s just a year old.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your other children.”

Mrs. Littleton bent over her son, caressing his brown hair. His brown eyes closed slowly and he slept. “Life can be hard at times.” She looked into the distance. “I hope we can start over in Oregon without so many painful memories.”

“That is my hope, as well, Mrs. Littleton.” Losing her husband had necessitated her move back to her parents’ home. But it didn’t pain her the way losing her twin brother Andy had. That pain never went away but she had learned to let it sweep through her. It would then settle back into a steady ache. Perhaps in Oregon she could think of Andy without the pulsing pain and regret.

She hoped for more than freedom from her past with this trip. It was her chance for a new beginning. She had her private plans. When they reached Oregon, she meant to go her own way. She’d work until she saved enough money to set herself up in business. Perhaps she’d run a boardinghouse. All that mattered was she’d never again depend on someone else. But Mother had other plans...plans that involved marrying in such a way as to improve the social and financial status of the Binghams. Abby hadn’t informed her mother yet, but she would not marry again. To her sorrow and regret she had learned a lesson about marriage that she didn’t care to repeat.

Strange to see Ben on the wagon train. She hadn’t seen him since she ended their relationship six years before. His light brown hair had been tamed some. Only one wave dipped over his forehead. He’d filled out, too, so his six-foot frame seemed all muscle and power. Even his blue-gray eyes had grown serious.

His expression when he looked her way contained only the cool disinterest of a stranger.

Not that she could blame him. Six years ago, she’d dismissed him harshly because she knew no other way to end a relationship that held so much promise. She’d balked at the idea of marrying Frank. Begged her mother to allow her to marry Ben, the man she loved. But Mother had reminded her of her promise to take care of her parents and pointed out that Ben couldn’t possibly provide for her and them. Nor could he offer a way of advancing them socially. His father’s mercantile business had floundered in the depressed economy.

Mrs. Littleton turned to look into Abby’s face. “You’ve had your losses, too, I can tell.”

Abby’s mind flooded with sorrow as she recalled kneeling beside Andy’s lifeless body. He was but fourteen years old. If only she had spoken up and asked Andy not to ride that high-spirited horse. Instead, she had bragged to the snobby Isabelle that her brother could ride any horse they found. She had been wrong. She’d never told Mother or Father of her responsibility in Andy’s death. Her sorrow and guilt had led her to promise Mother to take care of them. In her mind, she hoped she could replace Andy, become the one Mother counted on.

“My condolences over your husband’s death.”

Of course Mrs. Littleton meant Frank, but Abby could not find it in her heart to feel sorrow at his passing. Yes, it left her penniless and back home under her mother’s rule, but it freed her from Frank’s cruelty. She shuddered. She’d never told her parents what marriage to Frank had been like.

Mother had seen him as the key to a promising future for the Binghams and when Abby protested over his offer of marriage, Mother had reminded her of her promise.

“Marrying well is the best way you can help us,” Mother had insisted as they discussed Frank.

“But I don’t love him.” Her throat still tightened as she thought of that day. If only her promise didn’t bind her to do her mother’s bidding.

“Love is a luxury few of us can afford.”

“But you love Father, don’t you?”

“I’m happy with our arrangement.”

Abby realized later that love was nothing but a flight of fancy. But at the time she still believed in it.

Out of guilt and duty, and a desire to please her parents, she’d obeyed her mother and married Frank. To be fair, he’d been attentive and gentle when courting her.

That had ended the day of their wedding.

Mrs. Littleton patted her arm. “A new beginning will be good for all of us. And please call me Sally.”

“I’m Abigail or Abby to my friends.”

Sally chuckled. “Then I’ll call you Abby.”

Abby glanced at her mother still sitting nearby on her wooden chair. No mistaking the disapproving scowl. She sighed. She tried, oh, how she tried, to please Mother, but nothing ever seemed enough. Why, mother had even hinted that it was Abby’s fault that Frank had died penniless. His grave had barely been covered over when agents from the bank had come and carried away everything but her personal belongings and had given her three days to leave the house. The harsh truth about her husband had been reinforced yet again. Not only was he cruel behind the closed doors of their home, he was foolish in business. She’d gone back to her parents’ home. Where else could she go? Though it had reduced her to striving for her mother’s approval and always falling short.

Mother would never let her forget her promise.

She remained convinced that Andy would have fulfilled all her dreams of advancement. And now she expected Abby to be the means.

“You’ll need to find a suitable suitor soon,” she’d been saying since they made plans to head West. “In Oregon, there are far more men than women. That means you can have your pick of the best.”

Abby hated the reminder of her duty. Surely she’d paid for it with her marriage to Frank. However, one thing no bank, no demanding mother or cruel husband could take from her was her faith. God would provide the strength she needed for every test and trial. And please, God, a chance to start over.

Sally shifted and glanced at the sun overhead. “It’s noon. I need to start dinner but I hate to put Johnny down.”

“Let me hold him while you cook.” Abby held out her arms. By rights she should offer to make the meal, but she doubted Sally and her husband would appreciate her efforts.

Sally shifted the sleeping Johnny to Abby’s lap. “You never had any little ones of your own or did they—?” She clapped her hands to her mouth to stop the words.

Abby understood Sally feared she might have brought up a painful subject—like she’d had babies and they died. “No, we never had children.”

“I’m sorry.”

Abby brushed Johnny’s hair off his forehead. Oh, to have a child of her own to love and cherish, though she couldn’t be sorry Frank had not given her one. It would have been a thousand times worse to endure Frank mistreating a child and she knew he would have if only to get at Abby.

She shifted the baby so she would look westward. In Oregon she hoped and planned and prayed she would find the freedom she longed for which, to date, had always seemed far out of reach.

Little Johnny fussed and Abby sang softly until he relaxed again. All the while, she watched Sally stir a pot of stew that had been simmering over the coals then slice a loaf of batter bread she’d baked in the tin oven. If Mother wasn’t watching like a hawk, Abby would have asked Sally to explain how she did all that. Mother had forbidden her to ask for help from the women around them.

We’re Binghams. We don’t need help.

Abigail knew otherwise. If they were to make it across the great plains and over the mountains, Bingham or not, they’d need help because Abby had no idea how to manage under these circumstances. She’d have to learn by observation. They had a tin oven, as well. She’d try baking biscuits in it.

Mr. Littleton returned. “How’s Johnny?”

Sally answered. “He’s sleeping.” But at the sound of his father’s voice, Johnny stirred and held out his arms. Mr. Littleton took him gently, careful of the bandaging around the baby’s middle.

Abby pushed to her feet. Her fingers trailed down Johnny’s back then she stepped away. “I best go prepare dinner for my folks.” She returned to their wagon.

Mother huffed as Abby set to work. “I hope you don’t plan to spend a lot of time with the likes of those people.”

Abby pushed aside annoyance. “Mother, it’s a long trip. Those kinds of people will be our constant companions.”

Mother pulled herself into her self-righteous posture. “You don’t need to associate with them. Keep yourself apart until we reach Oregon and then we’ll find you a proper suitor.”

Ben’s image as he faced those rowdy boys and then the questioning men filled Abby’s thoughts. He was a noble and kind man. At least he had been at the time they courted. But that didn’t alter the fact that marriage changed a man. Gave him rights to his wife that no law, no friend, nor even family could defy. She would never again subject herself to such ownership of her body and her rights.

She fried bacon and boiled potatoes. Even potatoes were difficult to cook over a fire. They burned on the bottom and were hard as rocks inside. Father ate them without a word. Mother nibbled at the food. Plain fare had never been her first choice. They both accepted a cup of tea. Abby sighed and turned her attention to washing up the few dishes, but her thoughts went round and round. She must become adept at all sorts of things if they were to survive this trip.

At Mother’s request, Father took her wooden chair into the back of the wagon and parked it atop two chests. Mother followed and perched on the chair. She barely fit beneath the white canvas. Mother had brought as much as she could pack into the wagon which was far less than she insisted she needed.

Abigail had brought a minimum of belongings. A few changes of clothing, a warm coat, a waterproof duster, her Bible, a few of her favorite books and her mandolin. After Frank’s death she’d learned how little material things mattered.

Abigail opened her mouth to warn Mother she wouldn’t be able to ride all the way in that precarious position then she closed it without saying a word. Mother would soon learn or she’d find a way to remain there just to prove to one and all that she was a proper lady who shouldn’t be expected to endure the heat and dust.

Not for the first time, Abigail wondered if this trip would destroy them. She shivered as she recalled Mother’s words. The death of them all. Then she prayed, Father God in heaven, guard and keep us.

How many times had she prayed that on her own behalf when Frank scared her with his behavior? She wrapped her arms about herself and let the tears flow through her heart. Her eyes stayed dry. She wasn’t about to bemoan the consequences of a choice she’d made. Though she had no idea that a man could pretend such sweetness before marriage and reveal such cruelty afterwards.

A walk would calm her. She hurried through the maze of wagons and tents and people to a place where no one was parked. Perhaps she could find a minute of peace.

A glance about revealed there was no one who would recognize her and she stood with her hands clasped in front of her. Anyone watching would assume she was peacefully enjoying the scenery.

They would have been wrong.

Slowly her emotions subsided. She rubbed at her breastbone, knowing the ache would ease but not disappear entirely.

Oh, God, be Thou my strength. To Thee I flee for help.


Chapter Two (#ulink_a0e84474-084d-5dda-9ee1-1a0a62565c0a)

The committeemen assembled to discuss the issue of the youths randomly firing their guns. Sam Weston the trail guide stood to one side. The tall, lean man stroked his bushy brown mustache as he observed the crowd with a steady gaze. He’d give his opinion if called for, but other than that he made it clear the emigrants would have to solve their own problems.

Ben wondered what he saw. An unruly bunch without any sense of working together? An eager assortment of men and women and children willing to do anything to get to Oregon? Likely there was a little of both in each of them.

Jed stood beside a gentle-looking man who seemed more fitted to tailoring suits than driving oxen across the country. No mistaking the father–son likeness.

The other youths also stood by men Ben assumed were their fathers or guardians. Most family groups consisted of an assortment of people. Besides the teams of oxen, most wagons had a milk cow, a horse or two and various other animals in tow. Many families had offered to allow a single young man to accompany them, providing meals in exchange for help with the animals. Like the Morrisons who had young Clarence Pressman traveling with them. Few traveled alone. Miles Cavanaugh, one of the committeemen, was an exception. The journey would be more difficult for him with no one to help with the animals or spell the driver off or even cook meals while the other camp chores were taken care of.

The Hewitt wagon consisted of himself and his two sisters.

Mr. Cavanaugh chaired the meeting. “We are here to deal with the disagreement between Ben Hewitt and these young men. He says they were using their firearms carelessly which resulted in the injury of a child and he therefore confiscated their guns. Is that correct, Ben?”

“Yes, sir.”

The father of the rowdiest boy stepped forward. “He ain’t got no right. Why, he can’t even say for sure it was these boys was responsible.”

“Did you see one of these boys actually shoot the child?” the chairman asked.

“I didn’t but they’d been shooting and yelling wildly and there wasn’t anyone else nearby shooting off guns.” Let the truth speak for itself.

“See,” shouted the belligerent man. “He’s just guessing it were my boy.”

“I didn’t accuse your son,” Ben argued. “Only said the boys were being careless and the baby had been shot. I suggest the boys get their guns back when we are on the trail.” After a day or two, their high spirits would have subsided and they’d be less likely to shoot so carelessly.

“No,” the angry youth yelled. “Ain’t no one taking my gun from me.”

Ben tilted his head toward the firearms stacked on the table in front of Mr. Cavanaugh. Obviously someone had taken his from him.

The boy tried to grab his gun. Someone pushed him aside and an uproar ensued.

Mr. Cavanaugh pounded his fist on the table. “Seems to me you’re inclined to be a little hotheaded.”

Ben would sure like to know that boy’s name for future reference.

Apparently Mr. Cavanaugh did, too. “Son, what’s your name?”

The boy hesitated. His father stepped forward. “This here is Arty Jones, my son. I’m his father, Ernie. I say without a reliable witness, it’s jest my word ’gainst his.” He jerked his thumb toward Ben.

“I consider myself a reliable witness.”

Ben jerked about to see who spoke. Mr. Bingham and beside him, Abigail.

“Step forward.” Mr. Cavanaugh signaled them. “What did you see?”

Mr. Bingham kept Abby at his side as he pushed through the crowd. “I saw these young youths shooting wildly, as did my daughter. A couple of times I noted how they didn’t always make sure the barrel pointed skyward before they fired. I was about to say something when the baby screamed. I saw him shot. As did my daughter.”

Abigail nodded.

Ben stared. In his wildest dreams he’d never expected a Bingham to stand up for him. Yes, this was for the safety of all concerned, but still.

Mr. Cavanaugh turned to consult the other members of the committee, then nodded. “It is our decision that for the safety and peace of mind of all of us these pistols will be held in safekeeping until we are on the trail.” He gathered the guns, pushed to his feet and headed toward his wagon.

“Thank you for speaking up.” Ben spoke to Mr. Bingham, but his gaze darted to Abigail. Had she meant to defend him or was she only doing her duty? As if he needed to ask.

“It was clearly my duty,” Mr. Bingham said, and Abigail nodded answering his question.

They left to return to their wagon and he did the same.

Rachel and Emma jumped to their feet at his approach.

“What did they decide?” Rachel asked.

“There was some concern that I hadn’t actually seen the young fellas shoot the baby.”

“They called you a liar?” Rachel rolled up her fists and looked ready to defend her brother’s honor.

As usual, Ben found her attitude amusing and a little worrisome. He’d told her over and over that she must let him deal with his own problems. And warned her she shouldn’t be so ready to interfere in a situation.

“Mr. Bingham stepped forward and said he’d seen the whole thing. They accepted his word.”

Rachel’s mouth fell open. Emma stared. She was the first to recover her voice. “Mr. Bingham spoke up in your defense? What a surprise.”

Ben shrugged. “He was only doing his duty out of concern for safety in the camp.”

Emma nodded, her expression smoothed.

Rachel studied him for a long, silent moment. “Then why do you look so flummoxed?”

“I don’t.” Except he still couldn’t believe Mr. Bingham had spoken up on his behalf. With Abigail at his side.

But Rachel had her mind stuck on the topic and wouldn’t let it go unless he could divert her.

“The committee decided we will pull out first thing tomorrow. Those with cattle will go in one party. The rest of us will travel in another.”

“We’ll be ready,” Emma assured him, and immediately started to gather up odds and ends of kitchenware.

Rachel did not back down. “I wish the Binghams weren’t traveling with us.”

Ben lifted a hand in a dismissive gesture hoping Rachel would see how little it mattered. “I don’t see what difference it makes.”

“I remember when she dropped you,” Rachel said. “I saw how upset you were. I wanted to help.”

“I survived and am stronger for it. Besides, you were only thirteen.”

“And now I’m nineteen and I’m still not old enough to watch my brother get hurt.”

He shrugged. “Your big brother is quite capable of taking care of himself.” If Rachel took it in her head to fuss about this on a regular basis she would make it impossible for him to pretend the Binghams weren’t traveling with them. His stomach ached at the possibility.

“I hope so.”

“You don’t have to worry about me. I got over Abby years ago. I won’t give her the chance to hurt me again.” She was merely one of almost a thousand travelers, not anyone who would earn special attention from him. “All I care about is getting us safely to Oregon.” He jammed his fingers into his trousers pockets. He would not fail. Not in any of his responsibilities.

The next morning, he discovered how challenging his responsibilities could be. Trying to get these emigrants organized and on their way was like trying to hold water in a sieve.

A man couldn’t find one of his oxen and accused his neighbor of stealing it. Ben directed the angry man to search among the many loose cattle until he found his own.

A woman wrung her hands because her five-year-old son had disappeared. “I’ll never find him in this bedlam,” she wailed.

They were near the Bingham wagon and Abigail hurried over to see if she could help.

“What’s his name and what does he look like?” she asked.

The woman stammered out a reply.

“I’ll find him,” Abby said to Ben. “You get on with your work.” Without giving him a chance to say yay or nay, she started down the line of wagons, calling the child’s name and asking if anyone had seen him.

He couldn’t think if he appreciated her help or resented being ordered about by her. But he didn’t have time to decide.

Mr. Bingham struggled with his oxen and Ben assisted him and gave him a few instructions on handling the animals. Mrs. Bingham sat on an upright chair inside the wagon. She wouldn’t last long on that perch, but she would not look kindly at advice from him. He decided against suggesting she find a different place to sit.

He checked on the Littletons. “How is Johnny?”

Mrs. Littleton washed dishes with the baby on her hip. “He’s fussy. Won’t let me put him down.”

“I expect he’s frightened.”

“My poor baby.”

Ben was about to move on when Abby returned leading the missing child and turned him over to his mother who smothered him in kisses, then scolded him for running off.

Abby chuckled. Her gaze lifted to Ben’s, her hazel eyes piercing right through his defenses.

How often in the past had her gaze done this to him? There was a time he welcomed it. No more. He wasn’t good enough for her six years ago and nothing about his station in life had changed for the better.

He turned his attention back to his duties.

“The bank’s been robbed!” A young man rode through the crowd shouting, “Fifteen thousand dollars missing from the new safe.”

Men crowded around the rider. “Anyone hurt?”

“Did they find the thief?”

“Did he come this direction?” When the answers were no, the people were relieved to know the robbery would not involve them and returned to preparing for the journey.

The noise swelled with laughter, cries and shouts. Dust rose from the trampled ground. The smell of animals and woodsmoke tinged the air.

Mrs. Bingham had been riffling through a box of things at the back of the wagon. She straightened and signaled Ben, who rode over, his heart heavy. Whatever the woman wanted, he suspected it would be less than pleasant.

“My gilded mirror is missing.”

Ben nodded. “You’ve misplaced it?”

“I have not. It’s been stolen.”

Ben sighed heavily. Such accusations without evidence served only to instill anxiety and mistrust among the travelers.

Mrs. Bingham drew herself up and gave him a demanding look. “Aren’t you in charge of this group?”

“I am.”

“First the bank and now a bunch of innocent, defenseless travelers. I suggest you do your job and find the thief or thieves.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Though he wondered if any of their group were defenseless. Everyone had a pistol or a rifle or both. All had axes and shovels. And he wasn’t about to ride around demanding to know if someone stole a mirror. Likely the woman had misplaced it.

But he would do his job and keep a close eye on the Bingham wagon lest someone had targeted them as having valuable contents among their belongings.

Abigail returned to the wagon at that point. “Mother, what’s wrong?”

Mrs. Bingham grabbed Abby’s arm. “I’ve been robbed and this man is doing nothing about it. It appears to me he’ll help only those he chooses to.”

“Mother, we simply don’t have time to worry about it right now. Everyone is ready to leave.”

Ben rode away and didn’t look back. Abigail was every bit as much under her mother’s thumb as she’d ever been. Ben would not likely forget Mrs. Bingham did not approve of him. Therefore, Abigail didn’t, either.

* * *

Abigail didn’t have time to deal with her mother’s fussing. Their journey was about to begin and she couldn’t wait to get started. The future beckoned.

She joined her father beside the oxen.

“Well, daughter, we are about to see if your banker father can manage these huge beasts.”

“You sound excited.” Her own heart beat a rapid tattoo as she waited for their wagon to join the procession.

Ben sat on his horse, supervising the departure. He looked calm and in control.

She shifted her gaze away from him to the wagons rolling out ahead of them. He traveled with his sisters. They must be so proud of him. And to think she might have been the one whose heart swelled with pride—

No. A life shared with him might have been filled with unexpected sorrow. She’d learned her lesson well enough not to care to repeat it.

“Come, boys,” Father said, and the oxen moved out, following the others.

Abby laughed from sheer excitement.

Inside the wagon, Mother clung to her chair.

“Mother isn’t happy about this adventure,” Abigail commented.

“She’s afraid of change, but we need it. We need to get over Andrew’s death.”

Abby’s heart dipped. As always, guilt stung her at the mention of his name.

Father continued. “It’s time to put his death behind us and look to the future.”

“Is that possible?” If it still controlled them after ten years how was a trip going to change anything?

“I hope it is,” her father said. “I believe this trip will change us all.”

Abby hoped for the same, but change often came on the heels of adversity. She didn’t have to think very hard to find it so in her life. Her future had changed when Andy died. Again when the Panic struck and yet again when Frank died. And who could foretell which events would result in good and which ones in sorrow? Father God, let this trip result in good for all involved.

Sam Weston rode by. “Everyone ready?”

A roar of agreement answered him.

He rode on. “Wagons, ho.”

Slowly the long line of wagons began to move.

Hundreds of people lined the route, waving flags and cheering them on. One lady ran forward and pressed a package into Abigail’s hands.

“Some baking for the trip. God speed and safe travels.”

Abby held the woman’s hands for a heartbeat, and as the wagon lumbered away, she turned to wave goodbye.

Goodbye to the past.

Hello to the future.

She strained to see the way ahead, her heart pounding out the rhythm of the words as she waved and smiled at those sending them off.

Then they left behind the well-wishers and headed West.

Whatever the future held, it had to be better than the past. Her heart settled into place, feeling more hopeful than it had for so long she couldn’t remember the last time.

Nothing would distract her from her plans for a new beginning in Oregon.

Not even her mother.


Chapter Three (#ulink_05b35dd2-cbab-5c68-a88d-3aab25ed3e09)

The weather was clear, the trail easy. The white-sheeted wagons sailed across the green prairie like ships upon an ocean of green. Purple-and-yellow flowers dotted the landscape.

Mr. Weston called a halt at noon, by which time Abby was more than grateful. She’d tried riding in the wagon, but the hard bench and rough trail combined to make it most uncomfortable. She’d jumped down, preferring to walk. As soon as she vacated the wooden seat Mother left her unsteady chair to sit by Father, using a folded quilt to pad the bench.

Abby had walked almost the whole morning and her feet hurt.

The women immediately got out their cooking utensils and sent children to gather firewood. Father unhitched the oxen but, according to instructions from Ben, left them yoked. The great beasts grazed placidly.

Ben seemed to be everywhere. He rode through the camp calling out instructions or encouragement or, in a case or two, breaking up a fight. Several asked about the robbery. Could the culprit be among them? He tried to assure them there would be guards posted every night.

She turned to preparing a meager meal—all she seemed capable of. She could fry bacon again and eat the biscuits in the package she’d been handed as they left Independence.

She let the word independence roll around in her mind. She certainly liked the sound of it.

“Better check your bacon,” Sally called.

Abby turned the pieces over. Only the edges were charred. Hopefully they were still edible.

An hour later they were again on their way.

At three o’clock they reached a place Mr. Weston called Elm Grove.

Abby had never thought a few elm trees and some bushes would be so welcome but her blistered feet ached for relief.

Mr. Weston led them into making a circle.

Father followed his instruction and drove the wagon so his front almost met the back of the wagon ahead of him then turned sharply. When the oxen were released, the wagons formed a barricade.

The oxen were set loose outside the circle to graze.

Ben rode around the circle. “Sam says we need to share fires. Soon enough we’ll be scrounging for fuel. Three or four families together depending on the size of your family.”

Almost before Abby could sort out all the things that had to be done, the others had organized who went with whom.

The Binghams were to be with the Littletons and Ben and his sisters.

Abby went to the back of the wagon as if to pull out something, but everything she needed for the evening was already spread out on the ground in preparation for the night.

The Littletons would be enjoyable people to spend the trip with, but the Hewitts? Why must they be grouped with them? Rachel had made her opinion clear yesterday. She didn’t welcome the Binghams on the journey, let alone as their meal companions.

Emma, of course, had been more restrained in her reaction, though that didn’t mean she had less of an opinion.

And Ben? What did he think? Was it going to be awkward? Yes, they had history, but it was ancient history. They’d both moved on. She had no idea what Ben’s plans were but seeing as he was obviously still unmarried, likely he would be looking for a suitable wife. One who would prove an asset in the new life they all planned.

She made a sound, half snort, half groan. Ben should enlist help from Abby’s mother who thought she had a knack of finding suitable mates.

This time Abby groaned for real. Mother was not going to be happy about this arrangement and if Mother wasn’t happy, Abby would have her hands full keeping her mother satisfied.

Oh, God, give me strength and patience.

She held on to the prayer as she returned to the others. She could do this without getting caught up in memories or regrets or guilt.

The men left to tend to the animals.

“Let’s divvy up the chores,” Rachel said to the women.

The others murmured agreement. All except Mother, who had allowed Father to lift her chair to the ground where she remained seated. Abby understood her mother considered it beneath her station in life to help with mundane chores.

“We’ll take turns so no one ends up doing the dishes alone every night.”

Again a murmur of agreement at Rachel’s suggestion though Abby would have been quite happy doing dishes. It was the one thing she could manage. That and making tea. Both required only that she boil water.

“I’ll make tea right away,” she offered. “My mother is in need of a drink.” Mother was pale, her jaw clenched so hard it would take more than a hot drink to loosen it.

“I’ll cook the meat,” Sally said.

Emma offered to prepare vegetables and a sweet. Rachel said she’d prepare the beans that had been soaking all day. “That way they’ll be ready for dinner tomorrow.”

The three women turned to Abby. She swallowed hard knowing they expected her to offer to make something for the supper. Something more than tea. She stifled a giggle. Could she make it through the next few months by making tea at every stop?

“Why don’t you make biscuits?” Sally said.

Abby nodded not trusting her voice to speak confidently. She dragged out the reflector oven. She’d practiced setting it up and did so, though she still thought the apparatus was unstable, but others used one so she had to believe it was a suitable means of cooking. She positioned it close to the fire.

Abby measured the flour, lard and other ingredients and mixed them as she had learned at home. She cut them into rounds and placed them on the baking tray. There, she congratulated herself. This was going to turn out just fine.

She put them in the reflector oven, then poured tea for Mother.

Mother pulled her down to whisper in her ear. “I object to sharing meals with...with those.”

“Mother, be grateful.” They’d eat much better for the sharing.

A great clatter and Sally’s sharply indrawn breath jerked Abby’s attention her way. “Oh, no.” The oven had collapsed. The biscuits fallen into a heap.

“I’m sorry,” Sally said. She’d been tending Johnny and hadn’t noticed where Abby set the oven.

Abby rushed to her side. “Are you okay? You’re not burned?”

“No, I’m fine. But the biscuits—”

“They’re ruined,” Rachel said. Abby knew she wasn’t mistaken in thinking Rachel sounded rather pleased about it.

“Why, the oven wasn’t even braced. Now all this food is wasted,” Rachel continued.

“They can be rescued.” Ben had appeared out of nowhere and carefully retrieved the biscuits, then, with gloved hands, set the tin oven back up. He braced it with a branch. “To make sure it doesn’t fall again.”

Abby nodded, unable to meet his eyes. “Thanks.” It was a lesson she wouldn’t need repeated. Not repeating harsh lessons was her only triumph. Mr. Littleton returned from taking care of his animals and shot out his hand to Father. “Didn’t get a chance to introduce myself earlier. Martin Littleton.” He looked about. “So this is our group?”

Ben nodded. “Seems so. These are my sisters.”

Rachel and Emma said hello to the man. Father introduced Mother.

Martin looked about. “It’s a fine group. I’m sure we’ll get on splendidly.”

Abby ducked her head. His attitude might not be so accepting once everyone discovered Abby didn’t know how to cook a thing.

She could only pray she would survive the trip with her resolve intact.

* * *

Ben accepted the plate of food Emma handed him. The Binghams had been placed with the Hewitts because of the proximity of their wagons. It was not a good match. But what could he do but accept it gracefully? It wasn’t like it would change anything. He knew what they thought of him and he, of them. But he would have been happier if he didn’t have to share mealtimes with Mrs. Bingham’s complaining and Abigail’s simpering agreement. Mr. Bingham was okay. He was doing his best to cope in a situation that was completely out of his realm of experience.

Ben sighed. He should do the same.

Mrs. Bingham had been persuaded to pull her chair closer. The rest, including Mr. Bingham, sat in a circle on the ground.

Martin rose to ask the blessing, then they dug in.

Ben guessed by the way everyone tackled their food they were as hungry as he. Except for Mrs. Bingham, who picked at the things on her plate and shot demanding looks at Abby.

Abby seemed unaware of her mother’s looks.

Ben kept his attention on Martin as he talked about the excitement of the first day of travel, but in the periphery of his gaze, he observed Abby.

A thought struck him so hard he couldn’t swallow. He didn’t know how Frank had died. Come to think of it, he didn’t know how her twin brother had died, either. She’d always shied away from any questions he asked. All he knew was there had been an accident. Accidents were common. Swamp fever had killed many, as well. Some, like the Littletons, had lost most of their family. Had she lost children? He couldn’t imagine the pain. Despite his desire to stay as far away from her as possible, the least he could do was offer his condolences.

Emma carried around a pot of stewed apple dumplings and served generous portions to everyone. Even Mrs. Bingham enjoyed the sweet and managed to lose some of her pinched look.

Abby sat beside Mrs. Littleton—Sally, as she’d asked to be called. Ben studied Abby under the pretext of watching a group of youngsters chasing each other in the middle of the circled wagons. Their excitement remained high after an easy day.

Ben had talked to Sam and learned the days would grow more challenging from here on.

But his thoughts were not on the journey. They detoured stubbornly to Abby and the tightness in her expression.

Sorrow filled her face. She carried much loss. Frank and...the same thought surfaced. Had she lost children?

He scrambled to his feet. “I’ll check on things.” He strode away before he could follow his inclination to ask Abby to walk with him. In the next few days he’d find a chance to ask her more about her life with Frank. But not now. Not today. His feelings were unsettled and he wanted them solid as a rock before he talked to her.

Instead, he turned his attention to the many needs of the emigrants. Guards had been set to watch the livestock and keep them from wandering too far. Each man would take turns at a four-hour shift. It wasn’t his turn but even so, he left the wagons and went from one guard to the next. The men were excited tonight and not likely to doze off. Ben knew that it would be harder to stay awake after a few long days on the trail.

He returned to the wagons and moseyed around the circle. It was pleasant to see people in groups, visiting and sharing and learning about each other.

He passed the Jones wagon. Ernie Jones rose to his feet. “You’ve done made a mistake thinking you can tell me and my son what to do.”

Not wanting to get involved in a fracas, Ben would have passed on without answering but several men watched and he knew he must deal with this here and now. “If you care to recall, I had no part in the decision. The committeemen made a ruling.” He’d purposely not involved himself except to present his side of the situation.

Young Arty jogged up to stand by his father. “When do I get my gun back?” Belligerence rang in every syllable and showed in the way the boy stood, legs wide, arms akimbo.

“I believe Miles Cavanaugh is responsible for that decision.”

Behind him sprightly music caught the attention of many and he turned his back on the troublesome Joneses.

“Skip, skip, skip to my lou.”

He recognized the voice and the instrument. Abby and her mandolin. How many times had she entertained him with tunes? And together they had sung song after song. He remembered one particularly pleasant evening. He closed his eyes against the memory but it would not be stopped.

They sat on the porch swing outside her parents’ house. Spring had arrived and with it the promise of good things to come. She’d learned a new song, “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” and wanted him to learn it, too.

They’d laughed often as he stumbled over the words, happy simply to be with her and able to be outside, away from her mother’s constant supervision. How wrong he’d been in thinking Abby shared his feelings.

He escaped the wagons and went out among the cattle. Let people think he was watching them, but in reality he wanted only to forget the bittersweet memory.

But it followed on his heels reminding him how he’d deliberately mixed up the words which sent her into gales of laughter. He’d caught her by the shoulders and shook her a little in mock scolding. Their eyes had locked together. He’d tipped his head low and rested his forehead on hers, breathing in the scent of her. Lavender and things that had no origin in smells but came from a knowledge of her—sweetness, stubbornness, humor, kindness. He’d closed his eyes, thinking how precious she’d grown over the winter months.

It was all a farce. He was only cheap entertainment for the time being.

His stride lengthened as he tried to flee that memory. He forced his thoughts to the ending. Father’s successful mercantile business had faltered. He’d suffered under the strain and had a stroke. And Abigail had turned her back on him and married Frank.

His pace slowed. The sound of the mandolin followed him. He loved her music still. Always would, he supposed, even if the memories were intertwined with pain and regret. It seemed she was still under her mother’s watch. How had Frank dealt with that? Not that Ben cared. Not a bit.

Slowly he made his way back to the wagons. Abby’s music had enticed some of the men to dance jigs and the children to twirl about.

Then she slowed the tunes and began to sing songs of gladness and hope. The children gathered round her. Men leaned against the wagons and women rocked their little ones.

But Ben remained at the far end, content to watch. He realized he stared at Abby with an intensity that belied how he meant to forget everything about her and he shifted his gaze to take in those around him.

Miles Cavanaugh nodded at him. He remained at his wagon. He traveled alone and perhaps felt as if he wasn’t a part of the social gathering. Ben couldn’t say, though, as he knew little about the man. He would certainly learn more about him as they traveled together.

A little further along, he detected another lone figure. Clarence Pressman—a smallish man with pale skin like he hadn’t spent any time outdoors. Ben had noted the man before and was grateful he’d signed on with the Morrisons. Both parties would benefit from the arrangement.

The Tucker brothers, Amos and Grant—twins, Ben had been told though they didn’t look a bit alike—crossed the tongue of a wagon and joined those gathered around Abby. No doubt they’d been out checking on the animals. The pair had joined them part way through the day, driving their oxen at a rate that had the animals sweating and snorting.

Amos introduced them. “We got behind the cattle train by mistake. Took us some hard going to catch up to this group.” They’d nudged each other and laughed like the mistake was a huge joke.

Ben couldn’t help but like their attitude but he hoped they’d be better at following instructions in the future.

His study brought him back to Abby. And the memory of sitting on the porch swing rushed again to the forefront.

Why must sweet memories be clouded by sorrow?

But they were and he couldn’t change that.

He didn’t have any doubt that Abby’s memories were also clouded with sadness. Oh, not over him. But over the death of her husband.

He ground his fist into the soft spot beneath his ribs but it did nothing to ease the pain lodged there. He didn’t wish for anyone to deal with such grief. He’d seen how deeply it had affected Grayson, driving him away from the family.

Ben missed him every day of his absence and anticipated their reunion.

All too soon the mothers called their children to them and prepared them for bed. While Abby had entertained the children, the menfolk had set up tents next to their wagons where their families would sleep.

Emma had prepared the tent she and Rachel would share. He’d sleep under a piece of canvas or just roll up in a bedroll under the wagon.

Abby and her father struggled to put up their tents. It appeared the older Binghams would share one tent and Abby would sleep in another.

After watching their vain attempts for a few minutes, Ben trotted over to assist.

“We can manage just fine, thank you,” Mrs. Bingham told him, though she didn’t lift a finger to help.

“I can’t quite figure it out,” Mr. Bingham said as if his wife hadn’t uttered a word.

“Here. Take this rope and stake it out there about three feet. Be sure and angle the stake away from the tension so it stays in the ground.”

In a few minutes, the tent was up. Mr. Bingham assisted his wife inside. Ben turned to Abby. His first instinct was to offer her help. But the knot in his heart warned him to give her a wide berth.

She grabbed a hammer and stake. “I watched you and Father. I think I can do it.”

He’d watch for a moment then leave her be.

She drove in the first stake but when she tried to do the one opposite it, the rope kept escaping her. She laughed. “It’s as slippery as a snake!”

How could he walk away from her need? What kind of neighbor would he be if he did? What sort of committeeman? His insides warred between responsibility and a desire to get as far away from this woman as possible.

Duty won out. Duty would always win.

He caught the errant rope and secured it. “It works better with a little help.” He had no doubt she’d get the hang of it soon enough. In the meantime, he had no choice but to lend a hand. His gut twisted. How could he put distance between them when they were to share mealtimes and only one wagon separated his from the Binghams?

He straightened and took one step back and then another.

“Thank you for helping,” Abby said. “I’ve been wanting to ask after your father. How is he?”

Ben pulled his thoughts into some semblance of order. “He never recovered.” The shock of losing everything had caused him to have a stroke. “He died last year.” That said so little of the long years of watching his declining health and how it had impacted all of them. “Emma nursed him.”

“I’m sorry.” She turned to his sisters who watched the proceedings. “My condolences.” She tipped her head to Emma. “I could tell when you helped little Johnny that you are a skilled nurse.”

“Thank you,” Emma said.

Rachel still looked rather unfriendly.

Abby, to her credit, appeared unaffected by Rachel’s expression and spoke to her. “You’ve grown up since I last saw you. In a very good way.”

Rachel gave a half smile.

Abby nodded and bent her attention to the hammer in her hand.

Ben dropped his arms to his sides and opened his mouth, prepared to scold Rachel for her rudeness but before a word left his mouth, Abby spoke.

“I venture to say we’ll all change before this trip is over.” She fixed Rachel with one of her piercing looks that he suddenly remembered with startling clarity. Anyone but Rachel would have flinched before those flashing eyes, but Rachel didn’t even blink.

“T’would be good if we didn’t forget the lessons of the past.” No mistaking Rachel’s meaning. She’d already made it clear she feared Ben would be hurt again and her words were meant as a warning to him as well as to Abby.

But she needn’t worry about Ben. He’d learned his lesson when it came to Abby and he wasn’t fool enough to want to repeat it. He might be forced to share their mealtime, even help her with some of the camp chores.

But he would never again be so foolish as to think she could care for him.


Chapter Four (#ulink_85ae66e1-8baa-5378-b608-2479850a0621)

With a murmured goodnight, Abby slipped into her tent. Her insides coiled with so many thoughts. Ben had never married. His father had passed away. How hard that must be. Ben had always been close to his father and brother. Grayson wasn’t in the group. Had he stayed behind? That would be a doubly hard goodbye for Ben.

She tumbled the thoughts and questions round and round in her head in an attempt to ignore Rachel’s warning. Her meaning was unmistakable—Don’t hurt my brother.

Abby had no intention of doing so. She’d stay as far away from him as possible. She’d burned that bridge six years ago when she informed him she’d chosen Frank over him. Wanting to cut herself from his thoughts, she said Frank had more to offer—possessions, position, power.

She pressed a hand to her stomach as she thought of the cruel, unkind things he’d given instead.

Ben’s response had been, “I wish you all the best and I trust your marriage vows will mean more to you than the words you spoke to me.”

She knew exactly what he meant. They’d secretly confessed their love to each other. They’d planned to announce it to the world when she turned eighteen. She’d warned him her parents, Mother especially, would object, but had said she wouldn’t let those objections change her mind.

But she had. So much guilt had filled her that she was unable to say no to her mother. Not that Mother would have accepted no. Abby would have been forced to follow her parents’ wishes. Far better to go freely and of her own will, though every yes was filled with pain and regret.

“I see I was wrong to trust you. Good to know now rather than later.” Those were Ben’s parting words.

He’d never trust her again. And she couldn’t blame him.

She, on the other hand, had learned after the fact how easily trust could be given to the wrong person. She would not trust her heart to any man ever again.

In Oregon, she’d start over. No regrets over anything in her past.

She tried to get comfortable on the ground but the waterproof ground cover rumpled underneath her. She finally pushed it aside and hoped it wouldn’t rain.

She’d barely fallen asleep when the sentinels fired their rifles, waking everyone up. They’d been warned they would be called at four in the morning to prepare for departure. Abby hurriedly dressed and rolled up her bedding. She fashioned her hair as best she could then dashed outside.

“Vernon.” Mother’s voice came from her parents’ tent. “I simply cannot survive under these conditions. Why, I don’t even have my mirror. Someone stole it right under the nose of that young Hewitt who is supposed to be guarding us.”

“Hush, Martha, do you want the whole camp to hear your complaints?”

Abby glanced around. Emma and Rachel were already tending the fire and from the looks on their faces, it was obvious they’d heard every word and did not appreciate Mother badmouthing their brother.

Sally crawled from their tent, baby Johnny cradled in one arm. “My, that was a short night. Johnny wouldn’t settle. I did my best to keep him quiet, so he wouldn’t wake the whole camp.” She rushed on at such a rate that Abby knew she meant to turn attention from Mother’s unkind remarks and she silently thanked the woman.

Emma went to Sally’s side. “Do you want me to look at his wound?”

Sally unwrapped the baby in the cool predawn.

Abby slipped away, hopefully unnoticed. She stopped at her parents’ tent. “Mother, do you need help?” she whispered.

Father ducked out. “See if you can settle her down.”

Abby patted his arm. “You look tired.”

He nodded. “She fussed half the night.”

Abby sucked in steadying air and bent over to enter the tent.

Mother sat atop the mussed covers, her legs out in front of her. She had her corset on but looked about ready to cry as she struggled with her dress.

Abby’s heart went out to her. Mother had not welcomed this journey. She didn’t see the challenge as something to embrace. But now Abby saw just how difficult it was going to be for her. Mother was no longer young and had never been one to do physical work.

Abby dropped to her knees to assist. “Let me help you.” She eased the dress over Mother’s head and fastened the buttons. “You’ll get used to all this in no time.”

“I’ll never get used to it.” Mother brushed a blade of grass from her skirt. “It’s dirty and primitive.” She sniffed. “But I don’t intend to likewise be uncouth. Fix my hair and then fetch me some water so I can wash properly. And heavens, see that I get some proper food.”

Abby spoke soothingly as she did her mother’s hair. “Mother, how many times have you told me that a person must set their mind to do what needed to be done and then do it?” Of course, her mother had usually been talking about setting a proper table, or returning an unwelcome visit, but it surely applied here even more.

Mother sniffed. “About as many times as I told you if you made wise choices you wouldn’t have to live with unpleasant consequences.”

Abby chuckled softly, lest her mother fear she laughed at her. But it was amusing, ironic really, that this was the argument she’d used to convince Abby to marry Frank and the consequences had been horrible.

“This, I fear, is an unwise choice and the consequences will be most unpleasant.”

Abby ignored the dire tone of her mother’s words and managed not to shiver. If only Mother would stop making it sound as if they would regret this trip. She finished her mother’s hair. “Mother, the future beckons. We can make it as good or as awful as we choose.”

Abby meant to make the most of it. In Oregon, she would gain her freedom. Somehow she’d convince Mother to let her go so she could follow her heart.

She thought immediately of Ben. But that wasn’t what she had in mind. He was of her past and she meant to put her past—all of it—behind her and start fresh. Wouldn’t Mother be shocked if she knew the things Abby planned?

She crawled from the tent to get water for Mother.

Rachel frowned at her.

Abby looked about to see the reason. Sally tended a skillet of bacon with little Johnny perched on her hip. The baby sobbed softly. Emma checked the coffeepot. Abby knew from the aroma that it had boiled. Rachel stirred a pot of simmering cornmeal mush. A pitcher of milk perched nearby. Abby wondered who had milked the cow.

Abby’s heart sank. She should be helping. Her mother should be helping. Knowing her mother wouldn’t meant Abby should be doing enough for both of them. Instead, the others had prepared breakfast while Abby fussed over her mother.

It wouldn’t happen again. If she must tend Mother she’d do it before time to prepare food or make her mother wait until after the meal. Abby ducked her head lest anyone think she smiled because she’d arranged to miss breakfast. No, her amusement came from imagining Mother being told to wait to have her needs tended to.

Abby glanced about again. She didn’t know how to milk the cow, make the mush or most everything the others did. She vowed she’d learn just as she’d learn to ignore Ben, and the memories that came with his presence.

She looked about, didn’t see him and let out a sigh. Easier to ignore him when he wasn’t there.

Smiling at her private joke, she hurried to take the water to Mother, then rushed back to offer assistance to the other women. “I’ll wash up seeing as I was absent for preparing the meal.”

Sally patted her hand. “We work together as best we can.”

As best we can. At least Sally seemed to understand.

One glance at Rachel and Abby knew she wouldn’t be so accommodating.

“We all need to do our share.” Rachel’s words shot from her mouth.

Rachel would not hesitate to criticize Abby’s failures. Never mind. They’d all learn things on this journey. Even the efficient Miss Hewitt.

* * *

Ben stood outside the circle of wagons. He’d been there several minutes. Long enough to hear Abby talking to her mother. The future beckoned. What did she mean? Had she agreed to marry a rich man in Oregon?

He knew such arrangements weren’t uncommon. He had to look no further than the letter from Grayson for evidence. Grayson had suggested his widowed neighbor would be a good match for Emma. His three little girls needed a new mother. Emma had nodded when she read the letter. “I could look after them.” Emma could do most anything she set her mind to. She’d volunteered at the local orphanage for a time after their father’s death and had, according to all reports, been an excellent help with the children. Not that it surprised Ben.

Ben snickered as he recalled Rachel’s reaction. “You’ve spent five years nursing our father. Now you’re willing to play nursemaid to a bunch of little girls you don’t even know? Emma, when will you stop being so compliant?”

Emma had given one of her sweet, forgiving smiles. “I’m twenty-four years old. I’ve long ago given up hopes of romance. I’ll settle for safety and security.”

Ben wished he knew what to say to encourage his beautiful blonde sister.

Rachel had thrown her hands in the air. “I will never settle.”

Ben heard Abby speak again, bringing his thoughts back to the present. Did she have a suitor waiting for her in Oregon? Seems like it would explain why they were willing to cross the country.

Martin Littleton joined him. “Smells like breakfast is ready.”

“Indeed.” Mr. Bingham arrived and they joined the women around the campfire.

Ben stood, hat in hand. “I’ll ask the blessing this morning. Then why don’t we take turns doing it?”

The men nodded.

“Lord, we thank You for strength, for good weather, for good company and for good food. Keep us safe this day and to our journey’s end. Amen.”

The others echoed his amen as he sat between his sisters.

The coffee was hot and strong. The biscuits cold and dry. The cornmeal mush filling. The Littletons’ cow provided them with fresh milk. But the mood felt strained.

Mrs. Bingham perched on her upright chair and picked at the food. She uttered not a word, but her lengthy sighs said plenty.

Ben had overheard Rachel’s comment to Abby and knew she was annoyed. The last thing anyone on this journey needed was friction but there was little he could do about it without adding fuel to the fire. The women would have to sort things out among themselves.

The Littletons passed little Johnny back and forth between them and tried to calm his fussing.

“I simply don’t know what’s wrong with him.” Sally gave the group an apologetic glance. “He’s not normally like this.”

“Perhaps he’s ill,” Mrs. Bingham said as matter-of-factly as if she’d mentioned the weather and seemed not to be aware that she’d sent a shock wave around the circle.

Martin grabbed his son and pressed his hand to the little forehead. “He’s not fevered.”

Sally hovered over the pair. “If he’s sick— But Emma looked at his wound and said it was fine.”

Abby moved to Sally’s side and wrapped an arm around the woman’s shoulders. “So many changes are hard to get used to. We’re all feeling it.” She sent a scolding look toward her mother. “He’ll adjust. We all will.”

Mollified, Sally sat back and held out her arms to take the baby. “You’re right, of course.”

Martin patted little Johnny’s back.

Ben couldn’t take his eyes off Abby. He remembered how kind she was to others back when they were friends. Why should he have thought marrying Frank would change that? But somehow he had.

Rachel nudged him in the ribs. And it made him aware of how long he’d been staring at Abby. He tipped his cup to his mouth for the last drops of coffee and bolted to his feet.

“Time to get ready to leave.”

The men brought in the oxen and yoked them to the wagon amid many shouts.

The women cleaned up the foodstuff and packed away the belongings. All but the youngest children ran about helping with the chores.

Ben prepared his own wagon. He’d let Rachel and Emma take turns driving it while he helped keep this company in order. He saddled his horse and rode from wagon to wagon until he was satisfied.

On the other side of the circle, Mr. Bingham tried unsuccessfully to get his oxen in order. Mrs. Bingham’s shrill voice reached Ben clear across the enclosure. The oxen stamped and tossed their heads. Between Mr. Bingham’s uncertainty and his wife’s yammering, they were about to have a wreck.

Martin had his hands full with his own animals so couldn’t lend his aid.

Ben spurred his horse into a gallop and reached the Binghams’ wagon. He leaped from his saddle and rushed to help with the animals.

“Easy there. Easy, big boy. There you go.” He calmed the animal and backed it into place. “The second animal is always harder to yoke into place than the first.” He kept his voice low and soothing. “And what’s your name, big fella?”

“That one’s Bright. His partner is Sunny. The other two are Buck and Liberty,” Abby answered.

Ben’s gaze bolted to the wagon where Abby sat on the seat, the reins clenched in her white-knuckled hands. Her face seemed rather pale. His heart melted at how frightened she must be with these big animals acting up. What had she said about facing changes? He’d venture a guess she’d never before had any dealings with thousand-pound oxen. They’d all adjust but some had more adjusting to do.

“Liberty? Isn’t that a little highfalutin compared to the others?”

She nodded. “Kind of thought so myself. But the man we bought him from said he was born on the fourth of July. What else was he to name him?”

“I guess it’s better than Bell.” His feeble attempt at humor was rewarded when she laughed.

“Buck and Bell has a certain ominous ring to it.”

He chuckled. “We don’t want any bucking around here.” He helped Mr. Bingham yoke the two remaining animals.

“I fear I’ll never get good at this,” the man murmured.

Mrs. Bingham poked her head out of the wagon. “I tried to tell you, you weren’t the sort to make this kind of journey.”

Mr. Bingham sighed softly. “We’re going.”

Ben patted Mr. Bingham’s shoulder. “You’ll catch on soon enough.”

He spared one more glance in Abby’s direction.

“Thank you,” she murmured. Her hazel eyes burned a trail through his thoughts.

Leading his horse, he strode away as fast as his legs would carry him. What was wrong with him that he couldn’t even look at the woman without his thoughts scrambling like an egg dropped on the ground? Her look had meant nothing but gratitude for his help.

He wasn’t about to pick up where they’d left off six years ago. A person could not undo the things that had been done. They couldn’t erase the words that had been spoken.

Only the future mattered and that lay in Oregon where he would join Grayson and the two of them would work together again as they had all Ben’s life. Like two oxen sharing the load.

He swung into his saddle and turned the horse toward the Hewitt wagon.

Emma and Rachel sat side by side. Rachel’s look was sharp with disapproval.

“Already she’s got you at her beck and call.”

Emma made a quieting motion with her hand. “Rachel, that’s not fair. Ben was only doing his duty as one of the committeemen.”

“I don’t see him helping anyone else.”

Which wasn’t true, but before Ben could defend himself, Rachel rushed on.

“I see it now. She’ll be all sweet with you while she needs your help, but once we get to Oregon, she’ll be off in search of better prospects.”

“Hush, Rachel.” Emma shook her head at Ben. “We all know she would have to search far and wide and still she’d not find anyone better than Ben.”

He smiled at his gentle sister. If only everyone thought the same.

“Emma’s right. I’m only doing my job.” His duty and fulfilling his responsibilities was all he had to cling to. Getting his family to Oregon safe and sound, assisting others on the wagon train, those were the sort of things that made him sit with his shoulders squared.

The bugle sounded to indicate it was time to move out. Ben sat astride his horse, urging each wagon into place. Soon the column was on the move and he leaned back, his heart at ease. This was what mattered—keeping things rolling.

Dust billowed up around each wagon wheel and filled the air. Those in the lead didn’t have to breathe in quite so much, but by the end of the column the dust was thick and choking. Soon the wagons fanned out to avoid each other’s dust. Still, those at the rear got more than their fair share.

Ben wiped his eyes as he rode past the final wagons but it did nothing to clear his vision.

Four wagons from the end, he encountered Ernie Jones and his wagon. He couldn’t see Arty. Likely the boy had wisely taken to walking far enough from the column to avoid the dust.

Ernie called out to him. “You made sure I rode back here, didn’t ya?”

“Everyone will take turns being first or last. Sam Weston ordered it.” He made to ride on.

Ernie uttered a rude word. “I’d like to see the day you make that gal friend of yers and her uppity ma and pa ride in the back.”

He’d done nothing that would give anyone reason to suspect they had once had an interest in each other. Or so he thought. He snorted. Yet Ernie had seen enough to make his accusation.

Or had he? Ben’s thoughts cleared. It seemed Ernie had a knack for creating trouble. That’s all it was. No need to get fussed about it.

At the second last wagon, a man signaled for Ben to ride closer. “My missus says her mixing bowl is gone.”

Ben had heard such statements before. “Did she leave it behind?”

“Not my missus. Someone’s taken it.”

More suggestion that there was a thief in their midst. “It’s easy to lose things in the hustle of moving every day.”

“I suppose so.” The man seemed ready to accept it was lost. Ben didn’t like to think otherwise. He thought of the bank robbery back in Independence but there was no reason to think that person was in the wagon train.

He rode up the column. Many of the women and children walked beside the wagons, far enough away to avoid the dust.

He reached the Hewitt wagon. Emma drove it. He glimpsed Rachel walking in a group of women. Sally Littleton was there, too, carrying little Johnny. She must get weary. She’d tried to carry him in a sling but he’d protested so loudly she’d abandoned the idea.

A familiar figure appeared at Sally’s side. Abby. Her bonnet hid her face but he knew her from the way she walked, the way she tilted her head as she talked then she turned to Sally and Ben saw her profile. She smiled at the other woman and held out her arms, offering to take Johnny.

The way Sally’s shoulders sagged as she released her baby to Abby’s arms indicated how tired she had grown.

Ben smiled and his heart warmed. These women would soon learn to work together in peace. He dismounted and tied the horse to the back of the wagon then trotted up to the front and swung up beside Emma. “I’ll drive for a while. Why don’t you join the other ladies?”

“Thanks.” Emma barely finished the word before she jumped down.

He grinned as he guided the oxen along. The view was pleasant from up there. Abby did a funny little jiggling walk as she bounced the baby. Her skirt swung from side to side in a way that made her appear almost fluid. The baby caught at her bonnet strings and loosened them allowing it to fall back on her head. Her hair turned golden in the sun. She laughed at little Johnny’s antics.

He couldn’t hear the sound of her laughter but knew it by heart. Clear and musical as ringing bells. He jerked his attention to the heavy-hipped animals before him. Clumsy looking but they were suited to their task.

And he was suited to his. Just as Abby was suited to hers. He, a simple man. She, a beautiful woman who belonged in a fine parlor surrounded by things money could buy.

Against his better judgment he stole another glance at her. She seemed perfectly at ease with the child.

His heart twisted within him at the realization of why she was good with the baby. If she’d had her own and lost them.

Thankfully no one was about to see him flinch.


Chapter Five (#ulink_5f28e4f0-32f7-518d-945d-29c6d0006453)

Abby’s arms soon grew weary of carrying little Johnny. He wouldn’t settle. But then he hadn’t settled for his mama, either, and her arms must be four times as sore as Abby’s. Poor little boy was upset about so much change and no doubt suffered pain because of the injury to his side.

Over and over Sally thanked God it wasn’t worse. “Just a flesh wound,” she said.

“Poor Johnny doesn’t know he’s fortunate. All he knows is he’s hurt.” Abby jiggled the baby up and down on her hip. The least she could do was give Sally a break.

Sally had tried to settle him in the wagon, but he refused to let her put him down, and Sally said she got tired of bouncing around.

Emma had joined the others walking along the trail. Rachel was still among the group. That meant—Abby glanced over her shoulder—yes, Ben sat on the seat of their wagon.

And he watched her.

She jerked her head round to face forward. She must be imagining it. Just a trick of the light.

She would not look again though her neck creaked at the effort it cost her.

A horse and rider rode toward them. “We’ll be nooning here,” the man called.

Thank goodness.

The wagons stopped. The oxen were loosed to graze. The men carried water to them as the women quickly prepared the meal.

Rachel brought out the beans she’d prepared the day before. Sally had leftover biscuits. Emma fetched enough wood to build a small fire to make coffee.

Determined to do her share, Abby added dried apples to the offerings. Yes, she might have thought to make them into a pie the night before. Except she didn’t know how to make a pie. Or she might have stewed them.

Watching the others gave her an idea. They used an endless supply of biscuits and bread. Tonight she’d bake up a large batch of biscuits so there would be some for tomorrow.

The men ate and stretched out on the ground and were instantly asleep. Sally nursed Johnny and he settled into her arms for a nap. She laid him on a blanket in the shade and when he didn’t stir, she joined the others to clean up.

Abby stopped her. “Why don’t you rest with him? I’ll do your chores for you.”

“That’s a good idea,” Emma added. “You need to preserve your energy so you can take care of Johnny.”

“Thank you.” Sally squeezed Abby’s hands and stretched out beside the sleeping baby. Soon her gentle snores joined the louder ones of her husband and Abby’s father.

Abby stole a glance at Ben lying in the shade of their wagon, his hat pulled over his face. She didn’t hear snores from Ben’s direction. Did that mean he wasn’t asleep? His hat tipped to one side. Was he watching her? Them—she corrected.

Her cheeks grew warmer than they’d been a moment ago. One thought cooled them in an instant. They were no longer children. Both were wiser, more cautious. At least she suspected he would be. She certainly was. In Oregon, she’d find her freedom—from men, from her mother...could she possibly ever be free from her promise?

Father God, provide a way. Please.

Mother rose slowly and marched away. Abby watched her, noting she moved stiffly. Walking would do her good.

She helped Emma and Rachel clean up from the meal, well aware that Rachel sent a frown in Mother’s direction.

“I’m sorry,” Abby murmured. “Mother has no idea how to help.”

Rachel’s reply was short. “She might have to learn.”

Abby shrugged. “I don’t mind doing her share.” If she wasn’t mistaken, Rachel rolled her eyes before she reached for the last pot to put away.

Yes, Abby had neglected to do her share earlier, let alone Mother’s, but she didn’t intend for it to happen again.

They were soon on their way. Abby’s feet hurt but she would not complain. She went to their wagon. “I’d like to ride for a while. Father, why don’t I drive the oxen and you can walk?”

Mother sat upright on the seat, her face pinched.

Father climbed down. “I’ll walk beside the beasts.”

Abby understood it was to ensure they continued in the right direction, but she didn’t mind. To be honest, the big animals made her mouth go dry.

Within minutes she understood why Mother looked as if she were in constant pain. The wagon jerked and jolted causing the wooden bench to constantly whap Abby’s rear. Even with a quilt folded for them to sit on, her bottom hurt almost as much as her feet and her neck ached. How were they going to endure two thousand miles of this? Perhaps Mother was right. The Binghams were too soft for such a challenging journey.

Abby’s spine stiffened. Her chin jutted out. Bingham or Black. Rich or poor. She meant to finish this trip. She meant to survive. More than that, she would become strong and capable, because at the end, she saw nothing but freedom. She nodded at the big ox. Liberty was his name. Liberty was her aim.

With every jolt of the long afternoon, her determination grew. When they approached the stopping place, she changed places with Father so he could guide the wagon into the circle.

And if every bone in her body protested, she ignored them. She had things to do. Even before the animals had been set free to graze, she set out to get firewood and returned with an armload in double-quick time. Others had done the same thing so likely no one took note of her actions.

It didn’t matter. She had proved to herself she was capable of one thing. Now she meant to prove another and measured out floor, lard and milk. She rolled the dough on the little table Martin set out.

She squinted at the slab of dough. “What is that?” Black dots. She picked one out.

Sally and Emma bent over the dough.

“Did you sift the flour?” Sally asked softly.

“No, I was in hurry.”

Sally chuckled. “Sometimes it doesn’t pay to be in a hurry. I’m afraid a mouse has been into your flour. Those are mice droppings.”

Abby stepped back in horror. “Mice. We’ll have to toss out all the flour.”

Emma shook her head. “You can sift it out. And likely it’s only in one corner. I’ll have a look if you like.”

Rachel grinned so wide it was a wonder her face didn’t crack.

Abby bit back the angry words rushing to her mouth. She grabbed the dough and hurried outside the circled wagons. She reached some bushes and shoved the dough into the branches. Let some hungry animal eat it. Maybe some mice. Let them choke on their own droppings.

She fell on her knees, her breath coming in gasps. Why, oh, why was she so inept?

After a moment, her breathing calmed, although her mind continued to twist and turn. She pushed to her feet and headed back to the camp. This little setback would not deter her. She would learn.

As she approached the wagons, she heard her name and paused to listen. The voice was Rachel’s.

“Imagine wasting all those supplies.”

Abby edged forward trying to see who Rachel talked to.

Then a man spoke. “Give her a chance.”

Ben. She pressed her hand to her throat. She’d know his voice anywhere. He sounded weary. Weary of her failures? She closed her eyes. Lord, help me. Help me learn what I need to do. Most of all, give me strength to see Ben every day and not be filled with regret at what might have been.

Again she reminded herself that what might have been was a romantic dream. Never again would she trust a man enough to give him the right to own her.

She calmed her heart knowing she didn’t make this journey alone. Yes, she had her parents. But she also had God. He’d been her strength and solid rock of refuge for many years. In fact, she remembered clearly when she’d learned to love Him so.

Not ready to rejoin the others, she leaned against the nearest wagon wheel and let her memories flow. It was at special meetings held in the school. There she also had met Ben. She’d seen him before, but their paths seldom passed until then.

An itinerant preacher held the meetings. He delivered a challenge to the young people to become soldiers of the cross. How his words had fired her soul with resolve. He said as soldiers they needed to prepare for battle and gave such practical steps, each of them relating to soldiers. One of the steps was to learn to wield your sword with skill. There had been a list of Bible verses he’d challenged them to memorize. And apply with your heart. She had turned to the young man beside her and said she intended to do exactly that. That was Ben and he said he did, too. They’d spent hours together drilling each other on the list of verses. They had been some of the most pleasant times in her life.

She might have given up her chance to see where her relationship with Ben would go but she would never regret the time they’d spent learning the verses. Again and again, they had been her comfort, especially Isaiah 43:2. “When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.”

She’d been through many troubled waters and found God’s supply sufficient.

Lifting her head, she looked about her. No water here, just land and lots of it. God would be with her here, too.

A smile on her lips, she stepped back into the circle and went to the fire. “I’m sorry I messed that up. Now tell me what to do to help.”

Emma patted her back. “Let’s just say that’s a lesson you won’t have to learn again.”

Abby laughed. “No. Once is enough for me, thank you very much. My intention had been to bake enough biscuits for tonight and tomorrow. Can I try again?”

Sally and Emma both nodded. “By all means.”

Sally added, “I have a loaf of batter bread baking at the moment. Why not do the biscuits after supper?”

Rachel hung back, her eyes guarded, her expression watchful.

Abby allowed herself one quick glance at Ben, but his attention was on something across the circle.

Well, better disinterest than outright displeasure.

* * *

Once is enough for me.

Abby’s words echoed through Ben’s head. He needed to brand them on the surface of his brain. He’d been hurt by Abby’s unfaithfulness once. Once was enough for him.

He’d seen the shock and hurt on her face when she discovered the droppings in the biscuit dough. When she’d rushed from the camp bearing the ruined dough he’d wanted to follow and assure her it wasn’t the end of the world. Rachel had stopped him.

“Why do you jump to her aid all the time? You know what will happen when she no longer needs your help.” Rachel wasn’t about to let him forget that Abby had broken off their relationship. And broken his heart in the process.

Although he knew she spoke only out of concern for his well-being, he had to choke back words of protest. After all, he was a big boy now. He could take care of himself. He’d glanced after Abby, but didn’t follow her. Why would he seek to have his scarred heart torn again? Not that Rachel meant to let that happen. She could be very persistent.

Abby returned, a smile upon her lips, and went immediately to Sally and Emma and asked to try again. Her voice revealed nothing but contrite sweetness.

Ben had expected her to be upset. This serenity flummoxed him. He didn’t want to look at her but he couldn’t stop himself.

She hummed as she helped serve the meal.

When Martin asked the blessing, Ben peeked from under his lashes and stole a look at Abby.

His eyelids jerked up at her posture. She sat on the ground like everyone except her mother. Her hands lay open in her lap, palms upward as if she waited for a gift. Her head was bowed and yet from what he could see of her face he thought she about overflowed with peace.

How could that be? She’d lost her husband and for all he knew, a child or children. She struggled to cope with the chores and trials of this journey and her mother never stopped complaining and yet he knew he was right. All those things had not robbed her of her source of joy.

He recalled the Bible verses they had memorized together and how she vowed to apply them to her life. When she’d chosen to marry a man richer than Ben, he’d decided her determination to live those verses had been as false as her words about caring for him. Perhaps he’d been wrong.

He closed his eyes and added a silent prayer to Martin’s. Lord, she’s reminded me that my strength and joy are in You. Help me keep sight of that and forget the petty, confusing things going on about me. He meant a number of things—Ernie Jones, Mrs. Bingham’s litany of complaints, but mostly, he meant his confused feelings regarding Abby. He didn’t trust her and never would, yet the memories of the times they’d spent together were rich with sweetness and joy which he wished he could deny.

One thing he wouldn’t deny, he was grateful for her reminder to trust God more fully.

She carried a plate of food to her mother.

“I feel dirty all over,” the woman whined. “I simply can’t do this.” She fluttered her hands.

Ben couldn’t tell if she meant to include present company or present circumstances but likely both.

Abby smoothed her mother’s hair. “Have you forgotten you’re a Bingham? Binghams don’t let circumstances dictate their behavior.”

Beside Ben, Rachel gave a tiny snort.

But the words had the effect Abby no doubt desired and her mother sat up so straight Ben wouldn’t have been surprised to see an iron rod along her spine.

“I’ll do my best.”

Ben released a sigh of relief and heard the others do so, as well. If she would simply accept the circumstances and stop her complaining life would be more pleasant for all of them—herself included.

Abby returned to her spot by her father.

Little Johnny wailed. The child had proven inconsolable all day.

Ben glanced at Emma and they shared their silent concern. It didn’t seem normal for the child to be so fussy especially given that both Sally and Martin said it wasn’t usual. But then he’d been shot. Ben never had been, so couldn’t say how much a flesh wound hurt.

“His wound must be paining him something awful,” Emma said. “After supper I’ll put something on that might relieve his pain.”

“I’d so appreciate it,” Sally said, her voice weary.

Over supper, conversation turned to plans for the morrow and various concerns about the animals and the wagons. The meal ended and the women set to work cleaning up.

Martin took Johnny and tried to comfort him while Mr. Bingham set up his tent then helped his wife to it. Seems she meant to retire early. This trip would tax her strength and adaptability.

The animals were grazing under the supervision of others and it wasn’t Ben’s turn to keep watch though he wondered if he should walk about watching for anything that could lead to trouble. But for a few moments, he’d relax and he lounged back against the rear wheel of his wagon.

Abby measured out flour for another batch of biscuits. She examined the sack of flour carefully then spoke to Sally. “You were right. Only one corner seems to be affected. The rest is okay.” She carried the unusable flour outside the camp and disposed of it.

As she worked, she chatted cheerfully with the women. Soon she had Sally and Emma chuckling over some comment.

Ben thought of edging closer so he could share the joke but decided against it. He had no interest in what she said or did.

She rolled the biscuit dough in fluid movements. But then, as he recalled, she’d always had a graceful way about her that made him think of flowers swaying in a gentle breeze.

A picture flashed into his mind. One he’d tried to erase so many times because it made his heart contract with regret and bitterness.

They’d been on a picnic with a group of young people, chaperoned by the pastor and his wife. They’d spread their lunch on a red-checkered cloth in a grassy field outside of town. All around them were blue and red and pink and white wildflowers. Nearby, a lark sat on a branch and sang.





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