Leaving Independence (4 page)

Rascal peed on the floor.

Corrine thumped her younger brother on the head. “You were supposed to take him out an hour ago, Jacob.”

From where he sat hunched over a newspaper with Charlie, Jacob rubbed his head and called, “Mimi! Come clean this up.”

Abigail, who was folding clothes into a trunk nearby, turned, grabbed Jacob’s arm, sailed him back to her bedroom, grabbed his father’s old belt, and held it under his nose. “If you ever speak to Mimi that way again, I will have your hide, do you understand me? That woman loves you as much as I do. She was present for your birth and has fed you and cared for you every day of your life. You will respect her for it!”

For the first time in his nine years, Jacob went mute.

Abigail released him and took a deep breath. She resisted the urge to smooth his hair. Jacob’s hair was darkest of the Baldwyns and stayed as unruly as his spirit. But he wasn’t mean-tempered, and Abigail knew it.

When Mimi came into the room he threw his arms around her legs. “Don’t clean it up, Mimi. I will. I’m sorry.”

“You’re all right, Jacob. Corrine done took care of it.” When he left, Mimi turned to Abigail. “What was that all about?”

Surprised as anyone by her reaction, Abigail sat on the bed and stared at the belt in her hands. “He shouldn’t have said that to you.”

“I appreciate you sticking up for me, but what’s really bothering you?”

There were too many threads of fear to name just one, and she had let them grow fatter than she realized. “I guess I’m feeling the weight of what lies in front of me.”

Mimi sat down beside her. “Which part scares you the most?”

Abigail shook her head. “That he won’t want us. That I smothered every ounce of love he had for us when he left . . . when we fought.”

“That letter didn’t sound to me like his admiration for you was smothered. Didn’t he say come join him?”

“Why would he not want me to bring the children, Mimi? Did I do something to make him stop loving them?”

“No!” Mimi shooed the thought away. “Maybe he’s ashamed, Miz Abigail, and knows he’ll have trouble looking them in the eye. But if there is any woman who can help a man find hisself again, it’s you. Devil’s going to make you doubt this decision. That’s his job.”

“He’s good at it.”

“He’s had lots of practice.”

“How do you not hate us, Mimi? How do you not hate me?”

Mimi turned Abigail’s hand over and opened hers beside it . . . pink and pale on the inside. “I could never hate you, Abigail Baldwyn. You didn’t set up the way of things.”

Abigail clasped Mimi’s hand in both of hers. “You don’t have to come with us. You’re free to make your own choices.”

“I know. You told me every year on my birthday since you and Mr. Robert married.”

“I wish you’d take your freedom papers. I know you don’t need them anymore, but Robert wanted you to have them. He wanted you to know that no one owned you.”

“That ain’t true. Lord owns me just like He owns you.”

Abigail looked deep into Mimi’s eyes. “I need to know you’re not coming out of obligation. This is a chance for you to—”

“You got mighty big burdens on your shoulders, Miz Abigail. Don’t let me be one of them.”

Tears pooled in Abigail’s eyes. “Corrine thinks I’m making a mistake. If it doesn’t turn out well, I’ll have her blame.”

“You’ll have her blame no matter what. She’s fifteen years old. Don’t you worry about Miss Corrine . . . me and Lina can handle her. She’ll come around.”

But Mimi didn’t handle Corrine like she promised.

The day before departure, Arlon showed up at the house. Annie B had fallen ill. Arlon was desperate for Mimi to come to them.

Blood proved thicker than love.

“I have to go to her, Miz Abigail. Everybody else is up north, and you know Arlon’s never asked me for a thing before.”

Abigail couldn’t begrudge Arlon his request. Hadn’t he walked through soldier-infested hillsides to till her garden the past four springs? Hadn’t Abigail herself encouraged Mimi not to forfeit her own independence just because she thought the Baldwyns needed her? Still, Abigail couldn’t fathom a future without Mimi’s brown eyes and good sense. Impending doom seeped into her veins and swam straight to her heart. Suddenly sure she was making a horrible mistake, Abigail felt powerless now to stop the chain of events that had been set into motion.

As Abigail hugged Mimi one last time before she climbed onto the buckboard to leave with Arlon, Abigail whispered in Mimi’s ear, “Am I doing the right thing?”

“Yes, ma’am, you doin’ the right thing. I know it in my bones, Miz Abigail. The Lord, He whisper it to me. I couldn’t let you go otherwise.”

It gave Abigail hope because Mimi wasn’t one to stretch or alter what the Lord said.

“I’m only sorry I won’t see with my own eyes how much these children are goin’ to grow up out there. ’Specially this little miracle baby.” Mimi folded herself over and smothered Lina to her.

Laying herself across Mimi’s bent back, Abigail breathed deep, trying to memorize every inch of her. “You smell like cinnamon,” she whispered. Then frowning suddenly, she said, “You should have made me learn to cook.”

“You know, I’m sorry about that.” Mimi straightened up. “Maybe you can trade off sewing with some of them other ladies for cooking. Or get Corrine there working the stove.” Corrine rolled her eyes at the mention of her name. “That’s right. I know you heard me. And I know how much you been helpin’ me in the kitchen, too. You know what to do. And you better be helpin’ your mama. If I hear otherwise, I’ll be chasin’ down that wagon comin’ after you. You hear me?”

Lina smiled up at her. Mimi had never laid an angry hand on the children.

“You got mighty fine”—Mimi had to shake her head twice to get the words out—“mighty fine children. I can say that since I helped raise ’em. And I love ’em like they was my own. My very own.” Mimi didn’t look down at Lina again, fat tears welling in her eyes.

Charlie, Corrine, and Jacob each hugged her tightly, then stood awkwardly by, the boys trying not to cry, Corrine shaking her head, still unhappy with Abigail’s decision.

CHAPTER 3

The sudden click of heels

Come join me in Idaho Territory. I like it here
. . .

He had chuckled when he wrote it, and chuckled again when he retold it to Bonnie as he buttoned his jacket, getting dressed to leave the cabin.

She had a small cracked mirror and had held it up so he could see if his waist sash was even, but now she lowered it, alarmed. “What if she comes out here?”

“Some chance. Abigail is too fine to travel out here. And she’d never leave her children. Hold that straight, Bonnie.”

She complied. That was why he put up with her and the squalor of this cabin—she complied.

“
Her
children? Ain’t you Robert Baldwyn? Don’t that make ’em both y’all’s children?”

He frowned as he polished his sword handle with his sleeve. “I suppose it does.”

“How many are there?”

He leaned in to check his beard. “How many what?”

“Children!”

He straightened and looked out the window. “I forget exactly. Three or four.”

They arrived by boat in Independence, Abigail’s nerves pinging like the sounds of Reconstruction. The air was ripped with the sounds of sawing, men hawing horse teams, and the clangs of metal hitting iron. Not one face that passed by on the riverbank was familiar. After they’d disembarked, Abigail stood on the boat dock and clutched Lina’s hand, wondering what to do.

She was just before putting them back on the boat to Tennessee when the riverboat captain’s wife put her hand on Abigail’s shoulder and shouted, “Percy!” to a man in a wagon. “Get over here!” Then to Abigail, “Percy can haul you over to Mrs. Helton’s. She’s particular about who stays with her, but she’ll take you.”

Charlie and Jacob helped the man load the heavy trunks, then lifted Rascal and their sisters into the wagon bed. Abigail didn’t flinch when Percy offered a grime-caked hand as she climbed onto the wagon seat, but her heart did lurch with a sickening thud. What was she doing? Loading her children and all their earthly possessions in the back of an unsavory man’s wagon?

“That there is Cannon Hill,” he said loudly as they jostled under the branches of oaks and maples past homes and storefronts. The symphony of Reconstruction grew louder as they neared the heart of town. “That’s where the Northers loaded up their cannons couple years back when the second battle swept through.” He nodded his head. “That boardin’house there took some bullets, see ’em?” He pointed to a nearby house with chipped bricks, and Jacob’s eyes grew big. “But lucky fer her, Mrs. Dandy’s place is over yonder.”

“I thought her name was Mrs. Helton,” said Corrine.

Abigail turned to give Corrine a look of warning, being well familiar with her oldest daughter’s sharp tongue.

“Yeah, I reckon it is. But she’s uppity. You’uns ain’t uppity, air ya?” He laughed and raked his eyes over Abigail, who fought the urge to scoot farther away from him on the wagon seat.

When they arrived at the boardinghouse, Mrs. Helton, an elegant woman with a neat gray bun, was busy cooking dinner. “Room five at the top of the stairs is the biggest one I have right now.” She flipped a key off a hook. “The boys’ll have to sleep on the floor.” Her eyes paused on Charlie. “How old are you, son?”

“Sixteen.” He stood straighter. “Almost seventeen.”

“Is that right?” She looked down at Rascal. “He’ll have to stay out back. Here’s the key to your room. I run a tight house and do my best to keep out the rabble.” She looked out a window at Percy as he drove away. “But you’ll want your door locked. You never know about folks around here.”

Abigail insisted the children change from their travel clothes for dinner. A family of Irish children—whose mother had not made them change from their travel clothes—eyed them as they came to the table. Charlie and Corrine exchanged glances.

A large, dusty man asked Jacob, “What are you all duded up for, son? Y’all just bury your pa? Look like you been to a funeral.”

“No, sir. We’re here to join a wagon train. We’re going to Fort Hall to find our pa.”

Abigail put her hand on Jacob’s shoulder. “I’m sure the gentleman doesn’t care to know our plans.”

Mrs. Helton watched them, her gaze often resting on Charlie. She, too, had changed for dinner and sat as hostess at the head of the table. When the other guests dispersed after dinner and the children went to check on Rascal, Mrs. Helton invited Abigail to the parlor for tea.

“You’ve got mighty nice children,” she said, eyeing Abigail over her porcelain cup and saucer. “Are you sure you want to take them west of here?”

Abigail wondered what had brought Mrs. Helton to Independence. She was more refined than most of the town Abigail had seen so far. “I can’t remember the last time I felt sure of anything.”

“I’ve seen a lot of folks heading down the trail, Mrs. Baldwyn. You and your family don’t fit the normal mold. I’m curious . . . why are you here?”

Luckily the children came in just then and Abigail had an excuse to avoid answering. But the woman’s question lingered.
Why are you here?
Abigail wished she knew the answer. She wished she felt more confident in her decision to come to Independence.

Later, as she lay with Lina nestled in the crook of her arm, Mrs. Helton’s words continued to pick the scabs off her fears. Everything around them felt so raw. All that was familiar, like the eastern shore of the Mississippi, had slipped away.

A soft knock brought her tiptoeing to the door. When she opened it, Mrs. Helton handed her Rascal.

“Here. He won’t stop whining. Don’t let him pee on the floor.”

Hoke’s soul hadn’t quieted. Two weeks he’d been back in Independence and while he leaned casually enough against a post outside Granberry’s Café listening to Colonel George Dotson and Gerald Jenkins talk about their plans to travel the Oregon Trail, his dark eyes combed the sidewalks as if the answer to his restlessness were still somewhere moving along the planks.

“It’s God’s providence you happen to be in Independence, Hoke,” said Dotson. “We could use a man like you. There are quite a few eastern folks on this trip.”

Hoke knew both men by reputation. Jenkins had owned a hotel in the East and Dotson, a native Missourian, had been a Union officer. Men who served under Colonel Dotson swore by his leadership and his character. Hoke looked Dotson in the eye. “I don’t have plans to settle that far west.”

“Who says you have to settle?”

“Settling’s not required,” added Jenkins with a grin. “You can head down to California or come right back along the trail. Oregon leads to anywhere.”

These were good men. Hoke would hate to hear about them having trouble. “Heard there were some problems on the Bozeman.”

“That’s north of Laramie,” said Dotson. “Things have been quiet on the Oregon. The Indians mostly just pester the soldiers at the forts. It’s more likely white men could give us trouble. You’d be a welcome addition.”

“What brings you to Independence, Hoke?” Gerald Jenkins was married to Colonel Dotson’s wife’s sister. He was short like her—not as bubbly, but he wore a constant grin.

What brings you to Independence, Hoke?
Jenkins’s question echoed and clanged in his head.

“James Parker and I rounded up a herd in Texas. Broke ’em and brought ’em up. I already sold some stock to your group—to an old man from Boston and a young doctor.”

Dotson grinned. “Careful now, that old man is my age.”

“We’ve got some good folks going on this trip.” Jenkins leaned in. “Several single women.”

Hoke’s eyes swept the sidewalks again. “James and I have our eye on another herd in southern Kansas.” They had seen it while coming up from Texas. Add the sales of that one to the horses they’d already sold and Hoke would have more than enough to set up his own ranch . . . if ranching was the answer to what was making him restless.

He didn’t like the feel of restlessness. Jenkins’s question gnawed at him . . .
What brings you to Independence, Hoke?

Hoke wished to God he knew.

He turned back to Dotson. “Be a long time to be tied up. Take you what, five months?” That herd in Kansas wasn’t going to sit and wait on him.

Dotson nodded. “We pull out Tuesday.”

That was early. Most trains wouldn’t leave for another three or four weeks. Hoke was flattered Dotson had approached him.

“I’m determined to get down the trail first,” continued Dotson. “We’ve got a good stock of supplies—got a blacksmith going—several families planning to open businesses. A few of these folks will split after the divide and go down the California to pan for gold, but most of them want to settle a town, complete with a newspaper and a preacher for the church.”

Hoke raised his eyebrows. “You got a preacher on this trip?”

“That’s right.” Jenkins’s eyes were jolly. “And several single ladies, like I said before. If you see someone you like, you don’t even have to depend on the colonel here to marry you.”

The sudden click of heels on the wooden slats of the sidewalk caused all three men to turn and look toward the south end of the street. An attractive woman wearing a stylish tweed suit and brown hat approached. She was taller than most women, graceful and fair.

Jenkins jabbed Hoke with his elbow. “There’s a pretty lady now.”

Hoke shot him a sideways smirk. The paternal nature of these men appealed to him.

“Is one of you Colonel George Dotson?” asked the woman.

Dotson put out his hand. “I am.”

“My name is Abigail Baldwyn.” She took his hand and smiled. “I’m interested in joining your wagon train. I understand you’re leaving next week?”

“Yes, ma’am. And we’re still taking good folks. Trying to talk Hoke here into going.” He indicated Hoke with a nod.

She smiled over at Hoke, then turned back to Dotson.

Something was troubling her. Hoke felt it and wondered what it was. She was a nice-looking woman—a woman wearing an expensive outfit and well-made boots, from what he could see of them poking out from under that long tweed skirt. A man could tell a lot about another man’s station in life by his footwear. Or a woman’s.

“I’d like to ask you some questions before I make a final decision,” said Abigail to Dotson. “But if everything I hear about you is true, we want to sign on—me and my children—as far as Fort Hall.”

Hoke’s eyes rested on her face. She sounded Southern, but not country Southern—refined, educated, well-bred Southern.

He didn’t see a lot of refined women in the western towns where he’d spent the better part of his life. He didn’t see a lot of women with blond hair and blue eyes, either. Like most trail-riding men, he’d developed a heightened sense of smell. Lavender . . . she smelled like lavender. He’d smelled it in a shop once, and once was all it ever took for Hoke.

It suited her.

“Would you like to step into the eatery here and discuss the details?” Dotson motioned Abigail toward the café. “Mrs. Granberry makes the best rolls you ever tasted. Hoke, will you join us?”

“Thank you, no. Better get back to the stables.” Hoke pushed himself off the post and smoothed his dark hair back before placing the hat on his head. “Good luck, ma’am.” He nodded. “If you’re in the market for horses, come see me.”

“I’ll take twelve. Your twelve best.”

Hoke stopped. “That’s a lot of horses.” And his best wouldn’t come cheap. She looked like she could afford it with her fancy clothes and well-made boots, but . . . what would a stylish woman with money be traveling out west for?

“I plan to get two wagons, four horses for each, and a fresh team to rotate as needed or to double up on steep inclines. I intend to treat my horses well.”

“You’ll need at least six on a team. Some folks like oxen better. They’re cheaper to feed, strong, hardly ever run off, and Indians don’t try to steal ’em.”

Her brow twisted. It was a unique gesture. One eyebrow arched up and the other angled down, causing a pleasing little curve in her forehead. “I thought you had horses. Why are you trying to talk me into oxen?”

“I’m not. I just thought you should know that a lot of folks use oxen to pull the teams.” Damn woman! What was she being hardheaded about?

She smiled. “I can’t ride oxen.”