Leaving Independence (6 page)

“Your ‘help’?”

“Our slaves. My mother always called them our help. Listen, are you going to be upset with me if I change my mind and decide to use mules instead?”

“No.”

“You’re sure? Because I told you I’d buy twelve horses. If I get mules from someone else, I’ll only be able to afford a couple of your horses. I hate to have misled you on a sale if you were counting on it.”

“I’ve got mules for you.”

“You do?”

“Um-hum. I had a feeling you’d come around, so I went ahead and traded for some mules. Heard you changed your mind on the wagons—and even had some smart ideas on how to prepare your wagons—so I was betting on you wising up to this.”

“But you said you put the twelve best horses in a separate corral for us!”

Hoke grinned and took the hickory stick out of his mouth. “I never said they were horses.”

CHAPTER 6

Twenty-dollar gold pieces

Hoke led Abigail and Charlie around the side of a barn to another corral. Two harnessed teams of mules stood at one end and two horses at the other. All of them were big, strong beauties. Neither Abigail nor Charlie was going to argue about the selection.

Reaching for the muzzle of a large gray dun, Abigail ran her hand over it, then looked at his teeth. He was young and healthy.

Stooping down, she eased herself through the fence railing so she could feel his back flank and lift his foot. His hooves were filed and clean, his coat brushed and gleaming. These animals showed every sign of being cared for—excellently cared for. She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a sugar cube, holding it out for the dun.

Hoke leaned on the railing. “I see you came prepared to make friends with my horses.”

“Just the ones that are soon to be
my
horses.” Abigail smiled broadly, then scowled. “But now I wonder if I can afford them.”

“How much were you expectin’ to pay?”

Abigail leaned her back to the railing so she could look at what she was buying. These mules put Arlon’s Bess to shame. Their long ears flicked at gnats and the sound of Hoke’s voice—a voice they apparently found comforting, given the way they kept watching him and gravitating toward him. Her brother Seth used to have that effect on animals . . . Seth used to smell like horse sweat, too.

“During the war, the price of a good horse rose to over a hundred dollars. But they’re only about half that now, right? I know oxen are cheaper and less expensive to feed, but I don’t know anything about oxen.” Craning her head back, she asked, “What about mules? Is their cost comparable with horses?”

“The price of anything, mules and horses included, is what the buyer and seller agree on,” he said softly. “Tell me what you were expectin’ to pay, and I’ll tell you if I can live with it.”

Abigail swung her head over to Charlie. She had expected Hoke to name his price. Was it foolish to tell him how much she had to spend? Would he take advantage of her because she was a woman and he wouldn’t expect her to have any sense?

On Charlie’s nod she looked back to Hoke. “I was hoping to get twelve good horses for six hundred. This is twelve mules plus two horses, and honestly, their quality is better than I had anticipated. I’m sure you can get a lot more than six hundred dollars for what’s standing in this corral.”

“I can.” Hoke nodded. “But what’s standin’ in this corral hasn’t cost me six hundred, so I’d come out ahead.”

Hoke wondered if Abigail Baldwyn knew how lovely she was, and whether she was in the habit of batting those heavy-lashed eyes at men in the hope they would work something out for her. That McConnelly woman’s voice yesterday had been laced with mockery.
Were you coming to my rescue?

There was no question that Irene McConnelly used her looks for gain. Was this Baldwyn woman doing the same? And if she had a husband, why wasn’t he making this horse deal?

Hoke couldn’t really lose. He had traded horses for the mules, and the horses had been waiting for him in a little valley northwest of Washita, but . . . damn if he could think straight.

“I wouldn’t feel right giving you less than seven,” said Abigail. “And I’d still feel beholden to you.”

Hoke looked down at the ground. “Charlie, does your mother have a surplus of money she’s tryin’ to get rid of?”

Charlie laughed. “No, sir. But you know she’s right about the value of these mules and horses. You’re still selling low to us at seven.”

Hoke looked back up at Abigail. “Would you feel better payin’ eight?”

She grinned. “I can live with seven if you can.”

He moved to open the gate for her, but she slipped back through the fence railing before he could get to it. Hoke prided himself on his ability to get in the heads of most creatures, but women . . . women were a mystery. It had been a long time since he’d felt anything like peace around one.

“I’ll bring ’em to you Monday at the jumping-off spot.”

She laid a blue crocheted bag, heavy with twenty-dollar gold pieces, in his hand. He followed her eyes as they etched the outlines of his fingers.

They walked past the open door of the barn. Abigail stopped and pointed. “Whose horses are those?”

“Those aren’t for sale. They’re mine.”

“Do you mind if I look?” She walked toward the black stallion in one stall, then the white filly in the other. “She’s beautiful,” crooned Abigail, stroking the filly’s nose.

Hoke would have been irritated had he not liked watching her. Charlie showed respect for his mother, which told Hoke the husband had respected her, too.

“Are you sure you won’t sell me
her
, Mr. Hoke, instead of the gray?”

“I’m sure. But I’ll let you ride her sometime.”

“I’d love to, but I leave on Tuesday.”

“It’s a two-thousand-mile trip. I expect there’ll be a few chances between now and September.”

Her eyes got big. “You’re going?”

“I am.”

“Oh.”

She turned back to the filly but not before he caught the upturn of her lips. Was she hiding her smile from him or the boy? Charlie was several feet away now, admiring the stallion.

“What do you call him?” Charlie asked Hoke.

Hoke stuck the hickory stick back in his lips and took a final measured look at Abigail Baldwyn.

“My horse.”

“George Dotson’s been after me to join his wagon train,” Hoke told James later that day. “I believe I’ll do it.”

“How come?”

Hoke shook his head. “I don’t know. Branson offered me a job here.”

“I’m surprised at you joining Dotson’s train then.”

“Me, too.”

Hoke and James had talked about a lot of things in their years of evenings around a campfire but had never once discussed long-range plans. They’d just kept riding together, tackling one job at a time, one town at a time.

When Independence first lured him back, Hoke had thought it must be time to settle. Branson’s offer should have felt like a sign of affirmation. But ever since he’d heard the sound of her boots clicking toward him on the boardwalk and looked up, all he could think of was the way sunlight glinted off Abigail Baldwyn’s hair.

James looked at him a long minute before slapping his hands together. “We better go, then. When you start making decisions you can’t explain, things always get interesting.”

Relief washed through Hoke to know James was open to the idea. There was his affirmation. Men he wanted to keep riding with didn’t often come along. “You think you can be around people that long?”

“I can—but I don’t know if
you
can. How long will it be?”

“’Bout five months.”

James clapped Hoke on the shoulder. “You can probably tolerate people for five months.”

Later, when Hoke told Dotson that he and James were going, Dotson asked, “What made you change your mind?”

“I don’t know. Just feel like I’m supposed to go.” Even at the risk of disappointing Mr. Branson again, the pull to go was flaming strong in his chest.

Colonel Dotson nodded. “The Baldwyn woman signed on, too . . . her and her four children, as far as Fort Hall. Her husband’s supposed to be a captain out there. But somethin’ . . . somethin’ don’t seem right about it to me. Nobody I’ve asked knows anything about him. I guess we’ll find out.”

“I guess so,” agreed Hoke, not liking to hear she had a husband. But his decision was made—his gut told him to follow the scent of lavender.

April 9, 1866

Dearest Mimi,

Today we leave Mrs. Helton’s boardinghouse. Her home lies within sight of the house of a famous artist, George Bingham, from whose porch one can watch the workings of the town.

In our short time here, I have grown fond of Independence—it’s been both bustling and bittersweet. The folks are less genteel than what we are used to . . . more straightforward and hardworking. I like them very much.

We spend tonight in our wagons and roll out in the morning.

Independence buzzed.

Families moved out of hotels and boardinghouses and loaded supplies on farm wagons to take to the jumping-off spot near the Bingham place. Farmers lined both sides of Main, selling produce.

Even Corrine had trouble containing her excitement as the children helped Abigail buy sacks of potatoes, apples, beans and peas, seeds, and a slip of sweet potatoes for her wagon garden. Mrs. Granberry gave her a dozen strawberry plants and some dahlia bulbs. To Abigail’s joy, she also gave her a small cherry tree that had sprung up the season prior.

Mrs. Helton took a final stroll with the Baldwyns, her arm linked through Charlie’s, which made Jacob smirk. She pointed at the train depot. “The train loops down from Chicago now, but soon it will replace the boats for bringing folks out here. I expect they will build the railroad on out your way before too many years, although if men don’t quit robbing trains, decent folks will be too scared to ride them.”

At the top of a hill they came to a cemetery.

“I came up the Missouri, just like you, fifteen years ago. Was planning to join one of the trains, just like you. But Edward took sick the week we got here.” She pointed to a headstone. “He died a month later. We were staying at the boardinghouse and I just kept staying there. The man who owned the house got shot one night in a saloon fight. He’s around here someplace.” She looked out across the sprawling cemetery.

Abigail noticed fresh flowers on a grave nearby and stepped over to read the name:
Ruby Branson
.

“I get letters back all the time filled with stories about people’s travels and the homes they make . . . who gets married and who has children . . . who loses children.” Mrs. Helton touched Charlie’s cheek. “I lost a baby boy, Charlie. He would have been sixteen. Almost seventeen. And then Edward died before I could have any more.”

Corrine swatted Jacob for his earlier smirk, and Charlie looked sympathetically at his mother. Abigail saw the small headstone for the first time:
Benjamin Helton.

Mrs. Helton, her eyes full, turned to Abigail. “If you get to Idaho Territory and it’s not what you’re expecting, you bring these children back here and run this boardinghouse with me.”

Lina tugged on Abigail’s skirt and pointed. “Look, Ma.” Across the cemetery, a man stood up from where he had just laid flowers on a grave. He turned toward the Baldwyns, smoothing back his hair before putting his hat on.

It was too far away to see him clearly—he was a black silhouette against the waning afternoon, one that turned and quickly faded to a small dot going down the hill.

“Can we go see?” asked Lina.

They walked to the grave and Lina smiled to see the flowers.

“We had jonquils at our home in Tennessee,” explained Abigail to Mrs. Helton before turning back to Lina. “Did you see the flowers on the other grave near Mr. Helton’s? They were jonquils, too.”

Lina shook her head. “Can I have one?” she whispered.

“Let’s not disturb them, Lina. They’re a gift meant to honor someone else.”

Rachel Mathews, Beloved Wife and Mother.
Reading it made the children smile. When Mrs. Helton raised a brow in question, Abigail explained, “Rachel was my mother’s name.”