Leaving Independence (34 page)

“Show me how to wear it,” begged Bridgette.

This started a profusion of gift giving, hug swapping, tears, and promises to write among the women. The children went off to play a final round of hide-and-seek and the men stood by and watched the women, asking each other things like:

“What do you think Peters’s final mile count is going to be?”

“How much did you pay for that team of mules at Laramie?”

“Do you think Beckett’s wheels are going to hold out all the way to Oregon City? He’s got the sorriest wheels on that wagon I ever saw.”

Hoke reached into the pocket of his shirt as he and James sat on their horses in the waning afternoon light. They were on guard duty. “My last two hickory sticks.” He offered one to James. “Looks like I’m going to have to find me a new kind of stem to chew . . . or take up smokin’ after all. I haven’t seen a hickory tree in weeks, have you?”

James shook his head and pointed to a fir tree standing tall, stretching toward a bright moon overhead. “Tried those? That’s a strong wood. Be a good framing wood for a house, don’t you think?”

Hoke nodded. “Yes, I do.”

“You could lay out a big place with wood like that. Speaking of . . . when you planning to lay your feelings on Mrs. Baldwyn?”

“What’s your hurry where that’s concerned?”

“Well, I got to figure out what I’m doing, Hoke, and something tells me you’ll be framing a farmhouse soon.”

“Not a farmhouse—a ranch house.”

“Excuse me, then, a ranch house. God forbid you take up farming. Although if you settle down with Abigail Baldwyn, it looks like you’ll be plantin’ a garden, complete with flowers and cherry trees.”

“Maybe I will. But that’s not farming.”

“When you goin’ to ask her?”

“When I’m ready.” Hoke scowled at him. “When I think she’s ready.”

“She’s ready. Can’t you see that? You’re confusing the hell out of that woman.”

“What makes you think? She tell you her feelings about me, is that it?”

James huffed. “I got eyes, don’t I? I can see she’s crazy about you. I don’t know why, stubborn and set in your ways as you are, but you finally lucked out. It’s not like you to shirk a task.”

Hoke scowled again. “I’m giving her time, James—time to grieve—she never had that. And time to decide what she wants.”

“What about what
you
want?”

“I want what she wants.”

“What if she wants you to be a farmer?”

They swapped grins.

“We’d have to negotiate on that one,” said Hoke. “Why don’t you go on up to Oregon City with Irene, get her off my back? I don’t know why she’s taken a sudden shine to me when you’re the one all smooth with the ladies.”

“Irene’s a looker. But she’s not Mrs. James Parker.”

“Who is?”

“Who knows?” James stroked his beard with his hand. “It’s a mystery yet to be revealed. Michael Chessor and I talked about going back down to Kansas for that herd you and I saw. I thought we could run ’em up here and sell ’em to a local rancher if I knew any. Ranchers in the area, that is.”

“I’ll buy ’em from you. I’ll even put up part of the money on the front end. If I stay here. If I don’t stay in Oregon, I’ll go with you and we’ll find us another rancher to sell ’em to. I thought Chessor was going on to Oregon City chasing that youngest McConnelly.”

“They had a fuss. The oldest Sutler boy may go with us, too, and Bart Peters is thinking about it if his dad’s willing to part with both of ’em.”

“Both of ’em? Orin’s working the store, isn’t he?”

James turned in his saddle to look at Hoke. “Orin’s going to California in the morning.”

“Really? How’d I miss that?”

“I don’t know. It’s been all the talk since Scott’s Bluff.”

“He take up with Ingrid?”

“No, Jocelyn. I swear, Hoke, where you been? Have you not heard about him and Jocelyn? How their hands touched when they were carving names at Chimney Rock? Have you not noticed he quit buzzing around Abigail and took up with the Schroeders?”

James turned back to watching the stock and shook his head. “Orin’s one of those that flits from girl to girl.”

Hoke threw him a sideways smirk. “You’re one to talk.”

“I handle my charm responsibly.”

“You sure about that? Don’t make a young girl like you if you’re just going to ride off and leave her.”

James scowled a full minute, then sighed. “I aim to be back before she hits her prime, if you must know.”

“You better not stay gone long, then. Is that who the bowl’s for?”

James shook his head. “I hate it when you turn out smarter than I give you credit for.”

“Don’t pout about it.”

“I ain’t poutin’. And stop tryin’ to change the subject. We were talking about you, not me. You need to tell Mrs. Baldwyn how you feel about her so you can free both your minds.”

“I don’t know what makes you think you’re an expert on women.”

“Oh, I
know
women, Hoke! I’ve made quite a study of ’em. A man should never leave a woman wondering how he feels about her—that’s a sin in my book. Women are beautiful, complex creatures that need a lot of strokin’. And they’re worth it. You take care of her and she’ll take care of you. Now where have I heard that?”

Hoke reached for his canteen, unscrewed the lid, and took a swig. Then he handed it out to James. “Coffee. You want some?”

James took it and drank deep. Then he wiped a hand across his mouth and continued. “That’s why Mrs. Baldwyn’s so crazy about you. You water her plants.”

He handed the canteen back to Hoke. “That was brilliant. You surprised me on that one. But you can’t just water the plants, Hoke. You got to talk to her, too. You got to tell her how you feel. I know that don’t come natural to you, that’s why I’m tellin’ you to do it. I figure I haven’t ridden with you all these years for nothin’. Loving women is the only thing I’m better at than you are, so I owe it to you to give you this advice. I won’t keep harpin’ about it, but I wanted to get it off my chest.”

Hoke took another swig of coffee. “You feel better?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Just as long as you feel better, James.”

They exchanged sideways smirks.

Hoke knew James was right. He’d talk to her soon.

CHAPTER 32

The sudden flow of emotion

As she rounded the corner with a hot pot of water, Abigail only caught the tail end of what Irene McConnelly was saying to a group of women. Audrey Beckett was there, along with Marnie Sutler, Nelda Peters, and Irene’s sister, Diana.

“. . . can’t be a decent woman to have stayed out all night with Mr. Mathews like that, and to force him to kill that man who claimed to be her husband. I would hate to have that on
my
conscience.”

Abigail looked down at the cookpot in her hands, wanting desperately to douse Irene with its greasy contents. That little loose-mouthed tart!

The very idea! Abigail liked those other women sitting there. Were they
all
talking about her? How dare Irene smear her reputation by implying she had contrived to cause problems and put Hoke in an awkward position.

“Makes me wonder if she planned with that man all along to run off together and somehow Mr. Mathews foiled it. Her husband was supposedly gone for years, and that youngest one is what—only three or four? She’s a lot more white-headed than the others, too. What if she’s not really the same man’s as those other—”

Irene jumped up when she realized Abigail was standing just inches away from her with a steaming pot.

The group was stunned into silence, the other women looking ashamed to have been caught listening to Irene’s gossip by the object of her slander.

“You can say whatever you want to about me, Irene McConnelly . . . Stinson . . . whoever you are. I don’t know why you would. I don’t know how I ever offended you. But there is not one drop of truth in any low remark I’ve heard you say. So stop. And don’t
ever
talk about my children again—especially not a child who is nothing but a gift straight from God—a child whose heart and conception are as pure as the driven snow. Understand?”

Irene just looked at her.

Abigail set the pot down. “I asked you a question, Irene. I asked if you understood me.” She was near to shouting.

Others in the camp crept over to investigate.

“What’s all this?” asked old man McConnelly.

“Your daughter has said mean-spirited things about an innocent child.” Abigail took a deep breath, trying to calm down.

“I just think some of the facts in your stories don’t add up,” said Irene.

“My
stories
?” The needle on Abigail’s ire shot up again. “You think I’m making up stories, Irene?”

“I know about you and Hoke Mathews kissing behind the wagons, Mrs. Uppity!”

Irene’s announcement didn’t embarrass Abigail, it only served to make her madder.

“And I find it a little hard to believe your husband’s been dead so long and no one knew about it. I got informed right away when my husband was killed.” Irene looked around at the growing circle of onlookers. “Well, hasn’t anyone else wondered about it? How an entirely different man could be writing her letters and her not know it? And meanwhile she’s carrying on with other men?”

Zzzzzzip
went the arrow, straight to Abigail’s heart. Her cheeks burned hot with shame.

Irene had flung the dagger directly on the nerve. How tender was the spot where Abigail asked herself those same questions . . . accusing, blaming, cursing her own blindness and stupidity.

Yes, how could she not have known? She was surely the world’s biggest living fool. To have someone else ask the same questions—and Irene, of all people—brought her pride to a new low and her defenses to a new high.

Abigail lunged, meaning to shut Irene’s mean mouth before her words ripped out what was left of Abigail’s heart. But Hoke was suddenly there, hooking his arm around her waist, pulling her away.

She clawed at his hands, those hands she had so recently loved. “Leave me alone! Get back! Out of my way!”

But he held her fast and refused to let her go.

She wheeled on him. “Just who do you think you are?”

“Abby,” he chided. “Cool down.”

“Don’t patronize me! And don’t tell me what to do. What gives you the right?” She jerked an arm loose and punched him in the stomach. It was like hitting a boulder. But she’d had to hit something, and he was the obstacle in her way.

Suddenly all four of the Baldwyn children were there and while Abigail was vaguely aware of it, she couldn’t seem to stop herself. The torrents of her feelings had gotten beyond her ability to hold.

Hoke easily deflected her blows.

They had become a spectacle. Caroline Atwood’s mouth was open and Josephine Jenkins tried to cover Lina’s eyes.

Hoke feinted left as she swung an arm, and then he scooped her up below the knees and threw her over his shoulder.

“Put me down!” Abigail beat on his back, pulling and tearing at the golden shirt she had just pieced back together. That shirt—like her heart—kept getting ripped and bloodstained.

“Put! Me! Down!”

“Show’s over,” Hoke told the onlookers. “Go on about your business.”

“Where are you taking me?” she demanded as he walked away from the wagons.

“To cool off.”

“I never said you could call me Abby.” She punched his back. “My father calls me Abby and we are
not
on good terms.”

“I didn’t ask your permission!” The sudden passion in his voice startled her. This was the old Hoke—the pre-Hadley Hoke.

Hoke walked toward the creek, Abigail wriggling on his shoulder like a mewling calf, before he unceremoniously dumped her in a waist-high pool of water.

Her body landed with a slap, the cold water engulfing her in a sudden freeze that, by all appearances, only made her hotter. Hoke turned to leave but, indignant, Abigail shot up and came after him, knocking him off balance and sending him sprawling on the bank.

He got up, despite her flailing and slapping at him, and held her at arm’s length.

James Parker, Colonel Dotson, Gerald Jenkins, Mr. Austelle, and Doc Isaacs watched from a rise on a small hill several yards away.

“My money’s on Mrs. Baldwyn,” said James.

Colonel Dotson shook his head. “She’s no match for Hoke.”

“I don’t know . . .” James chewed on a maple stick. He and Hoke had decided sugar maple was the best-tasting option out here. “She’s givin’ him as good a run for his money as anyone I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s ’cause he won’t hit her back,” said Mr. Austelle.

Doc Isaacs looked concerned. “He better not hit her back.”

“Or we’d have to step in,” said Mr. Austelle.

Jenkins shook his head. “I don’t relish the thought. What set her off like that, anyway?”

“Irene ruffled her feathers.” James chuckled. “She’s always so composed, you know? I knew Corrine had spirit, but . . . I figured she got it from her pa.”

Abigail had gotten past Hoke’s defenses and socked him in the ear. Irritated, he threatened to hold her head under the water.

“You don’t think he’d hurt her, do you?” asked Doc Isaacs.

“Naw, he’s in love with her,” said the colonel.

The other four men turned in unison and looked at Colonel Dotson in surprise. James had known it, of course, but he’d thought Hoke had done a fair job of concealing it from the others.

“I could tell it that day he met her, before we left Independence. That’s why I put her wagon in his company.”

“But she was supposed to be married!” said Jenkins.

Dotson grinned. “Wicked of me, wasn’t it.”

With Hoke’s arms locked around her, her skin soaked and her hair fallen out of its knot, Abigail finally ran out of steam. She ducked her head out of Hoke’s hold, backed up to a shallow sand bed, and sat down hard on the uneven rocks that lined it.

The water was muddy brown from their fighting. She heard it trickling downstream for the first time. Her boots felt strange filled with water, and her clothes stuck to her body, the skirt dragging heavily and swirling in the current. It wasn’t like the last time she’d gone into a creek, seeking to purge herself of Hadley.

Her knees splayed out with her elbows resting on them . . . a most unladylike position. Abigail tried so hard to conduct herself with grace and dignity. But Irene had gotten the better of her.

She hated to have so publicly displayed that she was human after all. But . . . there was also a certain measure of relief in it.

Hoke took his gun from its holster and laid it on the sand bank before sitting down beside her. “You sure pack a wallop.” He smoothed his black mane and felt his jaw, which needed a shave again. “And you tore my favorite shirt.” He cast her a dark, sideways glance. “Every time I get this shirt fixed, somethin’ else happens to it.”

“I’ll fix it,” she offered, her energy spent. “I thought you were going to shoot me, for a minute, taking that gun out.”

“I don’t like to get it wet.”

They sat for several minutes, each collecting their breath and their thoughts.

Finally, Hoke ran his hand around her hip and said, “Come here.” He pulled her close, raking her butt across the sand and gravel.

She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Why is it always you? Every time I need something, it’s always you that shows up and takes care of it.”

“That is odd, isn’t it?” Hoke looked up the hill at James. “Now I’ve gone and got attached to you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

Abigail pulled back and looked him in the eyes—those piercing, gold-rimmed eyes. “You have? You’re not? You don’t think I’ve manipulated you? Because . . .” Hurt sprang up in her voice. “That’s what Irene said. Did you tell her that on one of your rides together?”

“Oh, stop it.” He pushed a wet leaf off her forehead. “You know how I feel about you.”

“I do?”

“You ought to. James says I’m not good at showing it. He’s felt the need to give me pointers of late.” Hoke plucked a stick out of her hair and grinned. “I like you so well I’ve decided to sell you my white horse.”

Abigail raised her eyebrows. “That much?” Then they fell again. “Did you forget I’m low on money? Because I haven’t forgotten. I’m going to have to sell an awful lot of needlework to buy a house.”

“I’ll build you one.”

“
You’ll
build me one?” She knew hurt and doubt were both written on her face, but her ability to hide her feelings was depleted. “When? You told Irene McConnelly you might go to Oregon City!”

“Woman”—Hoke looked her deep in the eyes—“why would I be sittin’ here pickin’ creek trash out of your hair if I planned to go to Oregon City with Irene McConnelly?”

A warm rush—better than whiskey—started from the base of her neck and flowed toward her damaged heart. “Are you sure you don’t just feel sorry for me?”

Hoke’s eyes blazed. “
Sorry for you?
I don’t feel
sorry
for you. I
want
you. I want everything you’ve got.”

Abigail raised her eyebrows.

“I was just giving you a little time before I ask you to marry me, that’s all.”

She felt a slow, silly grin spread across her face. Then she scowled again. “Why?”

“Why was I going to ask you to marry me?”

“No, why were you
waiting
? If you knew how sick and tired I was of the very word
waiting
—”

Hoke pulled her into the crook of his arm so fast she didn’t have time to finish her sentence. His kiss sent her head sinking back toward the water. He pulled her body over his and together they began to float downstream, spinning in the current: first the back of her head bobbing up, then his, causing the men on the hillside to walk back to the wagon train out of common decency.