Leaving Independence Read online

  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.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Damn.

  CHAPTER 4

  Hot and darting

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

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

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

  She recognized him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Alone.

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

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

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

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

  Hoke took his time in answering.

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

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

  “I’m thinkin’ I’ll keep the filly.”

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

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

  A woman’s scream pierced the air.

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

  “Irene. Lower your voice.”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yes. I’m sorry, remind me of your—”

  “Hoke.”

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

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

  Hoke tipped his hat and bid the McConnellys good day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Mrs.” He let her hand go. “Baldwyn.”

  “Ah.”

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

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

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