A few days later, Abby walked close enough to their wagon that Mother’s words rang in her ears. Every time she tried to move away, Mother ordered her back to listen to her complaints. They’d intensified with every mile of the journey though Abby wouldn’t have thought it possible.
“I wish we’d died in the river.” Mother had perched in the wagon as they crossed the Big Blue a few days ago. She’d squealed in fright as the wagon swayed in the water but the crossing had been relatively easy compared to crossing the Kansas River.
Abby shuddered at the memory of those cold, dark waters but she quickly dismissed the thought in favor of the warmer, sweeter memories of Ben holding her to warm her. To that she added a litany of memories—walking with him each evening, talking of things near and dear to her though she guarded her most precious secrets, and picking berries. She chuckled softly as she thought of him struggling with that big turkey. It had tasted so good.
“Are you laughing at me?” Mother asked.
“Of course not.”
Father half drowsed in the afternoon sun until the wagon jerked across another buffalo trail. They were in the Platte valley now. A wide desert of grass, patchworked with wildflowers of yellow, blue and red. The Platte River ran wide and straight, through sandy soil. Buffalo country. The big animals walked single-file to the river for water, creating paths as deep as ten inches. Every wagon wheel had to cross those paths. It was rough, about snapped a person’s neck out of joint.
“Mother, why don’t you walk? It’s much easier than riding on that hard bench.” Mother tried to keep a pillow beneath her. Father often chose to walk beside the oxen to avoid the constant jolting.
“Look at you.” Mother’s voice rang with disapproval. “Your skirts are dusty. Your boots are worn thin. I wish you would ride in the wagon.”
Abby had no intention of being shut up in the hot wagon. Her feet had hardened to the walking and she found she quite enjoyed it. She could talk to Emma or Rachel or Sally or Delores without Mother hearing every word. It was freeing. She ran ahead to join the other ladies, ignoring Mother’s call.
From where they walked, she saw Ben riding forward. My but he looked good sitting in his saddle. He turned checking on something slightly behind him.
Her heart leaped half way up her throat at how the light silhouetted his features. How strong and muscular he looked.
His attention slid down the line of wagons and he shifted to look at the group of ladies. His gaze burned into her mind, silently promising another evening of sweet, sweet communion.
She mistepped and had to catch herself. How could she enjoy his company so much when she knew how it would end? She’d never marry, not even to please her mother. Not even though her heart raced at the thought of another evening walk with Ben.
When she looked up again, he was riding away and she took several slow, steadying breaths.
She did her best to ignore Mother’s complaints as they drew into a circle and as she helped prepare the evening meal. The turkey meat was long gone. Sam Weston had sent some men out to hunt for buffalo. She hoped they would come back soon.
Father returned from caring for the oxen. “We’re in Pawnee country now. I hope they don’t bother us.”
Mother sat in her hard chair. Abby couldn’t help but think her bottom must be getting calloused from so much sitting.
Mother kept her hands in her lap. Tried to appear she didn’t care about the details of the camp but her white knuckles belied her concern. “I hope the sentries are armed to kill any savages that come near.”
Father gave her a considering look. “Sam says we will pass through peaceably. After all, this is their land.”
Mother pressed her lips together so tight a white line formed around them.
“I haven’t forgotten it was an Indian who pulled Donny from the Kansas River.” Abby spoke softly, musingly, but surely everyone—Mother included—should give credit where credit was due.
Mother didn’t reply but gave her an accusing glare.
Rachel returned with a basket full of buffalo chips.
Mother rose and marched to the wagon and sat on the hard bench, pointedly ignoring the fuel they’d been forced to use since they’d entered the Platte valley, but she’d stopped saying what she thought after Father had spoken to her.
Emma joined them. She crumpled to a heap in the grass and buried her head in her hands. Silent sobs shook her.
Rachel and Abby rushed to her side.
“What’s wrong?” Rachel asked.
“The Turnbow baby died. I didn’t realize he was so sick. I should have seen it.” Her voice cracked with her agony.
The Turnbow baby had come down with measles two days ago. “Oh, how awful.” Recognizing the weight of guilt in Emma’s voice, Abby’s guilt flared with fresh strength.
“I’m sorry about the baby,” Rachel said.
“I should have checked on him earlier.”
“Emma, you can’t blame yourself for disease and accidents. They happen. A person can only do so much. After that, it’s in God’s hands.” Rachel’s words rang through Abby’s heart but sometimes a person could blame themselves for an accident if they instigated a foolish action.
Emma dashed away her tears. “You’re right. It just seems so unfair. Why do some people live long after their bodies have worn out and yet healthy babies with the future before them die? I don’t understand.”
Rachel hugged her sister. “Sometimes we simply have to trust.”
“Trust what?” Ben’s sudden appearance sent a wave of awareness through Abby that made her face burn.
He squatted beside his sister and looked into Emma’s tear-streaked eyes. “Emma, are you hurt?”
She explained about the baby. “I said I find it hard to understand.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “‘I trust in your unfailing love.’ Psalm thirteen, verse five.” He met Abby’s eyes over Emma’s head and his gaze seemed to say, remember when we learned this verse?
How well she remembered. Pastor Macleod had suggested they break into pairs or teams to drill each other. She and Ben had slipped away to the corner of the churchyard. Right next to the cemetery. She remembered that detail so clearly because she could see Andy’s headstone from where they sat. Ben said he could see his mother’s. They’d reached for each other’s hands at that moment, finding comfort in acknowledging their sorrow. All he knew of Andy’s death was what everyone else knew—an unfortunate accident. Only she was aware of her responsibility.
If only she had told him about Andy then. But what good would it do except make it even harder to deal with her mother’s demands.
He turned his attention back to Emma. “It’s when we don’t understand, or when we feel helpless or even when we could blame ourselves that we choose to trust.”
“I know.” Emma pushed to her feet. “And I do. I will.” She brushed her skirts and smoothed her hair. “I promised to help prepare the baby for burial.” She marched away.
Rachel stared after her but Abby watched Ben. Slowly he brought his gaze to her. They shared sorrow and something more—something deeper than her conscious thoughts. A connection with strands of steel.
Wasn’t she getting fanciful?
The word of the death quickly spread and the travelers made their way to the Turnbow wagon.
“I’ll get my mandolin.” Abby retrieved it. “Are you coming, Mother?”
For a second, she thought her mother would refuse then she nodded. “I know what it’s like to lose a son.” Her eyes pierced Abby’s soul, reminding her of who was to blame for that loss.
As if Abby could ever forget.
When we could blame ourselves, we choose to trust. She wished she understood what Ben meant. Or rather, how he thought it was possible.
Father helped Mother alight and Abby fell in at their side, following Ben and Rachel. The Littletons joined them, Martin’s expression grim as he held Johnny. He knew what it was like to lose three children. Yet he remained kind, Sally remained cheerful. How had they found it possible to be so after so much sorrow?
They reached the spot. Most of the emigrants had gathered together, perhaps as much to rejoice that the hole hadn’t been dug for their loved one as any other reason.
Rev. Pettygrove stood beside the open grave, the grieving parents at his side. He nodded to Abby who played and sang “Amazing Grace.” Remembering Andy’s death made it difficult to keep her voice from cracking but she wanted to do her best to bring a little comfort to the bereaved.
Rev. Pettygrove spoke a few words. “‘The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and I am helped.’ May this Psalm comfort and strengthen those grieving and indeed all of us.” He prayed. Once the amen was said, Father and Mother left, but Abby stayed with the others, standing at the Turnbows’ side as the men filled in the grave. Rev. Pettygrove’s wife hugged both the Turnbows and patted their backs even though the pair were still stiff with shock.
Abby and the others waited until the grave was covered over, then they slipped quietly away.
She joined the others at their camp. They ate their meal in relative silence except for Mother’s complaints, but Abby barely heard them. Her mind was occupied with thoughts of Andy’s death. Perhaps the others thought of their own losses.
Some deaths were accidental, disease or so-called natural causes. But Andy’s death had been avoidable. If only she’d tried to dissuade him. If only she hadn’t been more interested in showing her silly friend how wrong she was. She didn’t blame God, only herself.
* * *
After supper that evening, Ben looked down at Abby, walking by his side as they circled the wagons. He regularly fought an inner battle, alternately thanking Miles for suggesting Ben ask Abby to walk with him each evening so he could keep an eye on the activities then wishing he could go back to that day and refuse the suggestion.
It was too late to go back and undo things. There was so much he knew he would regret later although he enjoyed it in the present. Like these evening walks. “You’re awfully quiet tonight.”
“I’m thinking about that baby and his poor parents.”
He reached for her hand, knew a sense of rightness when she didn’t resist. Seems she was learning a man could touch her without hurting her. “It’s sad.”
“Emma took it hard.”
“She’s so tenderhearted.”
“Yes.” She spoke somewhat distractedly he thought, and sensed she mulled over the recent events.
“What’s really on your mind?”
She stopped, staring straight ahead.
He stood before her so she had to see him. “Abby?”
She focused her eyes on his. “I...” She shook her head. “Nothing.”
He knew something weighed heavily on her mind. Something to do with the death of the Turnbow baby? Or had her mother been complaining again? Still. How that woman went on and on was enough to try anyone’s patience. Over supper she had plenty to say about the hardships of this trip. Everything from burning buffalo chips to the mosquitoes to the talk of Indians all meant as a warning.
If God had meant us to go to Oregon, He would have made a proper road.
No one commented on the flaws in her assertions.
Until Emma—quiet, sweet Emma—spoke up. Instead, he sent us guides like Sam Weston, and brave men like my brother and your husband and Martin to lead the way. Mrs. Bingham had been as surprised as any of them to hear Emma and for a few minutes kept her thoughts to herself.
Perhaps Abby worried her mother might be right.
“Do you think our trip is doomed to failure?” Ben asked.
She blinked and shook her head. “Absolutely not. I see it as the opportunity to start again. A new creature. Old things passed away, all things become new.” She used the words of a Bible verse to explain her feelings. “We’ll make it across the continent.” She heaved out a deep sigh. “Or die trying.”
He grabbed her by the elbows and drew her close. “You’re talking like your mother.”
“No, I’m not expecting to die. I’m simply saying that nothing short of death will stop me.”
He looked into her green-gold eyes. Saw the depth of her determination and chuckled. “Let’s make sure it doesn’t come to that.”
She continued to search his gaze.
He shoved aside the barriers, giving her access to his very soul. He thought of Queen Esther’s brave words, if I perish, I perish. It would be the same for Ben. He’d allowed himself to grow close to her and he would pay the price when this trip ended.
Abby puffed out her cheeks and shifted her gaze to the middle of his chest. “If you must know, I was thinking of Andy, my twin brother.”
“I’m sorry I never got a chance to meet him. Tell me what he was like.”
They continued on their way. Ben took note of those coming and going, looked for anything out of the ordinary. Amos and Grant had been out checking the animals and gave a friendly wave as they returned to the circle. And there was Clarence Pressman glued to the wheel of the Morrison wagon. According to Emma, the wound on Clarence’s back had healed well but still she spent time with him. Always apart from others. It bothered Ben no end but he’d stopped mentioning it. Every time he did, Rachel laid into him with protests and Emma ducked her head and ignored his concerns.
“Andy was brave and courageous. I suppose a bit of a daredevil.” She shrugged. “Maybe even a show-off. But he could do everything he set his mind to do. Well, almost.”
He turned at the tone in her voice. “Almost?”
She quirked a mirthless smile. “No one can do everything.”
“Guess not.”
“Mother and Father doted on him. He was everything to them. And he knew it.”
“Everything? What about you?”
“I was his faithful shadow, but I didn’t mind. I adored him. We were close. Like the Jensen twins. We could finish each other’s sentences, know what the other was thinking. Maybe that was part of the problem.”
She seemed to have slipped away into her memories.
“Part of what problem?”
A shudder crossed her shoulders. “Huh? Oh, just an expression.”
He knew better. Something to do with Andy weighed heavily on her thoughts. “Did you ever tell me how he died?”
“Bucked off a high-strung horse.” Every word came out clipped.
“Remind me. How old was he?”
“We were fourteen.”
“Did you witness it?”
Even though they weren’t touching, he felt her shudder clear through him and stopped walking. He took her hand but she pulled away.
“It was my fault.” The words lacked emotion. Her face was blank.
As if she’d closed her heart and mind to the memory. How awful it must have been to hold her in such a vicious grip ten years later.
He reached for her again, wanting to hold and comfort her but she hurried past him and ran toward their campfire.
He followed more slowly. She’d shut him out even as she seemed to have shut out the pain of losing her twin. It bothered him and he couldn’t say exactly why until he recalled something his ma had said. She knew she was dying, though the children had been spared the knowledge at the time Ben had in mind. But her words had comforted him and strengthened him after her death, after Grayson’s wife and baby died and after Pa died. Ma said, “You can only overcome the power of grief if you lean into it and learn how to walk with it as your companion. It won’t go away, but you get used to it at your side. But if you fight it, deny it, try to run from it, grief becomes like an angry dog, nipping at your every step.”
So he’d leaned into his grief. Learned to walk with it.
That’s what Abby needed to do. Tomorrow, Lord willing, he’d tell her this.
The next morning was Sunday. Rev. Pettygrove held his usual reading as he had since that first, long-ago Sunday when he’d been with the travelers still on the far side of the Kansas River. Only a handful of people gathered about. Most of them had decided to get on with the business of the day.
The Hewitts, Littletons and Binghams chose to have a Bible reading at their camp. It was Ben’s turn to read again. Each man selected whatever passage he wanted. This morning, Ben selected Ecclesiastes chapter three and in part read, “‘There is a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.’” He finished the chapter and took the Bible back to the wagon.
Somehow he managed to avoid looking directly at Abby though he meant the words specifically for her.
A sound of alarm raced across the camp and he jerked toward it. Men, women and children crowded toward the east side. Ben hurried that direction. He broke through the crowd into the open and ground to a halt.
A band of Indians on horseback stared at them.
“Pawnees,” Sam said at his elbow. “From the look of hides they’re carrying, I’d say they were returning from a successful hunt.” Not only were the Pawnees strange to look at but the hides brought a pungent odor.
The camp dogs bristled and barked, and had to be restrained by their owners.
The lead Indian and a handful of others dismounted and strode toward them.
“What do we do?” Ben asked, wondering if he should have brought his rifle.
“Be calm.” Sam turned to the crowd. “Stay calm. Be courteous.”
The Indians poked their heads into the nearest wagon and pulled out a red shirt.
Sam approached him and by way of hand signals and words they communicated. Then Sam nodded.
“The chief will trade goods for meat. Bring things you think he’d like. Hurry now.”
The crowd dispersed to their wagons and soon they began to return. The chief examined each item. He liked a mirror, a felt hat, a cooking pot and a set of forks which made him laugh.
He waved to the other Indians to come forward and soon mingled with the travelers freely examining items and offering trades.
A bit later, satisfied, they rode away, leaving the wagon train a goodly amount of buffalo meat. The women set meat to cook for the noon meal.
“We’ll have to jerk the rest,” Sam said, explaining how the Indians preserved the meat by cutting it into narrow strips and drying it over a low fire. So while dinner cooked, filling the air with a delicious aroma and making Ben’s mouth water with anticipation, everyone helped slice the meat into strips. Sam showed them how to hang the strips of meat on ropes along the side of the wagons.
“We don’t have time to dry it over a slow fire like the Indians would, but the sun will do the job for us.”
It was past their usual nooning time when they finished and sat down to eat.
“It’s gamey.” Mrs. Bingham took a bit of the roast buffalo meat, but managed to eat her share.
As soon as they’d eaten their fill, Ben rose and began yoking the oxen in place. “Hurry and pack up. Sam is anxious to be on the way. Travel travel travel.”
The bugle sounded and they moved out.
Ben rode beside the Hewitt wagon for a bit as Emma drove the oxen then moved up to the Bingham wagon. Abby normally walked but this afternoon sat beside her father while her mother rode in the back. “Everything okay?”
She gave a smile that did not reach her eyes. “It is.”
He waited a moment and when she offered no more, he rode on.
Everything was not okay. He knew it as clearly as he saw the line of wagons. Even more clearly because dust rose from every wheel clouding the sight of the wagons.