Leaving Independence by Leanne W. Smith Page A
Authors: Leanne W. Smith
starting to feel like a friend, and now here was another familiar face . . . so unexpected. “Where’s your son?”
“He’s my nephew.” Doc Isaacs smiled warmly at her. “I’m not married. Will’s over there.” He pointed to a woman standing several feet away with the boy on her hip. “My sister, Caroline, is recently widowed.” Abigail could see the family resemblance. Doc Isaacs and his sister were both fair-headed and attractive. And Will, with his snowy white hair, was as angelic as Lina, Abigail’s youngest.
Irene McConnelly and another dark-haired woman with her both turned to stare at Abigail and Doc Isaacs from under pinched brows.
Doc winked at Abigail. “I think we’re being scolded.”
Colonel Dotson finished talking about Company D, whose leader was a large, affable man named John Sutler.
“We’ll rotate the lead group each week,” said the colonel. “If a wagon falls out of formation, let your company leader know. Fall back in as soon as you can. If there’s any sign of danger, get word to your leader. He’ll have someone mounted each day that can run up and down the train with word. If there’s trouble, we’ll circle up just like we do at night, in a double ring, putting the women and children inside.”
Dotson called Harry Sims, the preacher, to the front and asked him to say a few words. Harry Sims was barrel-chested and softer spoken than any preacher Abigail had ever heard.
Doc Isaacs excused himself to go back to his sister.
“What was his name?” whispered a woman standing behind Abigail.
“Marc Isaacs,” said Abigail. “He’s a physician.”
“No, the preacher.”
“Oh. Sims, I think.”
The woman was attractive, but—Abigail felt guilty for thinking it—masculine. Her dress sleeves were rolled up past her elbows, revealing the strongest forearms Abigail had ever seen on a woman.
“Huh.” The woman looked hard at Harry Sims as he read Psalm 23. “He don’t sound like no preacher I ever heard.” She thrust her hand at Abigail as soon as Sims finished. “Tam Woodford.”
“Abigail Baldwyn.”
“These all your kids?”
“Yes.”
“They’re a good-lookin’ bunch. No husband?”
“He’s in Idaho Territory, fighting the Indians,” said Jacob. “We’re going to meet him.”
“I reckon he’ll be glad to see you’uns. I don’t have a husband. Never had one.”
“You’re traveling by yourself?” asked Corrine.
“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Woodford could be waitin’ out there for me. Thought I better go find out, ’cause he ain’t back there in Independence.” She jerked her thumb toward town.
Lina smiled shyly at her as they said good night.
That night, Abigail had a tough time settling the children and doubted she’d sleep herself.
CHAPTER 8
Sleeping in a covered wagon
April 10, 1866
We begin, Mimi.
Charlie read that over 300,000 settlers have left from Independence, St. Joseph, and Council Bluffs. How many of them will be in Oregon? California? Salt Lake City? Montana? Or Idaho?
Abigail’s eyes opened. Where was she? On a strange bed with Lina nuzzled close. Corrine lay on the other side of Lina. Both were sleeping soundly.
Remember when our mothers let us sleep on the porch at night? How the dew seeped through the screen and we woke up under damp quilts with the taste of Tennessee dust in our noses? Sleeping in a covered wagon feels like sleeping on the screened porch again.
The quilts were heavy with damp and Abigail’s mouth tasted like new-wagon sawdust. Their bed, which lay on top of the burlap sacks that held their clothes, was so high she could reach out and touch the coarse canvas that flapped in the wind all night. It was surprising she had slept at all. Horses and cattle moved in the grass nearby, their earthy scent seeping through the cracks of the wagon’s planks.
She shivered. It was cold, but not freezing.
Abigail eased Lina’s arm off her stomach and scooted to the end of the bed. In the
“He’s my nephew.” Doc Isaacs smiled warmly at her. “I’m not married. Will’s over there.” He pointed to a woman standing several feet away with the boy on her hip. “My sister, Caroline, is recently widowed.” Abigail could see the family resemblance. Doc Isaacs and his sister were both fair-headed and attractive. And Will, with his snowy white hair, was as angelic as Lina, Abigail’s youngest.
Irene McConnelly and another dark-haired woman with her both turned to stare at Abigail and Doc Isaacs from under pinched brows.
Doc winked at Abigail. “I think we’re being scolded.”
Colonel Dotson finished talking about Company D, whose leader was a large, affable man named John Sutler.
“We’ll rotate the lead group each week,” said the colonel. “If a wagon falls out of formation, let your company leader know. Fall back in as soon as you can. If there’s any sign of danger, get word to your leader. He’ll have someone mounted each day that can run up and down the train with word. If there’s trouble, we’ll circle up just like we do at night, in a double ring, putting the women and children inside.”
Dotson called Harry Sims, the preacher, to the front and asked him to say a few words. Harry Sims was barrel-chested and softer spoken than any preacher Abigail had ever heard.
Doc Isaacs excused himself to go back to his sister.
“What was his name?” whispered a woman standing behind Abigail.
“Marc Isaacs,” said Abigail. “He’s a physician.”
“No, the preacher.”
“Oh. Sims, I think.”
The woman was attractive, but—Abigail felt guilty for thinking it—masculine. Her dress sleeves were rolled up past her elbows, revealing the strongest forearms Abigail had ever seen on a woman.
“Huh.” The woman looked hard at Harry Sims as he read Psalm 23. “He don’t sound like no preacher I ever heard.” She thrust her hand at Abigail as soon as Sims finished. “Tam Woodford.”
“Abigail Baldwyn.”
“These all your kids?”
“Yes.”
“They’re a good-lookin’ bunch. No husband?”
“He’s in Idaho Territory, fighting the Indians,” said Jacob. “We’re going to meet him.”
“I reckon he’ll be glad to see you’uns. I don’t have a husband. Never had one.”
“You’re traveling by yourself?” asked Corrine.
“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Woodford could be waitin’ out there for me. Thought I better go find out, ’cause he ain’t back there in Independence.” She jerked her thumb toward town.
Lina smiled shyly at her as they said good night.
That night, Abigail had a tough time settling the children and doubted she’d sleep herself.
CHAPTER 8
Sleeping in a covered wagon
April 10, 1866
We begin, Mimi.
Charlie read that over 300,000 settlers have left from Independence, St. Joseph, and Council Bluffs. How many of them will be in Oregon? California? Salt Lake City? Montana? Or Idaho?
Abigail’s eyes opened. Where was she? On a strange bed with Lina nuzzled close. Corrine lay on the other side of Lina. Both were sleeping soundly.
Remember when our mothers let us sleep on the porch at night? How the dew seeped through the screen and we woke up under damp quilts with the taste of Tennessee dust in our noses? Sleeping in a covered wagon feels like sleeping on the screened porch again.
The quilts were heavy with damp and Abigail’s mouth tasted like new-wagon sawdust. Their bed, which lay on top of the burlap sacks that held their clothes, was so high she could reach out and touch the coarse canvas that flapped in the wind all night. It was surprising she had slept at all. Horses and cattle moved in the grass nearby, their earthy scent seeping through the cracks of the wagon’s planks.
She shivered. It was cold, but not freezing.
Abigail eased Lina’s arm off her stomach and scooted to the end of the bed. In the