Linda Ford - Wagon Train Reunion

The others murmured agreement. All except Mother, who had allowed Father to lift her chair to the ground where she remained seated. Abby understood her mother considered it beneath her station in life to help with mundane chores.

“We’ll take turns so no one ends up doing the dishes alone every night.”

Again a murmur of agreement at Rachel’s suggestion though Abby would have been quite happy doing dishes. It was the one thing she could manage. That and making tea. Both required only that she boil water.

“I’ll make tea right away,” she offered. “My mother is in need of a drink.” Mother was pale, her jaw clenched so hard it would take more than a hot drink to loosen it.

“I’ll cook the meat,” Sally said.

Emma offered to prepare vegetables and a sweet. Rachel said she’d prepare the beans that had been soaking all day. “That way they’ll be ready for dinner tomorrow.”

The three women turned to Abby. She swallowed hard knowing they expected her to offer to make something for the supper. Something more than tea. She stifled a giggle. Could she make it through the next few months by making tea at every stop?

“Why don’t you make biscuits?” Sally said.

Abby nodded not trusting her voice to speak confidently. She dragged out the reflector oven. She’d practiced setting it up and did so, though she still thought the apparatus was unstable, but others used one so she had to believe it was a suitable means of cooking. She positioned it close to the fire.

Abby measured the flour, lard and other ingredients and mixed them as she had learned at home. She cut them into rounds and placed them on the baking tray. There, she congratulated herself. This was going to turn out just fine.

She put them in the reflector oven, then poured tea for Mother.

Mother pulled her down to whisper in her ear. “I object to sharing meals with...with those.”

“Mother, be grateful.” They’d eat much better for the sharing.

A great clatter and Sally’s sharply indrawn breath jerked Abby’s attention her way. “Oh, no.” The oven had collapsed. The biscuits fallen into a heap.

“I’m sorry,” Sally said. She’d been tending Johnny and hadn’t noticed where Abby set the oven.

Abby rushed to her side. “Are you okay? You’re not burned?”

“No, I’m fine. But the biscuits—”

“They’re ruined,” Rachel said. Abby knew she wasn’t mistaken in thinking Rachel sounded rather pleased about it.

“Why, the oven wasn’t even braced. Now all this food is wasted,” Rachel continued.

“They can be rescued.” Ben had appeared out of nowhere and carefully retrieved the biscuits, then, with gloved hands, set the tin oven back up. He braced it with a branch. “To make sure it doesn’t fall again.”

Abby nodded, unable to meet his eyes. “Thanks.” It was a lesson she wouldn’t need repeated. Not repeating harsh lessons was her only triumph. Mr. Littleton returned from taking care of his animals and shot out his hand to Father. “Didn’t get a chance to introduce myself earlier. Martin Littleton.” He looked about. “So this is our group?”

Ben nodded. “Seems so. These are my sisters.”

Rachel and Emma said hello to the man. Father introduced Mother.

Martin looked about. “It’s a fine group. I’m sure we’ll get on splendidly.”

Abby ducked her head. His attitude might not be so accepting once everyone discovered Abby didn’t know how to cook a thing.

She could only pray she would survive the trip with her resolve intact.

* * *

Ben accepted the plate of food Emma handed him. The Binghams had been placed with the Hewitts because of the proximity of their wagons. It was not a good match. But what could he do but accept it gracefully? It wasn’t like it would change anything. He knew what they thought of him and he, of them. But he would have been happier if he didn’t have to share mealtimes with Mrs. Bingham’s complaining and Abigail’s simpering agreement. Mr. Bingham was okay. He was doing his best to cope in a situation that was completely out of his realm of experience.

Ben sighed. He should do the same.

Mrs. Bingham had been persuaded to pull her chair closer. The rest, including Mr. Bingham, sat in a circle on the ground.

Martin rose to ask the blessing, then they dug in.

Ben guessed by the way everyone tackled their food they were as hungry as he. Except for Mrs. Bingham, who picked at the things on her plate and shot demanding looks at Abby.

Abby seemed unaware of her mother’s looks.

Ben kept his attention on Martin as he talked about the excitement of the first day of travel, but in the periphery of his gaze, he observed Abby.

A thought struck him so hard he couldn’t swallow. He didn’t know how Frank had died. Come to think of it, he didn’t know how her twin brother had died, either. She’d always shied away from any questions he asked. All he knew was there had been an accident. Accidents were common. Swamp fever had killed many, as well. Some, like the Littletons, had lost most of their family. Had she lost children? He couldn’t imagine the pain. Despite his desire to stay as far away from her as possible, the least he could do was offer his condolences.

Emma carried around a pot of stewed apple dumplings and served generous portions to everyone. Even Mrs. Bingham enjoyed the sweet and managed to lose some of her pinched look.

Abby sat beside Mrs. Littleton—Sally, as she’d asked to be called. Ben studied Abby under the pretext of watching a group of youngsters chasing each other in the middle of the circled wagons. Their excitement remained high after an easy day.

Ben had talked to Sam and learned the days would grow more challenging from here on.

But his thoughts were not on the journey. They detoured stubbornly to Abby and the tightness in her expression.

Sorrow filled her face. She carried much loss. Frank and...the same thought surfaced. Had she lost children?

He scrambled to his feet. “I’ll check on things.” He strode away before he could follow his inclination to ask Abby to walk with him. In the next few days he’d find a chance to ask her more about her life with Frank. But not now. Not today. His feelings were unsettled and he wanted them solid as a rock before he talked to her.

Instead, he turned his attention to the many needs of the emigrants. Guards had been set to watch the livestock and keep them from wandering too far. Each man would take turns at a four-hour shift. It wasn’t his turn but even so, he left the wagons and went from one guard to the next. The men were excited tonight and not likely to doze off. Ben knew that it would be harder to stay awake after a few long days on the trail.

He returned to the wagons and moseyed around the circle. It was pleasant to see people in groups, visiting and sharing and learning about each other.

He passed the Jones wagon. Ernie Jones rose to his feet. “You’ve done made a mistake thinking you can tell me and my son what to do.”

Not wanting to get involved in a fracas, Ben would have passed on without answering but several men watched and he knew he must deal with this here and now. “If you care to recall, I had no part in the decision. The committeemen made a ruling.” He’d purposely not involved himself except to present his side of the situation.

Young Arty jogged up to stand by his father. “When do I get my gun back?” Belligerence rang in every syllable and showed in the way the boy stood, legs wide, arms akimbo.

“I believe Miles Cavanaugh is responsible for that decision.”

Behind him sprightly music caught the attention of many and he turned his back on the troublesome Joneses.

“Skip, skip, skip to my lou.”

He recognized the voice and the instrument. Abby and her mandolin. How many times had she entertained him with tunes? And together they had sung song after song. He remembered one particularly pleasant evening. He closed his eyes against the memory but it would not be stopped.